THE CORDS OF VANITY

A Comedy of Shirking

Revised and Expanded Edition

by JAMES BRANCH CABELL

with INTRODUCTION by WILSON FOLLETT

To

GABRIELLE BROOKE MONCURE

_Plus sapit vulgus, quia tantum, quantum opus est, sapit. _

AN INTRODUCTION

by Wilson Follett

Mr. Cabell, in making ready this second or intended edition of THECORDS OF VANITY, performs an act of reclamation which is at the sametime an act of fresh creation. 

For the purely reclamatory aspect of what he has done, his reward (sofar as that can consist in anything save the doing) must come frominsignificantly few directions; so few indeed that he, with a wrilyhumorous exaggeration, affects to believe them singular. The author ofthis novel has been pleased to describe the author of thisintroduction as "the only known purchaser of the book" and, further, as "the other person to own a CORDS OF VANITY". I could readily enoughacquit myself, with good sound legal proofs, of any such singularityas stands charged in this soft impeachment--and that without appeal to_The Cleveland Plain Dealer_ of eleven years ago ("slushy anddisgusting"), or to _The New York Post_ ("sterile and malodorous . . . Worse than immoral--dull"), or to _Ainslee's Magazine_ ("inconsequentand rambling . . . Rather nauseating at times"). These devotees of theadjective that hunts in pairs are hardly to be discussed, I suppose, in connection with any rewards except such as accrue to the possessorsof a certain obtuseness, who always and infallibly reap at least thereward of not being hurt by what they do not know--or, for thatmatter, by what they do know. He who writes such a book as THE CORDSOF VANITY is committing himself to the supremely irrational faith thatthis dullness is somehow not the ultimate arbiter; and for him thepronouncements of this dullness simply do not figure among either hisrewards or his penalties. So, it is not exactly to these tributes ofthe press that one reverts in noting that THE CORDS OF VANITY, on itspublication eleven years ago, promptly became a book which therewere--almost--none to praise and very few to love. After all, itsauthor's computation of that former audience of his--his actualindividual voluntary readers of a decade ago--appears to be butslightly and pardonably exaggerated on the more modest side of thefact. If there were a Cabell Club of membership determined solely bythe number of those who, already possessing THE CORDS OF VANITY in itsfirst edition, recognize it as the work of a serious artist of highachievement and higher capacity, I suspect that the smallness of thatclub would be in inordinate disproportion to everything but itsselectness and its members' pride in "belonging". 

Be that as it may, the economist-author, on the eve of his book'semergence from the limbo of "out of print", prefers that it come intoits redemption carrying a foreword by someone who knew it withoutdislike in its former incarnation. No contingent liability, it seems, can dissuade Mr. Cabell from this preference. An author who onceelected to precede a group of his best tales with an introductioneloquently setting forth reasons why the collection ought not to bepublished at all, is hardly to be deterred now by the mereinexpediency of hitching his star to a farm-wagon. His own graciouslyunreasonable insistence must be the excuse, such as it is, for thepresent introduction, such as it is. If there may be said to exist asort of charter membership in Mr. Cabell's audience, this document isto be construed as representing its very enthusiastic welcome to thelater and vastly larger elective membership. 

And if, weighed as such a welcome, it proves hopelessly inadequate, atleast it provides a number of possible compensations by the way. Forinstance, that _New York World_ critic who damned the book but praisedits frontispiece of 1909, has now a uniquely pat opportunity tobalance his ledger by praising the book and damning this foreword, which, more or less, replaces the frontispiece. Similarly, the morerenowned critic and anthologist who so well knows the "originals" ofthe verses in _From the Hidden Way_, can now render poetically perfectjustice to all who will care by perceiving that both the earlieredition of this book and the author of this foreword are but figmentsof Mr. Cabell's slightly puckish invention. 

But these pages must not be, like those which follow, a comedy ofshirking. They will have flouted a plain duty unless they speak of thesense and the degree in which this novel, during the process ofreclaiming it, has been actually recreated. Perhaps the matter can bepacked most succinctly into the statement that Mr. Cabell's hero hasbeen subjected to such a process of growth as has made himcommensurate in stature with the other two modern writers of Mr. Cabell's invention. As _The Cream of the Jest_ is essentially the bookof Felix Kennaston and _Beyond Life_ that of John Charteris, so THECORDS OF VANITY is essentially the book of Robert Etheridge Townsend. Now, this Townsend has accomplished a deal of growing since 1909. Bythis I do not mean that he is taken at a later period of his ownimagined life, or that he fails to act consonantly with the extremeyouth imputed to him: I mean that he is the creation of a more maturemind, a deeper philosophy, a more probing insight into theimplications of things. A given youth of twenty-five will be verydifferently interpreted by an observer of thirty and by the sameobserver at forty, very much as a given era of the past will beunderstood differently by a single historian before and after certaincycles of his own social and political experience. The past neverremains to us the same past; it grows up along with us; the physicalfacts may remain admittedly the same, but our understanding accentsthem differently, finds more in them at some points and less atothers. So Robert Etheridge Townsend remains an example of thatspecial temperament which, being unable to endure the contact ofunhappiness, consistently shirks every responsibility that entails orthreatens discomfort; and the truth about him, taking him as anexample of just that temperament, is still inexorably told. But hisweakness as a man becomes much more tolerable in this second version, because it is much more intimately and poignantly correlated with hisstrength as an artist. One is made to feel that he, like Charteris, may the better consummate in his art the auctorial virtues ofdistinction and clarity, beauty and symmetry, tenderness and truth andurbanity, precisely because his personal life is bereft of thosevirtues. Less than before, the accent is on the wastrel in Townsend;more than before, it is on the potential creator of beauty in him. Theearlier readers will hardly count it as a fault that Mr. Cabell hascontrived to make his novel, without detriment to any truthwhatsoever, a far less unpleasant book. Sardonic it still is, by anecessary implication, but not wantonly, and with a mellowness. Theirony, which at its harshest was capable of rasping the nerves, hasbecome capable of wringing the heart. 

Other reasons there are, too, for holding that THE CORDS OF VANITY iscertain to make its second appeal to a many times multiplied audience. Since divers momentous transactions of the years just gone, the wholeworld stands in a moral position extraordinarily well adapted to thecomprehension of just such a comedy of shirking; and especially theworld of thought has received a powerful impulsion toward the arealong occupied by Mr. Cabell's romantic pessimism. There is perhapssomewhat more demand for satire, or at least a growing toleration ofit. Moreover, by sheer patience and reiteration Mr. Cabell hasprocured no little currency for some of his most characteristic ideas. Chivalry and gallantry, as he analyzes them, are concepts which playtheir part in the inevitable present re-editing of social and literaryhistory. _The Rivet in Grandfather's Neck_, _The Cream of the Jest_, and _The Certain Hour_ have somewhat to say to the discriminating, even on other than purely aesthetic grounds; _Beyond Life_ is on thethreshold of its day as the _Sartor Resartus_ of one side, theaesthetic side, of modernism;

"_Of_ Jurgen _eke they maken mencion";_

and THE CORDS OF VANITY is but the first of the earlier books to bereissued in the format of the uniform and accessible Intended Edition. 

While THE CORDS OF VANITY was out of print, a fresh copy is known tohave been acquired for twenty-five cents. Copies of a more recent workby the same hand--a tale which has been rendered equally unavailableto the public, though by slightly different considerations--havefetched as much as one hundred times that sum. This arithmetic may be, in part, the gauge of an unsought and distasteful notoriety; but thatvery notoriety, by the most natural of transitions, will lead thecurious on from what cannot be obtained to what can, and some who havebegun by seeking one particular work of a great artist will end bydiscovering the artist. In short, it is rational to expect that thefortunes hereafter of this rewritten novel will very excellentlyillustrate the uses of adversity. 

Not, I repeat, that any great part of the reward for such writing cancome from without. According to Robert Etheridge Townsend, "a manwrites admirable prose not at all for the sake of having it read, butfor the more sensible reason that he enjoys playing solitaire"--a notun-Cabellian saying. And, even of the reward from without, it may bequestioned whether the really indispensable part ever comes from themultitude. A lady with whose more candid opinions the writer of thisis more frequently favored nowadays than of old has said: "Every timeI hear of somebody who has wanted one of these books without beingable to get it, or who, having got it, has conceded it nothing betterthan the disdain of an ignoramus, I feel as if I must forthwith getout the copy and read it through again and again, until I have read itonce for every person who has rejected it or been denied it. " One mayfeel reasonably sure that it is this kind of solicitude, rather thanany possible sanction from the crowd, which would be thought of by theauthor of this book as "the exact high prize through desire of whichwe write". 

WILSON FOLLETT. 

CHESHIRE, CONNECTICUT

_May, 1920_

 CONTENTS:

 THE PROLOGUE

 I HE SITS OUT A DANCE

 II HE LOVES EXTENSIVELY

 III HE EARNS A STICK-PIN

 IV HE TALKS WITH CHARTERIS

 V HE REVISITS FAIRHAVEN AND THE PLAY

 VI HE CHATS OVER A HEDGE

 VII HE GOES MAD IN A GARDEN

 VIII HE DUELS WITH A STUPID WOMAN

 IX HE PUTS HIS TONGUE IN HIS CHEEK

 X HE SAMPLES NEW EMOTIONS

 XI HE POSTURES AMONG CHIMNEY-POTS

 XII HE FACES HIMSELF AND REMEMBERS

 XIII HE BAITS UPON THE JOURNEY

 XIV HE PARTICIPATES IN A BRAVE JEST

 XV HE DECIDES TO AMUSE HIMSELF

 XVI HE SEEKS FOR COPY

 XVII HE PROVIDES COPY

 XVIII HE SPENDS AN AFTERNOON IN ARDEN

 XIX HE PLAYS THE IMPROVIDENT FOOL

 XX HE DINES OUT, IMPEDED BY SUPERSTITIONS

 XXI HE IS URGED TO DESERT HIS GALLEY

 XXII HE CLEANS THE SLATE

 XXIII HE REVILES DESTINY AND CLIMBS A WALL

 XXIV HE RECONCILES SENTIMENT AND REASON

 XXV HE ADVANCES IN THE ATTACK ON SELWOODE

 XXVI HE ASSISTS IN THE DIVERSION OF BIRDS

 XXVII HE CALLS, COUNSELS, AND CONSIDERS

XXVIII HE PARTICIPATES IN SUNDRY CONFIDENCES

 XXIX HE ALLOWS THE MERITS OF IMPERFECTION

 XXX HE GILDS THE WEATHER-VANE

 THE EPILOGUE: WHICH SUGGESTS THAT SECOND THOUGHTS--

THE PROLOGUE

_"In the house and garden of his dream he saw a child moving, andcould divide the main streams at least of the winds that had played onhim, and study so the first stage in that mental journey. "_

_The Prologue: Which Deals with the Essentials_

_1--Writing_

It appeared to me that my circumstances clamored for betterment, because never in my life have I been able to endure the contact ofunhappiness. And my mother was always crying now, over (though I didnot know it) the luckiest chance which had ever befallen her; and thatmade me cry too, without understanding exactly why. 

So the child, that then was I, procured a pencil and a bit ofwrapping-paper, and began to write laboriously:

"DEAR LORD

"You know that Papa died and please comfort Mamaand give Father a crown of Glory Ammen

"Your lamb and very sincerely yours

"ROBERT ETHERIDGE TOWNSEND. "

This appeared to the point as I re-read it, and of course God wouldunderstand that children were not expected to write quite as straightacross the paper as grown people. The one problem was how to deliverthis, my first letter, most expeditiously, because when your mothercried you always cried too, and couldn't stop, not even when youwanted to, not even when she promised you five cents, and it all madeyou horribly uncomfortable. 

I knew that the big Bible on the parlor table was God's book. ProbablyGod read it very often, since anybody would be proud of having writtena book as big as that and would want to look at it every day. So Itiptoed into the darkened parlor. I use the word advisedly, for therewas not at this period any drawing-room in Lichfield, and besides, adrawing-room is an entirely different matter. 

Everywhere the room was cool, and, since the shades were down, theoutlines of the room's contents were uncomfortably dubious; for justwhere the table stood had been, five days ago, a big and oddly-shapedblack box with beautiful silver handles; and Uncle George had liftedme so that I could see through the pane of glass, which was a part ofthis funny box, while an infinity of decorous people rustled andwhispered. . . . 

I remember knowing they were "company" and thinking they coughed andsniffed because they were sorry that my father was dead. In the lightof knowledge latterly acquired, I attribute these actions to the thenprevalent weather, for even now I recall how stiflingly the room smeltof flowers--particularly of magnolia blossoms--and of rubber and ofwet umbrellas. For my own part, I was not at all sorry, though ofcourse I pretended to be, since I had always known that as a rule myfather whipped me because he had just quarreled with my mother, andthat he then enjoyed whipping me. 

I desired, in fine, that he should stay dead and possess his crown ofglory in Heaven, which was reassuringly remote, and that my mothershould stop crying. So I slipped my note into the Apocrypha. . . . 

I felt that somewhere in the room was God and that God was watchingme, but I was not afraid. Yet I entertained, in common with mostchildren, a nebulous distrust of this mysterious Person, a distrust ofwhich I was particularly conscious on winter nights when the gas hadbeen turned down to a blue fleck, and the shadow of the mantelpieceflickered and plunged on the ceiling, and the clock ticked louder andlouder, in prediction (I suspected) of some terrible event very closeat hand. 

Then you remembered such unpleasant matters as Elisha and his bears, and those poor Egyptian children who had never even spoken to Moses, and that uncomfortably abstemious lady, in the fat blue-covered_Arabian Nights_, who ate nothing but rice, grain by grain--in thedaytime. . . . And you called Mammy, and said you were very thirsty andwanted a glass of water, please. 

To-day, though, while acutely conscious of that awful inspection, andpainstakingly careful not to look behind me, I was not, after all, precisely afraid. If God were a bit like other people I knew He wouldsay, "What an odd child!" and I liked to have people say that. Still, there was sunlight in the hall, and lots of sunlight, not just longand dusty shreds of sunlight, and I felt more comfortable when I wasback in the hall. 

2--_Reading_

I lay flat upon my stomach, having found that posture most conformableto the practice of reading, and I considered the cover of this slim, green book; the name of John Charteris, stamped thereon in fat-belliedletters of gold, meant less to me than it was destined to signifythereafter. 

A deal of puzzling matter I found in this book, but in my memory, always, one fantastic passage clung as a burr to sheep's wool. Thatfable, too, meant less to me than it was destined to signifythereafter, when the author of it was used to declare that he had, unwittingly, written it about me. Then I read again this

_Fable of the Foolish Prince_

"As to all earlier happenings I choose in this place to be silent. Anterior adventures he had known of the right princely sort. Butconcerning his traffic with Schamir, the chief talisman, and howthrough its aid he won to the Sun's Sister for a little while; andconcerning his dealings with the handsome Troll-wife (in which affairthe cat he bribed with butter and the elm-tree he had decked withribbons helped him); and with that beautiful and dire Thuringian womanwhose soul was a red mouse: we have in this place naught to do. Besides, the Foolish Prince had put aside such commerce when the Fairycame to guide him; so he, at least, could not in equity have grudgedthe same privilege to his historian. 

"Thus, the Fairy leading, the Foolish Prince went skipping along hisfather's highway. But the road was bordered by so many wonders--ashere a bright pebble and there an anemone, say, and, just beyond, abrook which babbled an entreaty to be tasted, --that many folk hadpresently overtaken and had passed the loitering Foolish Prince. Firstcame a grandee, supine in his gilded coach, with half-shut eyes, uneagerly meditant upon yesterday's statecraft or to-morrow'sgallantry; and now three yokels, with ruddy cheeks and much dust upontheir shoulders; now a haggard man in black, who constantly glancedbackward; and now a corporal with an empty sleeve, who whistled as hewent. 

"A butterfly guided every man of them along the highway. 'For the Lordof the Fields is a whimsical person, ' said the Fairy, ' and such is hisvery old enactment concerning the passage even of his cowpath; butprinces each in his day and in his way may trample this domain asprompt their will and skill. '

"'That now is excellent hearing, ' said the Foolish Prince; and hestrutted. 

"'Look you, ' said the Fairy, 'a man does not often stumble and breakhis shins in the highway, but rather in the byway. '. . . . 

"Thus, the Fairy leading, the Foolish Prince went skipping on hisallotted journey, though he paused once in a while to shake his baubleat the staring sun. 

"'The stars, ' he considered, 'are more sympathetic. . . . 

"And thus, the Fairy leading, they came at last to a tall hedgewherein were a hundred wickets, all being closed; and those who hadpassed the Foolish Prince disputed before the hedge and measured thehundred wickets with thirty-nine articles and with a variety ofinstruments, and each man entered at his chosen wicket, and abutterfly went before him; but no man returned into the open country. 

"'Now beyond each wicket, ' said the Fairy, 'lies a great crucible, andby ninety and nine of these crucibles is a man consumed, or elsetransmuted into this animal or that animal. For such is the law inthese parts and in human hearts. '

"The Prince demanded how if one found by chance the hundredth wicket?But she shook her head and said that none of the Tylwydd Teg waspermitted to enter the Disenchanted Garden. Rumor had it that withinthe Garden, beyond the crucibles, was a Tree, but whether the fruit ofthis Tree were sweet or bitter no person in the Fields could tell, nordid the Fairy pretend to know what happened in the Garden. 

"'Then why, in heaven's name, need a man test any of these wickets?'cried the Foolish Prince; 'with so much to lose and, it may be, nothing to gain? For one, I shall enter none of them. '

"But once more she shook her glittering head. 'In your House and inyour Sign it was decreed. Time will be, my Prince; to-day the kidgambols and the ox chews his cud. Presently the butcher cries, _Timeis!_ Comes the hour and the power, and the cook bestirs herself andsays, _Time was!_ The master has his dinner, either way, all say, andevery day. '

"And the Fairy vanished as she talked with him, her radiances thinninginto the neutral colors of smoke, and thence dwindling a little by alittle into the vaulting spiral of a windless and a burnt-out fire, until nothing remained of her save her voice; and that was like themoving of dead leaves before they fall. 

"'Truly, ' said the Foolish Prince, 'I am compelled to consider this avexatious business. For, look you, the butterfly I just now admireflits over this wicket, and then her twin flutters over that wicket, and between them there is absolutely no disparity in attraction. Hoo!here is a more sensible insect. '

"And he leaped and cracked his heels together and ran after a goldenbutterfly that drifted to the rearward Fields. There was such a hostof butterflies about that presently he had lost track of his firstchoice, and was in boisterous pursuit of a second, and then of athird, and then of yet others; but none of them did he ever capture, the while that one by one he followed divers butterflies of varyingcolors, and never a golden butterfly did he find any more. 

"When it was evening, the sky drew up the twilight from the east as ablotter draws up ink, and stars were kindling everywhere like tinysignal-fires, and a light wind came out of the murky east and rustledvery plaintively in places where the more ambiguous shadows were; andthe Foolish Prince shivered, for the air was growing chill, and thetips of his fingers were aware of it. 

"'A crucible, ' he reflected, 'possesses the minor virtue of continuouswarmth. '

"And before the hedge he found a Rational Person, led hither by aClothes' Moth, working out the problem of the hundred wickets inconsonance with the most approved methods. 'I have very nearly solvedit, ' the Rational Person said, in genteel triumph, 'but this eveninggrows too dark for any further ciphering, and again I must wait untilto-morrow. I regret, sir, that you have elected to waste the day, inpursuit of various meretricious Lepidoptera. '

"'A happy day, my brother, is never wasted. "

"'That appears to me to be nonsense, ' said the Rational Person; and heput up his portfolio, preparatory to spending another night under hisumbrella in the Fields. 

"'Indeed, my brother?' laughed the Foolish Prince. 'Then, farewell, for I am assured that yonder, as here, our father makes the laws, andthat to dispute his appreciation of the enticing qualities ofbutterflies were an impertinence. '

"Thereafter, pushing open the wicket nearest to his hand, the FoolishPrince tucked his bauble under his left arm and skipped into theDisenchanted Garden; and as he went he sang, not noting that, fromsomewhere in the thickening shadows, had arisen a golden butterflywhich went before him through the wicket. 

"Sang the Foolish Prince:

 "'Farewell to Fields and Butterflies And levities of Yester-year! For we espy, and hold more dear, The Wicket of our Destinies. 

 "'Whereby we enter, once for all, A Garden which such fruit doth yield As, tasted once, no more Afield We fare where Youth holds carnival. 

 "'Farewell, fair Fields, none found amiss When laughter was a frequent noise And golden-hearted girls and boys Appraised the mouth they meant to kiss. 

 "'Farewell, farewell! but for a space We, being young, Afield might stray, That in our Garden nod and say, _Afield is no unpleasant place. '"_

3--_Arithmetic_

In such disconnected fashion, as hereafter, I record the moments of mylife which I most vividly remember. For it is possible only in thelast paragraphs of a book, and for a book's people only, to look backupon an ordered and proportionate progression to what one has become;in life the thing arrives with scantier dignity; and one appears, inretrospection, less to have marched toward any goal than always tohave jumped and scrambled from one stepping-stone to another because, however momentarily, "just this or that poor impulse seemed the solework of a lifetime. "

Well! at least I have known these moments and the rapture of theirdominance; and I am not lightly to be stripped of recollection ofthem, nor of the attendant thrill either, by any cheerless hourwherein, as sometimes happens, my personal achievements confront melike a pile of flimsy jack-straws. 

What does it all amount to?--I do not know. There may be some sort ofsupernal bookkeeping, somewhere, but very certainly it is notconformable to any human mathematics. 

 _THE CORDS OF VANITY

"His has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and the flowers; andgentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyes have been upon him. Let others eat his honey that please, so that he has had his morseland his song. "_

1. 

_He Sits Out a Dance_

When I first knew Stella she was within a month of being fifteen, which is for womankind an unattractive age. There were a startlingnumber of corners to her then, and she had but vague notions as to themanagement of her hands and feet. In consequence they were perpetuallyturning up in unexpected places and surprising her by their size andnumber. Yes, she was very hopelessly fifteen; and she was used tolaugh, unnecessarily, in a nervous fashion, approximating to a whinny, and when engaged in conversation she patted down her skirts six timesto the minute. 

It seems oddly unbelievable when I reflect that Rosalind--"daughter tothe banished Duke"--and Stella and Helen of Troy, and all the otherfamous fair ones of history, were each like that at one period oranother. 

As for myself, I was nine days younger than Stella, and so I was atthis time very old--much older than it is ever permitted anyone to beafterward. I cherished the most optimistic ideas as to my impendentmoustache, and was wont in privacy to encourage it with themanicure-scissors. I still entertained the belief that girls wereupon the whole superfluous nuisances, but was beginning to perceivethe expediency of concealing this opinion, even in private conversewith my dearest chum, where, in our joyous interchange of variousheresies, we touched upon this especial sub-division of fauna verylightly, and, I now suspect, with some self-consciousness. 

 2

All this was at a summer resort, which was called the GreenChalybeate. Stella and I and others of our age attended the hotel hopsin the evening with religious punctuality, for well-meaning eldersinsisted these dances amused us, and it was easier to go than to arguethe point. At least, that was the feeling of the boys. 

Stella has since sworn the girls liked it. I suspect in this statementa certain parsimony as to the truth. They giggled too much and werenever entirely free from that haunting anxiety concerning theirskirts. 

We danced together, Stella and I, to the strains of the last Sousatwo-step (it was the _Washington Post_), and we conversed, meanwhile, with careful disregard of the amenities of life, since each fearedlest the other might suspect in some common courtesy an attemptat--there is really no other word--spooning. And spooning was absurd. 

Well, as I once read in the pages of a rare and little known author, one lives and learns. 

I asked Stella to sit out a dance. I did this because I had heard Mr. Lethbury--a handsome man with waxed mustachios and an absolutelypiratical amount of whiskers, --make the same request of Miss VanOrden, my just relinquished partner, and it was evident that suchwhiskers could do no wrong. 

Stella was not uninfluenced, it may be, by Miss Van Orden's example, for even in girlhood the latter was a person of extraordinary beauty, whereas, as has been said, Stella's corners were then multitudinous;and it is probable that those two queer little knobs at the base ofStella's throat would be apt to render their owner uncomfortable and abit abject before--let us say--more ample charms. In any event, Stellagiggled and said she thought it would be just fine, and I presentlyconducted her to the third piazza of the hotel. 

There we found a world that was new. 

 3

It was a world of sweet odors and strange lights, flooded with akindly silence which was, somehow, composed of many lispings andtrepidations and thin echoes. The night was warm, the sky alltransparency. If the comparison was not manifestly absurd, I wouldliken that remembered sky's pale color to the look of blue plushrubbed the wrong way. And in its radiance the stars bathed, large andbright and intimate, yet blurred somewhat, like shop-lights seenthrough frosted panes; and the moon floated on it, crisp and clear asa new-minted coin. This was the full midsummer moon, grave andglorious, that compelled the eye; and its shield was obscurely marked, as though a Titan had breathed on its chill surface. Its lightsuffused the heavens and lay upon the earth beneath us in broadsplashes; and the foliage about us was dappled with its splendor, savein the open east, where the undulant, low hills wore radiancy as amantle. 

For the trees, mostly maples of slight stature, clustered thicklyabout the hotel, and their branches mingled in a restless pattern ofblacks and silvers and dim greens that mimicked the laughter of thesea under an April wind. Looking down from the piazza, over theexpanse of tree-tops, all this was strangely like the sea; and it gaveone, somehow, much the same sense of remote, unbounded spaces and of abeauty that was a little sinister. At times whippoorwills called toone another, eerie and shrill; and the distant dance-music was avibration in the air, which was heavy with the scent of bruisedgrowing things and was filled with the cool, healing magic of themoonlight. 

Taking it all in all, we had blundered upon a very beautiful place. And there we sat for a while and talked in an aimless fashion. We didnot know quite how one ought to "sit out" a dance, you conceive. . . . 

 4

Then, moved by some queer impulse, I stared over the railing for alittle at this great, wonderful, ambiguous world, and said solemnly:

"It is good. "

"Yes, " Stella agreed, in a curious, quiet and tiny voice, "it--it'svery large, isn't it?" She looked out for a moment over the tree-tops. "It makes me feel like a little old nothing, " she said, at last. "Thestars are so big, and--so uninterested. " Stella paused for aninterval, and then spoke again, with an uncertain laugh. "I think I amrather afraid. "

"Afraid?" I echoed. 

"Yes, " she said, vaguely; "of--of everything. "

I understood. Even then I knew something of the occasionalinsufficiency of words. 

"It is a big world, " I assented, "and lots of people are having aright hard time in it right now. I reckon there is somebody dying thisvery minute not far off. "

"It's all--waiting for us!" Stella had forgotten my existence. "It'sbringing us so many things--and we don't know what any of them are. But we've got to take them, whether we want to or not. It isn't fair. We've got to--well, got to grow up, and--marry, and--die, whether wewant to or not. We've no choice. And it may not matter, after all. Everything will keep right on like it did before; and the stars won'tcare; and what we've done and had done to us won't really matter!"

"Well, but, Stella, you can have a right good time first, anyway, ifyou keep away from ugly things and fussy people. And I reckon youreally go to Heaven afterwards if you haven't been really bad, --don'tyou?"

"Rob, --are you ever afraid of dying?" Stella asked, "very muchafraid--Oh, you know what I mean. "

I did. I was about ten once more. It was dark, and I was passing adrug-store, with huge red and green and purple bottles glistening inthe gas-lit windows; and it had just occurred to me that I, too, mustdie, and be locked up in a box, and let down with trunk-straps into ahole, like Father was. . . . So I said, "Yes. "

"And yet we've got to! Oh, I don't see how people can go on livinglike everything was all right when that's always getting nearer, --whenthey know they've got to die before very long. Because they dance andgo on picnics and buy hats as if they were going to live forever. I--oh, I can't understand. "

"They get used to the idea, I reckon. We're sort of like the rats inthe trap at home, in our stable, " I suggested, poetically. "We can bitethe wires and go crazy, like lots of them do, if we want to, or we caneat the cheese and kind of try not to think about it. Either way, there'sno getting out till they come to kill us in the morning. "

"Yes, " sighed Stella; "I suppose we must make the best of it. "

"It's the only sensible thing to do, far as I can see. "

"But it is all so big--and so careless about us!" she said, after alittle. "And we don't know--we can't know!--what is going to happen toyou and me. And we can't stop its happening!"

"We'll just have to make the best of that, too, " I protested, dolefully. 

Stella sighed again, "I hope so, " she assented; "still, I'm scared ofit. "

"I think I am, too--sort of, " I conceded, after reflection. "Anyhow, Iam going to have as good a time as I can. "

There was now an even longer pause. Pitiable, ridiculous infants werepondering, somewhat vaguely but very solemnly, over certain mysteriesof existence, which most of us have learned to accept with stolidity. We were young, and to us the miraculous insecurity and inconsequenceof human life was still a little impressive, and we had not yet cometo regard the universe as a more or less comfortable place, well-meaningly constructed anyhow--by Somebody--for us to reside in. 

Therefore we moved a trifle closer together, Stella and I, and werecommonly miserable over the _Weltschmerz_. After a little a distantwhippoorwill woke me from a chaos of reverie, and I turned to Stella, with a vague sense that we two were the only people left in the wholeworld, and that I was very, very fond of her. 

Stella's head was leaned backward. Her lips were parted, and themoonlight glinted in her eyes. Her eyes were blue. 

"Don't!" said Stella, faintly. 

I did. . . . 

It was a matter out of my volition, out of my planning. And, oh, thewonder, and sweetness, and sacredness of it! I thought, even in theinstant; and, oh, the pity that, after all, it is slightlydisappointing. . . . 

Stella was not angry, as I had half expected. "That was dear of you, "she said, impulsively, "but don't try to do it again. " There was thewisdom of centuries in this mandate of Stella's as she rose from thebench. The spell was broken, utterly. "I think, " said Stella, in thevoice of a girl of fifteen, "I think we'd better go and dance somemore. "

 5

In the crude morning I approached Stella, with a fatuous smile. Sheapparently both perceived and resented my bearing, although she neveronce looked at me. There was something of great interest to her in thedistance, apparently down by the springhouse; she was flushed andindignant; and her eyes wouldn't, couldn't, and didn't turn for aninstant in my direction. 

I fidgeted. 

"If, " said she, impersonally, "if you believe it was because of _you_, you are very much mistaken. It would have been the same with anybody. You don't understand, and I don't either. Anyhow, I think you are amess, and I hate you. Go away from me!"

And she stamped her foot in a fine rage. 

For the moment I entertained an un-Christian desire that Stella hadbeen born a boy. In that case, I felt, I would, just then, have reallyenjoyed sitting upon the back of her head, and grinding her nose intothe lawn, and otherwise persuading her to cry "'Nough. " These virilepleasures being denied me, I sought for comfort in discourteousspeech. 

"Umph-huh!" said I, "and you think you're mighty smart, don't you?Well, I don't want you pawing around me any more, either. I won't haveit, do you understand! That was what I was going to tell you anyhow, you kissing-bug, even if you hadn't acted so smart. And you can juststick that right in your pipe and smoke it, you old Miss Smart Alec. "

Thereupon I--wisely--departed without delay. A rock struck me ratherforcibly between the shoulder blades, but I did not deign to noticethis phenomenon. 

"You can't fight girls with fists, " I reflected. "You've just got totalk to them in the right way. "

2. 

_He Loves Extensively_

I saw no more of Stella for a lengthy while, since within two days ofthe events recorded it pleased my mother to seek out another summerresort. 

"For in September, " she said, "I really must have perfect quiet andunimpeachable butter, and falling leaves, and only a very fewcongenial people to be melancholy with, --and that sort of thing, youknow. I find it freshens one up so against the winter. "

It was a signal feature of my mother's conversation that you neverunderstood, precisely, what she was talking about. 

Thus in her train the silly, pretty woman drew otherwhither herhobbledehoy son, as indeed Claire Bulmer Townsend had aforetime drawnan armament of more mature and stolid members of my sex. I was alwaysproud of my handsome mother, but without any aspirations, howevertheoretical, toward intimacy; and her periods of conscientious ifvague affection, when she recollected its propriety, I endured withconsolatory foreknowledge of an impendent, more agreeable era ofneglect. 

I fancy that at bottom I was without suspecting it lonely. I was anonly child; my father had died, as has been hinted, when I was inkilts. . . . No, I must have graduated from kilts into "knee-pants" whenthe Democracy of Lichfield celebrated Grover Cleveland's firstelection as President, for I was seven years old then, and was allowedto stay up ever so late after supper to watch the torchlight parade. Irecollect being rather pleasantly scared by the yells of all thosemarching people and by the glistening of their faces as the irregularflaring torches heaved by; and I recollect how delightfully the coldnight air was flavored with kerosene. In any event, it was on thisgenerally festive November night that my father again took too much todrink, and, coming home toward morning, lay down and went to sleep inthe vestibule between our front-door and the storm-doors; and fivedays later died of pneumonia. . . In that era I was accounted an odd boy;given to reading and secretive ways, and, they record, to longsilences throughout which my lips would move noiselessly. "Justtalking to one of my friends, " they tell me I was used to explain;though it was not until my career at King's College that I may be saidto have pretended to intimacy with anybody. 

 2

For in old Fairhaven I spent, of course, a period of ostensible study, as four generations of my fathers had done aforetime. But in thatleisured, slatternly and ancient city I garnered a far larger harvestof (comparatively) innocuous cakes and ale than of authentic learning, and at my graduation carried little of moment from the place save manymemories of Bettie Hamlyn. . . . Her father taught me Latin at King'sCollege, while Bettie taught me human intimacy--almost. Looking back, I have not ever been intimate with anybody. . . . 

Not but that I had my friends. In particular I remember those four ofus who always called ourselves--in flat defiance, just as Dumas did, of mere arithmetic--"The Three Musketeers. " I think that we loved oneanother very greatly during the four years we spent together in ouryouth. I like to believe we did, and to remember the boys who wereonce unreasonably happy, even now. It does not seem to count, somehow, that Aramis has taken to drink and every other inexpedient course, Ihear, and that I would not recognize him today, were we two toencounter casually--or Athos, either, I suppose, now that he has beenso long in the Philippines. 

And as for D'Artagnan--or Billy Woods, if you prefer the appellationwhich his sponsors gave him, --why we are still good friends and alwayswill be, I suppose. But we are not particularly intimate; and verycertainly we will never again read _Chastelard_ together and declaimthe more impassioned parts of it, --and in fine, I cannot help seeing, nowadays, that, especially since his marriage, Billy has developedinto a rather obvious and stupid person, and that he considers me tobe a bit of a bad egg. And in a phrase, when we are together, just wetwo, we smoke a great deal and do not talk any more than is necessary. 

And once I would have quite sincerely enjoyed any death, howeverexcruciating, which promoted the well-being of Billy Woods; and heviewed me not dissimilarly, I believe. . . . However, after all, this wasa long, long while ago, and in a period almost antediluvian. 

And during this period they of Fairhaven assumed I was in love withBettie Hamlyn; and for a very little while, at the beginning, had Iassumed as much. More lately was my error flagrantly apparent when Ifell in love with someone else, and sincerely in love, and found to myamazement that, upon the whole, I preferred Bettie's companionship tothat of the woman I adored. By and by, though, I learned to acceptthis odd, continuing phenomenon much as I had learned to accept thesunrise. 

 3

Once Bettie demanded of me, "I often wonder what you really think ofme? Honest injun, I mean. "

I meditated, and presently began, with leisure:

"Miss Hamlyn is a young woman of considerable personal attractions, and with one exception is unhandicapped by accomplishments. She playsthe piano, it is true, but she does it divinely and she neithercrochets nor embroiders presents for people, nor sketches, norrecites, nor sings, or in fine annoys the public in any waywhatsoever. Her enemies deny that she is good-looking, but even herfriends concede her curious picturesqueness and her knowledge of it. Her penetration, indeed, is not to be despised; she has even graspedthe fact that all men are not necessarily fools in spite of thefashion in which they talk to women. It must be admitted, however, that her emotions are prone to take precedence of her reasoningpowers: thus she is not easily misled from getting what she desires, save by those whom she loves, because in argument, while alwaysillogical, she is invariably convincing--"

Miss Hamlyn sniffed. "This is, perhaps, the inevitable effect oftwenty cigarettes a day, " was her cryptic comment. "Nevertheless, itdoes affect me with ennui. "

"--For, the mere facts of the case she plainly demonstrates, with theabettance of her dimples, to be an affair of unimportance; the realpoint is what she wishes done about it. Yet the proffering of anyparticular piece of advice does not necessarily signify that sheeither expects or wishes it to be followed, since had she been presentat the Creation she would have cheerfully pointed out to the Deity Hisvarious mistakes, and have offered her co-operation toward betteringmatters, and have thought a deal less of Him had He accepted it; butthis is merely a habit--" "Yes?" said Bettie, yawning; and she added:"Do you know, Robin, the saddest and most desolate thing in the worldis to practise an _etude_ of Schumann's in nine flats, and the next isto realize that a man who has been in love with you has recovered forkeeps?"

"--It must not be imagined, however, that Miss Hamlyn is untruthful, for when driven by impertinences into a corner she conceals her realopinion by voicing it quite honestly as if she were joking. Thereuponyou credit her with the employment of irony and the possession ofevery imaginable and super-angelical characteristic--"

"Unless we come to a better understanding, " Miss Hamlyn crisply began, "we had better stop right here before we come to a worse--"

"--Miss Hamlyn, in a word, is possessed of no insufferable virtues andof many endearing faults; and in common with the rest of humanity, sheregards her disapproval of any proceeding as clear proof of itsimpropriety. " This was largely apropos of a fire-new debate concerningthe deleterious effects of cigarette-smoking; and when I had made anend, and doggedly lighted another one of them, Bettie said nothing. . . . She minded chiefly that one of us should have thought of the otherwithout bias. She said it was not fair. And I know now that she wasright. 

But of Bettie Hamlyn, for reasons you may learn hereafter if you soelect, I honestly prefer to write not at all. Four years, in fine, wespent to every purpose together, and they were very happy years. Torecord them would be desecration. 

 4

Meantime, during these years, I had fallen in and out of loveassiduously. Since the Anabasis of lad's love traverses a monotonouscountry, where one hill is largely like another, and one meadow aduplicate of the next to the last daffodil, I may with profit dwellupon the green-sickness lightly. It suffices that in the course ofthese four years I challenged superstition by adoring thirteen girls, and, worse than that, wrote verses of them. 

I give you their names herewith--though not their workaday names, lestthe wives of divers people be offended (and in many cases, surprised), but the appellatives which figured in my rhymes. They were Heart'sDesire, Florimel, Dolores, Yolande, Adelais, Sylvia, Heart o' MyHeart, Chloris, Felise, Ettarre, Phyllis, Phyllida, and Dorothy. Herewas a rosary of exquisite names, I even now concede; and the owner ofeach _nom de plume_ I, for however brief a period, adored for this orthat peculiar excellence; and by ordinary without presuming to mentionthe fact to any of these divinities save Heart o' My Heart, who was, after all, only a Penate. 

Outside the elevated orbits of rhyme she was called Elizabeth Hamlyn;and it afterward became apparent to me that I, in reality, wrote allthe verses of this period solely for the pleasure of reading themaloud to Bettie, for certainly I disclosed their existence to no oneelse--except just one or two to Phyllida, who was "literary. "

And the upshot of all this heart-burning is most succinctly given inmy own far from impeccable verse, as Bettie Hamlyn heard the summing-upone evening in May. It was the year I graduated from King'sCollege, and the exact relation of the date to the Annos Domini istrivial. But the battle of Manila had just been fought, and offSantiago Captain Sampson and Commander Schley were still hunting forCervera's "phantom fleet. " And in Fairhaven, as I remember it, although there was a highly-colored picture of Commodore Dewey in thebarber-shop window, nobody was bothering in the least about the warexcept when Colonel Snawley and Dr. Jeal foregathered at Clarriker'sEmporium to denounce the colossal errors of "imperialism". . . . 

 "Thus, then, I end my calendar Of ancient loves more light than air;-- And now Lad's Love, that led afar In April fields that were so fair, Is fled, and I no longer share Sedate unutterable days With Heart's Desire, nor ever praise Felise, or mirror forth the lures Of Stella's eyes nor Sylvia's, Yet love for each loved lass endures. 

 "Chloris is wedded, and Ettarre Forgets; Yolande loves otherwhere, And worms long since made bold to mar The lips of Dorothy and fare Mid Florimel's bright ruined hair; And Time obscures that roseate haze Which glorified hushed woodland ways When Phyllis came, as Time obscures That faith which once was Phyllida's, -- Yet love for each loved lass endures. 

 "That boy is dead as Schariar, Tiglath-pileser, or Clotaire, Who once of love got many a scar. And his loved lasses past compare?-- None is alive now anywhere. Each is transmuted nowadays Into a stranger, and displays No whit of love's investitures. I let these women go their ways, Yet love for each loved lass endures. 

 "Heart o' My Heart, thine be the praise If aught of good in me betrays Thy tutelage--whose love matures Unmarred in these more wistful days, -- Yet love for each loved lass endures. "

For this was the year that I graduated, and Chloris--I violate noconfidence in stating that her actual name was Aurelia Minns, and thatshe had been, for a greater number of years than it would be courteousto remember, the undisputed belle of Fairhaven, --had that veryafternoon married a promising young doctor; and I was draining the cupof my misery to the last delicious drop, and was of course inspiredthereby to the perpetration of such melancholy bathos as only acare-free youth of twenty is capable of evolving. 

 5

"Dear boy, " said Bettie, when I had made an end of reading, "and areyou very miserable?"

Her fingers were interlocked behind her small black head; and thesympathy with which she regarded me was tenderly flavored withamusement. 

This much I noticed as I glanced upward from my manuscript, andmustered a Spartan smile. "If misery loves company, then am I theleast unhappy soul alive. For I don't want anybody but just you, and Ibelieve I never will. "

"Oh--? But I don't count. " The girl continued, with composure: "Orrather, I have always counted your affairs, so that I know preciselywhat it all amounts to. "

"Sum total?"

"A lot of imitation emotions. " She added hastily: "Oh, quite a goodimitation, dear; you are smooth enough to see to that. Why, I rememberonce--when you read me that first sonnet, sitting all hunched up onthe little stool, and pretending you didn't know I knew who you meantme to know it was for, and ending with a really very effective, breathless sob--and caught my hand and pressed it to your forehead fora moment--Why, that time I was thoroughly rattled and almostbelieved--even I--that--" She shrugged. "And if I had beenyounger--!" she said, half regretfully, for at this time Bettie wasvery nearly twenty-two. 

"Yes. " The effective breathless sob responded to what had virtuallybeen an encore. "I have not forgotten. "

"Only for a moment, though. " Miss Hamlyn reflected, and then added, brightly: "Now, most girls would have liked it, for it sounded allwool. And they would have gone into it, as you wanted, and have beenvery, very happy for a while. Then, after a time--after you had got asonnet or two out of it, and had made a sufficiency of prettyspeeches, --you would have gone for an admiring walk about yourself, and would have inspected your sensations and have applauded them, quite enthusiastically, and would have said, in effect: 'Madam, Ithank you for your attention. Pray regard the incident as closed. '"

"You are doing me, " I observed, "an injustice. And however tiny theymay be, I hate 'em. "

"But, Robin, can't you see, " she said, with an odd earnestness, "thatto be fond of you is quite disgracefully easy, even though--" BettieHamlyn said, presently: "Why, your one object in life appears to be tofind a girl who will allow you to moon around her and make versesabout her. Oh, very well! I met to-day just the sort of pretty idiotwho will let you do it. She is visiting Kathleen Eppes for the Finals. She has a great deal of money, too, I hear. " And Bettie mentioned aname. 

"That's rather queer, " said I. "I used to know that girl. She will beat the K. A. Dance to-morrow night, I suppose, "--and I put up mymanuscript with a large air of tolerance. "I dare say that I have beenexaggerating matters a bit, after all. Any woman who treated mein the way that Miss Aurelia did is not, really, worthy of regret. Andin any event, I got a ballade out of her and six--no, seven--otherpoems. "

For the name which Bettie had mentioned was that of Stella Musgrave, and I was, somehow, curiously desirous to come again to Stella, andnervous about it, too, even then. . . . 

3. 

_He Earns a Stick-pin_

"Dear me!" said Stella, wonderingly; "I would never have known you inthe world! You've grown so fa--I mean, you are so well built. I'vegrown? Nonsense!--and besides, what did you expect me to do in sixyears?--and moreover, it is abominably rude of you to presume to speakof me in that abstracted and figurative manner--quite as if I were adebt or a taste for drink. It is really only French heels and apompadour, and, of course, you can't have this dance. It's promised, and I hop, you know, frightfully. . . . Why, naturally, I haven'tforgotten--How could I, when you were the most disagreeable boy I everknew?"

I ventured a suggestion that caused Stella to turn an attractive pink, and laugh. "No, " said she, demurely, "I shall never never sit outanother dance with you. "

So she did remember!

Subsequently: "Our steps suit perfectly--Heavens! you are the fifthman who has said that to-night, and I am sure it would be very sillyand very tiresome to dance through life with anybody. Men are soabsurd, don't you think? Oh, yes, I tell them all--every one ofthem--that our steps suit, even when they have just ripped off a yardor so of flounce in an attempt to walk up the front of my dress. Itmakes them happy, poor things, and injures nobody. You liked it, youknow; you grinned like a pleased cat. I like cats, don't you?"

Later: "That is absolute nonsense, you know, " said Stella, critically. "Do you always get red in the face when you make love? I wouldn't if Iwere you. You really have no idea how queer it makes you look. "

Still later: "No, I don't think I am going anywhere to-morrowafternoon, " said Stella. 

 2

So that during the fleet moments of these Finals, while our army waseffecting a landing in Cuba, I saw as much of Stella as was possible;and veracity compels the admission that she made no marked effort toprevent my doing so. Indeed, she was quite cross, and scornful, aboutthe crowning glory being denied her, of going with me to theBaccalaureate Address the morning I received my degree. To that ofcourse I took Bettie. 

 3

I said good-bye to Bettie Hamlyn rather late one evening. It was inher garden. The Finals were over, and Stella had left Fairhaven thatafternoon. I was to follow in the morning, by an early train. 

It was a hot, still night in June, with never a breath of airstirring. In the sky was a low-hung moon, full and very red. It was anevil moon, and it lighted a night that was unreasonably ominous. AndBettie and I had talked of trifles resolutely for two hours. 

"Well--good-bye Bettie, " I said at last. "I'm glad it isn't for long. "For of course we meant never to let a month elapse without our seeingeach other. 

"Good-bye, " she said, and casually shook hands. 

Then Bettie Hamlyn said, in a different voice: "Robin, you come ofsuch a bad lot, and already you are by way of being a rather frightfulliar. And I'm letting you go. I'm turning you over to Stellas andmothers and things like that just because I have to. It isn't fair. They will make another Townsend of my boy, and after all I've tried todo. Oh, Robin, don't let anybody or anything do that to you! Do try todo the unpleasant thing sometimes, my dear!--But what's the good ofpromising?"

"And have I ever failed you, Bettie?"

"No, --not me, " she answered, almost as though she grudged the fact. Then Bettie laughed a little. "Indeed, I'm trying to believe you neverwill. Oh, indeed, I am. But just be honest with me, Robin, and nothingelse will ever matter very much. I don't care what you do, if only youare always honest with me. You can murder people, if you like, andburn down as many houses as you choose. You probably will. But you'llbe honest with me--won't you?--and particularly when you don't want tobe?"

So I promised her that. And sometimes I believe it is the only promisewhich I ever tried to keep quite faithfully. . . . 

 4

And all the ensuing summer I followed Stella Musgrave from onewatering place to another, with an engaging and entire candor as to mydesires. I was upon the verge of my majority, when, under the terms ofmy father's will, I would come into possession of such fragments ofhis patrimony as he had omitted to squander. And afterward I intendedto become excessively distinguished in this or that profession, not asyet irrevocably fixed upon, but for choice as a writer of immortalverse; and I was used to dwell at this time very feelingly, and veryfrequently, upon the wholesome restraint which matrimony imposes uponthe possessor of an artistic temperament. 

Stella promised to place my name upon her waiting list, and to take upthe matter in due season; and she lamented, with a tiny andpre-meditated yawn, that as a servitor of system she was compelled tolist her "little lovers and suitors in alphabetical order, Mr. Townsend. Besides, you would probably strangle me before the year wasout. "

"I would thoroughly enjoy doing it, " I said, grimly, "right now. " Sheregarded me for a while. "You would, too, " she said at last, with analien gravity; "and that is why--Oh, Rob dear, you are out of mydimension. I am rather afraid of you. I am a poor bewildered trianglewho is being wooed by a cube!" the girl wailed, and but halfhumorously. 

And I began to plead. It does not matter what I said. It nevermattered. 

And persons more sensible than I found then far more important thingsto talk about, such as General Alger's inefficiency, and GeneralShafter's hammock, and "embalmed beef, " and the folly of taking overthe Philippines, and Admiral von Diedrich's behavior, and the yellowfever in our camps and the comparative claims of Messrs. Sampson andSchley to be made rear-admiral; and everybody more or less wasdemanding "an investigation, " as the natural aftermath of a war. 

 5

Stella's mother had closed Bellemeade for the year, however, and theywere to spend the winter in Lichfield; and Stella, to reduplicate herphrase, promised to "think it over very seriously. "

But I suppose I had never any real chance against Peter Blagden. Tobegin with, --though Stella herself, of course, would inherit plentyof money when her mother died, --Peter was the only nephew of achildless uncle who was popularly reported to "roll in wealth"; and inaddition, Peter was seven years older than I and notoriouslydissipated. No other girl of twenty would have hesitated between ushalf so long as Stella did. She hesitated through a whole winter; andeven now there is odd, if scanty, comfort in the fact that Stellahesitated. . . . 

Besides Peter was eminently likeable. At times I almost liked himmyself, for all my fervent envy of his recognized depravity and of thehateful ease with which he thought of something to say in thoseuncomfortable moments when he and I and Stella were together. At mostother times I could talk glibly enough, but before this seasonedscapegrace I was dumb, and felt my reputation to be hopelesslyimmaculate . . . If only Stella would believe me to be just the tiniestbit depraved! I blush to think of the dark hints I dropped as toentirely fictitious women who "had been too kind to me. But then"--asI would feelingly lament, --"we could never let women alone, weTownsends, you know--"

 6

One woman at least I was beginning to "let alone", in that I waswriting Bettie Hamlyn letters which grew shorter and shorter. . . . Hermother had fallen ill, not long after I left college; and she andBettie were now a great way off, in Colorado, where the old lady wasdying, with the most selfish sort of laziness about it, and so wasinvolving me in endless correspondence. . . . At least, I wrote to Bettiepunctually, if briefly, though I had not seen her since that nightwhen the moon was red, and big, and very evil. I had to do it, becauseshe had insisted that I write. 

"But letters don't mean anything, Bettie. And besides, I hate writingletters. "

"That is just why you must write to me regularly. You never do thethings you don't want to do. I know it. But for me you always will, and that makes all the difference. "

"Shylock!" I retorted. 

"If you like. In any event, I mean to have my pound of flesh, andregularly. "

So I wrote to Bettie Hamlyn on the seventh of every month--becausethat was her birthday, --and again on the twenty-third, because thatwas mine. The rest of my time I gave whole-heartedly to Stella. . . . 

 7

They named her Stella, I fancy, because her eyes were so like stars. It is manifestly an irrelevant detail that there do not happen to beany azure stars. Indeed, I am inclined to think that Nature belatedlyobserved this omission, and created Stella's eyes to make up for it;at any rate, if you can imagine Aldebaran or Benetnasch polished up abit and set in a speedwell-cup, you will have a very fair idea of oneof them. You cannot, however, picture to yourself the effect of thepair of them, because the human mind is limited. 

Really, though, their effect was curious. You noticed them casually, let us say; then, without warning, you ceased to notice anything. Yousimply grew foolish and gasped like a newly-hooked trout, and went madand babbled as meaninglessly as a silly little rustic brook trottingunder a bridge. 

I have seen the thing happen any number of times. And, strangelyenough, you liked it. Numbers of young men would venture into the sameroom with those disconcerting eyes the very next evening, evenappearing to seek them out and to court peril, as it were, --young menwho must have known perfectly well, either by report or experience, the unavoidable result of such fool-hardy conduct. For eventually italways culminated in Stella's being deeply surprised and grieved, --ata dance, for choice, with music and color and the unthinking laughterof others to heighten the sadness and the romance of it all, --shenever having dreamed of such a thing, of course, and having alwaysregarded you only as a dear, dear friend. Yes, and she used certainlyto hope that nothing she had said or done could have led you tobelieve she had even for a moment considered such a thing. Oh, she didit well, did Stella, and endured these frequent griefs and surpriseswith, I must protest, quite exemplary patience. In a phrase, she wasthe most adorable combination of the prevaricator, the jilt and thecoquette I have ever encountered. 

 8

So, for the seventh time, I asked Stella to marry me. Nearly everyfellow I knew had done as much, particularly Peter Blagden; and it isalways a mistake to appear unnecessarily reserved or exclusive. Andthis time in declining--with a fluency that bespoke considerablepractice, --she informed me that, as the story books have it, she wasshortly to be wedded to another. 

And Peter Blagden clapped the pinnacle upon my anguish by asking me tobe the best man. I knew even then whose vanity and whose sense of theappropriate had put him up to it. . . . 

"For I haven't a living male relative of the suitable age except twosecond cousins that I don't see much of--praise God!" said Peter, fervently; "and Hugh Van Orden looks about half-past ten, whereas Iclass John Charteris among the lower orders of vermin. "

I consented to accept the proffered office and the incidental stick-pin;and was thus enabled to observe from the inside this episode of Stella'slife, and to find it quite like other weddings. 

Something like this:

"Look here, " a perspiring and fidgety Peter protested, at the lastmoment, as we lurked in the gloomy vestry with not a drop left ineither flask; "look here, Henderson hasn't blacked the soles of theseblessed shoes. I'll look like an ass when it comes to the kneelingpart--like an ass, I tell you! Good heavens, they'll look liketombstones!"

"If you funk now, " said I, severely, "I'll never help you get marriedagain. Oh, sainted Ebenezer in bliss, and whatever have I done withthat ring? No, it's here all right, but you are on the wrong side ofme again. And there goes the organ--Good God, Peter, look at her!simply look at her, man! Oh, you lucky devil! you lucky jackass!"

I spoke enviously, you understand, simply to encourage him. 

Followed a glaring of lights, a swishing of fans, a sense that Peterwas not keeping step with me, and the hum of densely packed, expectanthumanity; a blare of music; then Stella, an incredible vision withglad, frightened eyes. My shoulders straightened, and I was not out oftemper any longer. The organist was playing softly, _Oh, Promise Me_, and I was thinking of the time, last January, that Stella and I heardThe Bostonians, and how funny Henry Clay Barnabee was. . . . "--so longas ye both may live?" ended the bishop. 

"I will, " poor Peter quavered, with obvious uncertainty about it. 

And still one saw in Stella's eyes unutterable happiness and fear, buther voice was tranquil. I found time to wonder at its steadiness, eventhough, just about this time, I resonantly burst a button off one ofmy new gloves. I fancy they must have been rather tight. 

"And thereto, " said Stella, calmly, "I give thee my troth. "

And subsequently they were Mendelssohned out of church to thesatisfaction of a large and critical audience. I came down the aislewith Stella's only sister--who afterward married the Marquisd'Arlanges, --and found Lizzie very entertaining later in theevening. . . . 

 9

Yes, it was quite like other weddings. I only wonder for whatconceivable reason I remember its least detail, and so vividly. For itall happened a great while ago, when--of such flimsy stuff is glorywoven, --Emilio Aguinaldo and Captain Coghlan were the persons mosttalked of in America; and when the Mazet committee was "investigating"I forget what, but with column after column about it in the papersevery day; and when _Me und Gott_ was a famous poem, and "tohobsonize" was the most popular verb; and when I was twenty-one. _Sictransit gloria mundi_, as it says in the back of the dictionary. 

4. 

_He Talks with Charteris_

It was upon the evening of this day, after Mr. And Mrs. Blagden hadbeen duly rice-pelted and entrained, that I first talked against JohnCharteris. The novelist was, as has been said, a cousin of PeterBlagden, and as such, was one of the wedding guests at Bellemeade; andthat evening, well toward midnight, the little man, midway in theconsumption of one of his interminable cigarettes, happened to comeupon me seated upon the terrace and gazing, rather vacantly, in thedirection of the moon. 

I was not thinking of anything in particular; only there was a by-endof verse which sang itself over and over again, somewhere in the backof my brain--"Her eyes were the eyes of a bride whom delight makesafraid, her eyes were the eyes of a bride"--and so on, all over again, as at night a traveller may hear his train jogging through amonotonous and stiff-jointed song; and in my heart there was justhunger. 

 2

Charteris had heard, one may presume, of my disastrous love-business;and with all an author's relish of emotion, in others, chose hisgambit swiftly. "Mr. Townsend, is it not? Then may a murrain lightupon thee, Mr. Townsend, --whatever a murrain may happen to be, --sinceyou have disturbed me in the concoction of an ever-living andentrancing fable. "

"I may safely go as far, " said I, "as to offer the proverbial penny. "

"Done!" cried Mr. Charteris. He meditated for a moment, and thenbegan, in a low and curiously melodious voice, to narrate

_The Apologue of the First Conjugation_

"When the gods of Hellas were discrowned, there was a famous scurryingfrom Olympos to the world of mortals, where each deity musthenceforward make shift to do without godhead:--Aphrodite in herhollow hill, where the good knight Tannhauser revels yet, it may be;Hephaestos, in some smithy; whilst Athene, for aught I know, established a girls' boarding school, and Helios, as is notorious, died under priestly torture, and Dionysos cannily took holy orders, and Hermes set up as a merchant in Friesland. But Eros went to theGrammarians. He would be a schoolmaster. 

"The Grammarians, grim, snuffy and wrinkled though they might be, wereno more impervious to his allures than are the rest of us, and inconsequence appointed him to an office. This office was, I glean ofmediaeval legend, that of teaching dunderheaded mortals the FirstConjugation. So Eros donned cap and gown, took lodgings with a quietmusical family, and set _amo_ as the first model verb; and ever sincethis period has the verb 'to love' been the first to be mastered inall well-constituted grammars, as it is in life. 

"Heigho! it is not an easy verb to conjugate. One gets into troubleenough, in floundering through its manifold nuances, which rangeinevitably through the bold-faced 'I love', the confident 'I willlove', the hopeful 'I may be loved', and so on to the wistful, pitifulPluperfect Subjunctive Passive, 'I might have been lovedif'--Then each of us may supply the Protasis as best befits hispersonal opinion and particular scars, and may tear his hair, orscribble verses, or adopt the cynical, or, in fine, assume any posewhich strikes his fancy. For he has graduated into the SecondConjugation, which is _moneo_; and may now admonish to his heart'scontent, whilst looking back complacently into the First Classroom, where others--and so many others!--are still struggling with thatmischancy verb, and are involved in the very conditions--verbal orotherwise--which aforetime saddened him, or showed him a possiblebyway toward recreation, or played the deuce with his liver, accordingto the nature of the man. 

"Eros is a hard, implacable pedagogue, and for the fact his scholarssuffer. He wields a rod rather than a filigree bow, as old romancersfabled, --no plaything, but a most business-like article, well-poisedin the handle, and thence tapering into graceful, stingingnothingness; and not a scholar escapes at least a flick of it. 

"I can fancy the class called up as Eros administers, with zest, hispenalties. Master Paris! for loving his neighbor a little less thanhimself, and his neighbor's wife a little more. Master Lancelot!ditto. Masters Petrarch, Tristram, Antony, Juan Tenorio, DanteAlighieri, and others! ditto. There are a great many called up forthis particular form of peccancy, you observe; even Master David hasto lay aside his Psalm Book, and go forward with the others forchastisement. Master Romeo! for trespassing in other people's gardensand mausoleums. Master Leander! for swimming in the Hellespont afterdark; and Master Tarquin! for mistaking his bedroom at the Collatini'shouse-party. 

"Thus, one by one, each scholar goes into the darkened private office. The master handles his rod--eia! 'tis borrowed from theErinnyes, --lovingly, caressingly, like a very conscientious personabout the performance of his duty. Then comes the dreadful order, 'Take down your breeches, sir!'. . . . But the scene is too horrible tocontemplate. He punishes all, this schoolmaster, for he isunbelievably old, and with the years' advance has grown querulous. 

"Well, now I approach my moral, Mr. Townsend. One must have one'sbirching with the others, and of necessity there remains but to makethe best of it. Birching is not a dignified process, and the endurercomes therefrom both sore and shamefaced. Yet always in suchcontretemps it is expedient to brazen out the matter, and to presentas stately an appearance, we will say, as one's welts permit. 

"First, to the world--"

 3

But at this point I raised my hand. "That is easily done, Mr. Charteris, inasmuch as the world cares nothing whatever about it. Theworld is composed of men and women who have their own affairs to mind. How in heaven's name does it concern them that a boy has dreameddreams and has gone mad like a star-struck moth? It was foolish ofhim. Such is the verdict, given in a voice that is neither kindly norsevere; and the world, mildly wondering, passes on to deal with moreweighty matters. For vegetables are higher than ever this year, and, upon my word, Mrs. Grundy, ma'am, a housekeeper simply doesn't knowwhere to turn, with the outrageous prices they are asking foreverything these days. No, believe me, the world does not takelove-affairs very seriously--not even the great ones, " I added, innoble toleration. 

And with an appreciative chuckle, Charteris sank beside me upon thebench. 

"My adorable boy! so you have a tongue in your head. "

"But can't you imagine the knights talking over Lancelot's affair withGuenevere, at whatever was the Arthurian substitute for a club? andsniggering over it? and Lamoracke sagaciously observing that there wasalways a crooked streak in the Leodograunce family? Or one Romanmatron punching a chicken in the ribs, and remarking to her neighborat the poultry man's stall: 'Well, Mrs. Gracchus, they do say Antonyis absolutely daft over that notorious Queen of Egypt. A brazen-facedthing, with a very muddy complexion, I'm told, and practically noreputation, of course, after the way she carried on with Caesar. Andthat reminds me, I hear your little Caius suffers from the croup. Now_my_ remedy'--and so they waddle on, to price asparagus. "

Charteris said: "Well! we need not go out of our way to meddle withthe affairs of others; the entanglement is most disastrously apt tocome about of itself quite soon enough. Yet a little while andLancelot will be running Lamoracke through the body, while the Kingstorms Joyeuse Garde; a few months and your Roman matron will weepquietly on her unshared pillow--not aloud, though, for fear ofdisturbing the children, --while Gracchus is dreadfully seasick atActium. "

"But that doesn't prove anything, " I stammered. "Why, it doesn'tfollow logically--"

"Nor does anything else. This fact is the chief charm of life. Youwill presently find, I think, that living means a daily squandering ofinterest upon the first half of a number of two-part stories whichhave not ever any sequel. Oh, my adorable boy, I envy you to-night'smisery so profoundly I am half unwilling to assure you that in theultimate one finds a broken heart rather fattening than otherwise; andthat a blighted life has never yet been known to prevent queerhappenings in conservatories and such-like secluded places or to rob asolitude _a deux_ of possibilities. I grant you that love is awonderful thing; but there are a many emotions which stand toward lovemuch as the makers of certain marmalades assert their wares to standtoward butter--'serving as an excellent occasional substitute. ' Atleast, so you will find it. And unheroic as it is, within the monthyou will forget. "

"No, --I shall not quite forget, " said I. 

"Then were you the more unwise. To forget, both speedily andfrequently, is the sole method of rendering life livable. One is here;the importance of the fact in the eternal scheme of things is perhapsa shade more trivial than one is disposed to concede, but in anyevent, one is here; and here, for a very little while in youth, one iscapable of happiness. For it is a colorful world, Mr. Townsend, containing much, upon the whole, to captivate both eye and taste; aworld manured and fertilized by the no longer lovely bodies of personswho died in youth. Oh, their coffins lie everywhere beneath our feet, thick as raisins in a pudding, whithersoever we tread. Yet every oneof these poor relics was once a boy or a girl, and wore a body thatwas capable of so much pleasure! To-day, unused to gain the fullnessof that pleasure, and now not ever to be used, they lie beneath us, intheir coffins, these white, straight bodies, like swords untried thatrust in the scabbard. Meanwhile, on every side is apparent the not yetout-wasted instrument, and one is naturally inquisitive, --so thatone's fingers and one's nostrils twitch at times, even in the hourwhen one is most miserable, very much as yours do now. "

For a long while I meditated. Then I said: "I am not really miserable, because, all in all, one is content to pay the price of happiness. Ihave been very happy sometimes during the past year; and whatever theblind Fate that mismanages the world may elect to demand in payment, Ishall not haggle. No, by heavens! I would have nothing changed, andleast of all would I forget; having drunk nectar neat, one would notqualify it with the water of Lethe. "

I rose, not unhandsome, I trusted, in the moonlight. I was hoping Mr. Charteris would notice my new dress-suit, procured in honor ofStella's wedding. And I said: "The play is over, the little comedy isplayed out. She must go; at least she has tarried for a little. Shedoes not love you; ah! but she did. God speed her, then, the woman wehave all loved and lost, and still dream of on sleepy Sundays; and allpossible happiness to her! One must be grateful that through her onehas known the glory of loving. Even though she never cared--'and nevercould understand', --one may not but be glad that one has known andloved in youth the Only Woman. "

"The Only Woman has a way of leaving many heirs, Mr. Townsend, thatplay the deuce with the estate. "

"--So to-morrow, like the person in _Lycidas_, I am for fresh fields, Mr. Charteris. And indeed it is high time that I were journeying, since she and I have rested, and have laughed and eaten and drunk ourfill at this particular tavern; and now it is closing time. A plagueon these foolish and impertinent laws, say I quite heartily; for it iscold and cheerless outside, whereas here within I was perfectlycomfortable. None the less I must go, or else be evicted by theconstable; so good-night, my sweet; and as for you, Madam Clotho, praywhat unconscionable score have you chalked up against me?"

I grimaced. "Heavens! what an infinity of sighs, sonnets, lamentations, and heart-burnings is this that I owe to Fate andDecency!"

Charteris applauded as though it were a comedy. "In effect, Marian'smarried and you stand here, alive and merry at--pray what preciseperiod of life, Mr. Townsend?"

"I confess to twenty-one at present, sir, though I trust to live itdown in time. "

"I would hardly have thought you that venerable. Well, I predict foryou a life without achievements but of gusto. Yes, you will bring aseasoned palate to your grave, --and I envy you. We open WilloughbyHall next week, and of course you will make one of the party. For youwrite, I know; and you will want to talk to me about editors and readme all your damnable verses. Nothing could please me more. Good-night, you glorious boy. "

And the little man wheeled and departed, leaving me to reflect, withappropriate emotions, that I had been formally invited to visit thefounder of the Economist school of writers. 

 4

"He said it, " I more lately observed--"yes, he undoubtedly said it. And he wrote _Ashtaroth's Lackey_ and _In Old Lichfield_ and _TheFoolish Prince_, and he knows all the magazine editors personally, andthey are probably only too glad to oblige him about anything, and--Oh, may be, it is only a dream, after all. " My heart was pounding, but notwith sorrow or despair or any other maudlin passion; and Stella wasnow as remote from my thoughts as was Joan of Arc or Pharaoh'sdaughter. 

5. 

_He Revisits Fairhaven and the Play_

So I went to Willoughby Hall, which stands, as you may be aware, uponthe eastern outskirt of Fairhaven. My reappearance created some stiramong the older students and the town-folk, though, one and all, theypresently declared me to be "too stuck-up for any use, " inasmuch as Iignored them in favour of the Charteris house-party, --after, ofcourse, one visit to Chapel, which I paid a little obviously _enprince_, and affably shook hands with all the Faculty, and wascompletely conscious of how such happenings impressed us when I, too, was a student. 

So much had happened since then, and I felt so much older, --with myexistence so delightfully blighted, too, --that it seemed droll to findColonel Snawley and Dr. Jeal still sitting in arm chairs beforeClarriker's Emporium, very much as I had left them there ten monthsago. 

 2

By a disastrous chance did Bettie Hamlyn spend that spring, as well asthe preceding year, in Colorado with her mother, who died there thatsummer; and to me Fairhaven proper without Bettie Hamlyn seemed atawdry and desolate place; and I know that but for Mrs. Hamlyn'sillness--a querulous woman for whom I never cared a jot, --my futurelife had been quite otherwise. For, as I told Bettie once, and it wastrue, I have found in the world but three sorts of humanity--"Myself, and Bettie Hamlyn, and the other people. "

So I still wrote to Bettie Hamlyn on the seventh of every month--because that was her birthday, --and again on the twenty-third, becausethat was mine. 

And I thought of many things as I walked by the deserted garden, wherethere was nothing which concerned me now, not even a ghost. I did notgo in to leave a card upon Professor Hamlyn. The empty houseconfronted me too blankly, with its tight-shuttered windows, likeblind eyes, and I hurried by. 

 3

Meanwhile, this was the first time for many years that Willoughby Hallhad been occupied by any other than caretakers; and Fairhaven, toconfess the truth, was a trifle ill-at-ease before the modish personswho now tenanted the old mansion; and consoled itself after animmemorial usage by backbiting. 

And meanwhile I enjoyed myself tremendously. It was the first time Iwas ever thrown with people who were unanimously agreed that, afterall, nothing is very serious. Mrs. Charteris, of course, wasdifferent; but she, like the others, found me divertingly naive and, in consequence, petted and cosseted me. I like petting; and sinceeveryone seemed agreed to regard me as "the Child in the House"--thatwas Alicia Wade's nickname, and it clung, --and to like having a childin the house, I began a little to heighten my very real boyishness. There was no harm in it; and if people were fonder of me because I satupon the floor by preference, and drolly exaggerated what I reallythought, it became a sort of public duty to do these things. So I did, and found it astonishingly pleasant. 

 4

And meanwhile too, John Charteris could never see enough of me, whom, as I to-day suspect, Charteris was studying conscientiously, to theend that I should be converted into "copy. " For me, I was waitingcannily until he should actually ask to see those manuscripts I hadbrought to Willoughby Hall, and should help me to get them published. So there were two of us. . . . In any event, it was just three weeksafter Stella's marriage that Charteris coaxed me into Fairhaven'sOpera House to witness a performance of _Romeo and Juliet_, by theImperial Dramatic Company. 

I went under protest; I had witnessed the butchery of so many dramaswithin these walls during my college days, that I knew what I mustanticipate, I said. I had, as a matter of fact, always enjoyed theOpera House "shows, " but I did not wish to acknowledge the harboringof such crude tastes to Charteris. In any event, at the conclusion ofthe second act, --

"By Jove!" said I, in a voice that shook a little. "She's a stunner!"I jolted out, as I proceeded to applaud, vigorously, with both hands andfeet. "And who would have thought it! Good Lord, who would havethought it!"

Charteris smiled, in that infernally patronizing way he had sometimes. "A beautiful woman, my dear boy, --an inordinately beautiful woman, infact, but entirely lacking in temperament. "

"Temperament!" I scoffed; "what's temperament to two eyes like those?Why, they're as big as golf-balls! And her voice--why, a violin--avery superior violin--if it could talk, would have just such a voiceas that woman has! Temperament! Oh, you make me ill! Why, man, justlook at her!" I said, conclusively. 

Charteris looked, I presume. In any event, the Juliet of the eveningstood before the curtain, smiling, bowing to right and left. Thecitizens of Fairhaven were applauding her with a certain conscientiousindustry, for they really found Romeo and Juliet a rather dull couple. The general opinion, however, was that Miss Montmorenci seemed anelegant actress, and in some interesting play, like _The Two Orphans_or _Lady Audley's Secret_, would be well worth seeing. Upon those whohad witnessed her initial performance, she had made a most favorableimpression in _The Lady of Lyons_; while at the Tuesday matinee, asLady Isabel in _East Lynne_, she had wrung the souls of her hearers, and had brought forth every handkerchief in the house. Moreover, shewas very good-looking, --quite the lady, some said; and, after all, onecannot expect everything for twenty-five cents; considering whichcircumstances, Fairhaven applauded with temperate ardor, and made dueallowance for Shakespeare as being a classic, and, therefore, ofcourse, commendable, but not necessarily interesting. 

 5

"Well?" I queried, when she had vanished. I was speaking under coverof the orchestra, --a courtesy title accorded a very ancient and veryfeeble piano. "Well, and what do you think of her--of her looks, Imeans? Who cares for temperament in a woman!"

Charteris assumed a virtuous expression. "I don't dare tell you, " saidhe; "you forget I am a married man. "

Then I frowned a little. I often resented Charteris's flippantallusion to a wife whom I considered, with some reason, to be vastlytoo good for her husband. And I considered how near I had come toremaining with the others at Willoughby Hall--for that new game theycalled bridge-whist! And I decided I would never care for bridge. Howon earth could presumably sensible people be content to coopthemselves in a drawing-room on a warm May evening, when hardly amile away was a woman with perfectly unfathomable eyes and a voicewhich was a love-song? Of course, she couldn't act, but, then, whowanted her to act? I indignantly demanded of my soul. 

One simply wanted to look at her, and hear her speak. Charteris, withhis prattle about temperament, was an ass; when a woman is born withsuch eyes and with a voice like that, she has done her full duty bythe world, and has prodigally accomplished all one has the tiniestright to expect of her. 

It was impossible she was in reality as beautiful as she seemed, because no woman was quite so beautiful as that; most of it wasundoubtedly due to rouge and rice-powder and the footlights; but onecould not be mistaken about the voice. And if her speech was that, what must her singing be! I thought; and in the outcome I rememberedthis reflection best of all. 

I consulted my programme. It informed me, in large type at the end, that Juliet was "old Capulet's daughter, " and that the part was playedby Miss Annabelle Alys Montmorenci. 

And I sighed. I admitted to myself that from a woman who wilfullyassumed such a name little could be hoped. Still, I would like to seeher off the stage. . . Without all those gaudy fripperies andgewgaws. . . Merely from curiosity. . . . Then too, they said thoseactresses were pretty gay. . . . 

 6

"A most enjoyable performance, " said Mr. Charteris, as we came out ofthe Opera House. "I have always had a sneaking liking for burlesque. "

Thereupon he paused to shake hands with Mrs. Adrian Rabbet, wife tothe rector of Fairhaven. 

"Such a sad play, " she chirped, "and, do you know, I am afraid it israther demoralizing in its effects on young people. No, of course, Ididn't think of bringing the children, Mr. Charteris--Shakespeare'slanguage is not always sufficiently obscure, you know, to make thatsafe. And besides, as I so often say to Mr. Rabbet, it is sad to thinkof our greatest dramatist having been a drinking man. It quitedepressed me all through the play to think of him hobnobbing with Dr. Johnson at the Tabard Inn, and making such irregular marriages, andstealing sheep--or was it sheep, now?"

I said that, as I remembered, it was a fox, which he hid under hiscloak until the beast bit him. 

"Well, at any rate, it was something extremely deplorable andcharacteristic of genius, and I quite feel for his wife. " Mrs. Rabbetsighed, and endeavored, I think, to recollect whether it was _Ingomar_or _Spartacus_ that Shakespeare wrote. "However, " she concluded, "theyplay _Ten Nights in a Barroom_ on Thursday, and I shall certainlybring the children then, for I am always glad for them to see a reallymoral and instructive drama. That reminds me! I absolutely must tellyou what Tom said about actors the other day--"

And she did. This led naturally to Matilda's recent and blasphemouscomments on George Washington, and her observations as to the rector'sdog, and little Adey's personal opinion of Elisha. And so on, in amanner not unfamiliar to fond parents. Mrs. Rabbet said toward the endthat it was a most enjoyable chat, although to me it appeared topartake rather of the nature of a monologue. It consumed perhaps ahalf-hour; and when we two at last relinquished Mrs. Rabbet to herhusband's charge, it was with a feeling not altogether unakin torelief. 

 7

We walked slowly down Fairhaven's one real street, which extends dueeast from the College for as much as a mile, to end inconsequently inthose carefully preserved foundations, which are now the only remnantof a building wherein a number of important matters were settled inColonial days. There Cambridge Street divides like a Y, one branch ofwhich leads to Willoughby Hall. 

Our route from the Opera House thus led through the major part ofFairhaven, which, after an evening of unwonted dissipation, was nowlargely employed in discussing the play, and turning the cat out forthe night. The houses were mostly dark, and the moon, nearing itsfull, silvered row after row of blank windows. There was an odour ofgrowing things about, for in Fairhaven the gardens are many. 

Then it befell that I made a sudden exclamation. 

"Eh?" said Charteris. 

"Why, nothing, " I explained, lucidly. 

It may be mentioned, however, that we were, at this moment, passing atall hedge of box, set about a large garden. The hedge was perhapsfive feet six in height; Charteris was also five feet six, whereas Iwas an unusually tall young man, and topped my host by a goodhalf-foot. 

"I say, " I observed, after a little, "I'm all out of cigarettes. I'llgo back to the drug-store, " I suggested, as seized with a happythought, "and get some. I noticed it was still open. Don't think ofwaiting for me, " I urged, considerately. 

"Why, great heavens!" Charteris ejaculated; "take one of mine. I canrecommend them, I assure you--and, in any event, there are all sorts, I fancy, at the house. They keep only the rankest kind of domestictobacco yonder. "

"I prefer it, " I insisted, "oh, yes, I really prefer it. So muchmilder and more wholesome, you know. I never smoke any other sort. Mydoctor insists on my smoking the very rankest tobacco I can get. It ismuch better for the heart, he says, because you don't smoke so much ofit, you know. Besides, " I concluded, virtuously, "it is infinitelycheaper; you can get twenty cigarettes all for five cents at someplaces. I really must economize, I think. "

Charteris turned, and with great care stared in every direction. Hediscovered nothing unusual. "Very well!" assented Mr. Charteris; "I, too, have an eye for bargains. I will go with you. "

"If you do alive, " quoth I, quite honestly, "I devoutly desire thatall sorts of unpleasant things may happen to me for not having wrungyour neck first. "

Charteris grinned. "Immoral young rip!" said he; "I warn you, beforeentering the ministry, Mr. Rabbet was accounted an excellent shot. "

"Get out!" said I. 

And the fervour of my utterance was such that Charteris proceeded toobey. "Don't be late for breakfast, if you can help it, " he urged, kindly. "Of course, though, you are up to some new form of insanity, and I shall probably be sent for in the morning, to bail you out ofthe lock-up. "

Thereupon he turned on his heel, and went down the deserted street, singing sweetly. 

Sang Mr. Charteris:

 "Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing and singing of midnight strains Under bonnybells" window-panes. Wait till you've come to forty year!

 "Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to forty-year. "

6. 

_He Chats Over a Hedge_

Left to myself, I began to retrace my steps. Solitude had mitigated mycraving for tobacco in a surprising manner; indeed, a casual observermight have thought it completely forgotten, for I walked with curiousleisure. When I had come again to the box-hedge my pace haddegenerated, a little by a little, into an aimless lounge. Mr. RobertEtheridge Townsend was rapt with admiration of the perfect beauty ofthe night. 

Followed a strange chance. There was only the mildest breeze about; itwas barely audible among the leaves above; and yet--so unreliable arethe breezes of still summer nights, --with a sudden, tiny and almostimperceptible outburst, did this treacherous breeze lift Mr. Townsend's brand-new straw hat from his head, and waft it over thehedge of trim box-bushes. This was unfortunate, for, as has been said, the hedge was a tall and sturdy hedge. So I peeped over it, withdisconsolate countenance. 

 2

"Beastly awkward, " said I, as meditatively; "I'd give a great deal toknow how I'm going to get my hat back without breaking through theblessed hedge, and rousing the house, and being taken for a burglar, may be--"

"It is terrible, " assented a quite tranquil voice; "but if gentlemen_will_ venture abroad on such terrible nights--"

"Eh?" said I. I looked up quickly at the moon; then back toward thepossessor of the voice. It was peculiar I had not noticed her before, for she sat on a rustic bench not more than forty feet away, and infull view of the street. It was, perhaps, the strangeness of theaffair that was accountable for the great wonder in my soul; and thelittle tremor which woke in my speech. 

"--so windy, " she complained. 

"Er--ah--yes, quite so!" I agreed, hastily. 

"I am really afraid that it must be a tornado. Ah, " she continued, emotion catching at her voice, "heaven help all poor souls at sea! Howthe wind must whistle through the cordage! how the marlin-spikes mustquiver, and the good ship reel on such a night!" She looked up at acloudless sky, and sighed. 

"Er h'm!" I observed. 

For she had come forward and had held out my hat toward me, and Icould see her very plainly now; and my mouth was making foolishsounds, and my heart was performing certain curious and variedgymnastics which could not, by any stretch of the imagination, beincluded among its proper duties, and which interfered with mybreathing. 

 3

"Didn't I know it--didn't I know it?" I demanded of my soul, and mypulses sang a paean; "I knew, with that voice, she couldn't be acommon actress--a vulgar, raddled creature out of a barn! You not agentlewoman! Nonsense! Why--why, you're positively incredible! Oh, yougreat, wonderful, lazy woman, you are probably very stupid, and youcertainly can't act, but your eyes are black velvet, and your voice isevidently stolen from a Cremona, and as for your hair, there must bepounds of it, and, altogether, you ought to be set up on a pedestalfor men to worship! There is just one other woman in the whole wideworld as beautiful as you are; and she is two thousand years old, andis securely locked up in the Louvre, and belongs to the FrenchGovernment, and, besides, she hasn't any arms, so that even there youhave the advantage!"

Indeed, Miss Annabelle Alys Montmorenci was of much the same large, placid type as the Venus of Milo, nor were the upper portions of thetwo faces dissimilar. Miss Montmorenci's lips, however, were far morecurved, more buxom, and were, at the present moment, bordered by anabsolutely bewildering assemblage of dimples which the statue may notboast. 

 4

"I really think, " said Miss Montmorenci, judicially, "that it would bebest for you to seek some shelter from this devastating wind. Itreally is not safe, you know, in the open. You might be swept away, just as your hat was. "

"The shelter of a tree--" I began, looking doubtfully into the garden, which had any number of trees. 

"The very thing, " she assented. "There is a splendid oak yonder, justhalf a block up the street. " And she graciously pointed it out. 

I regarded it with disapproval. "Such a rickety old tree, " I objected, sulkily. 

Followed a silence. She bent her head to one side, and looked up atme. She was now grave with a difference. "A strolling actress isn'tsupposed to be very particular, is she?" asked Miss Montmorenci. "Shewouldn't object to a man's coming by night and trying to scrapeacquaintance with her, --a man who wouldn't think of being seen withher by day? She would like it, probably. She--she'd probably beaccustomed to it, wouldn't she?" And Miss Montmorenci smiled. 

And I, on a sudden, was abjectly ashamed of myself. "Why, you can'tthink that of me!" I babbled. "I--oh, don't think me that sort, I begof you! I'm not--really, I'm not, Miss Montmorenci! But I admired youso much to-night--I--oh, of course, I was very silly and verypresumptuous, but, really, you know--"

I paused for a little. This was miles apart from the glib talk I haddesigned. 

"My name is Robert Townsend, " I then continued; "I am staying at Mr. Charteris's place, just outside of Fairhaven. And I am delighted tomeet you, Miss Montmorenci. So now, you see, we have been quiteproperly introduced, haven't we? And, by the way, " I suggested, aftera moment's meditation, "there is a very interesting old college here--old pictures, records, historical association and such like. I wouldlike to inspect it, vastly. Can't I call for you in the morning. Wecan do it together, if you don't mind, and if you haven't already seenit. Won't you, Miss Montmorenci? You really ought to see King'sCollege, you know; it is quite famous, because I was educated there, and no end of other interesting things have happened within itsvenerable confines. "

She had drawn close to the hedge. "You really mean it?" she asked. "You would walk through the streets of this Fairhaven with me--with abarn-stormer, with a strolling actress? You'd be afraid!" she cried, suddenly; "oh, yes, you talk bravely enough, but you'd be afraid, ofcourse, when the time came! You'd be afraid!"

I had taken the hat, but my head was still uncovered. "I don't think, "said I, reflectively, "that I am afraid of many things, somehow. Butof one thing I am certainly not afraid, and that is of mistaking agood woman for--for anything else. Their eyes are different somehow, "I haltingly explained, as to myself; then I smiled. "Shall we sayeleven o'clock?"

Miss Montmorenci laid one hand upon the hedgetop and slowly twistedoff four box-leaves what while I waited. "I--I believe you, " she said, in' meditation; "oh, yes, I believe you, somehow, Mr. Townsend. But werehearse in the morning, and there is a matinee every day, you know, and--and there are other reasons--" She paused, irresolutely. "No, "said Miss Montmorenci, "I thank you, but--good night. "

"Oh, I say! am I never to see any more of you?"

A century or so of silence now. Her deliberation seemed endless. 

At last: "Matinees and rehearsal keep us busy by day. But I amboarding here for the week, and--and I rest here in the garden afterthe evening performance. It is cool, it--it is like a glass of waterafter taking rather bitter medicine. And you aren't a bad sort, areyou? No; you look too big and strong and clean, Mr. Townsend. And, besides, you're just a boy--"

"In that case, " cried Mr. Townsend, "I shall say goodnight with alight heart. " And I turned to go. 

"A moment--" said she. 

"An eternity, " I proffered. 

"Promise me, " she said, "that you will not come again this week to theOpera House. "

My brows were raised a trifle. "I adore the drama, " I pleaded. 

"And I loathe it. And I act very badly--hopelessly so, " said MissMontmorenci, with an indolent shrug; "and, somehow, I don't want youto see me do it. Why did you mind my calling you a boy? You _are_, youknow. "

So I protested I had not minded it at all; and I promised. "But atleast, " I said, triumphantly, "you can't prevent my rememberingJuliet!"

She said of course not, only I was not to be silly. 

"And therefore, " quoth I, "Juliet shall be remembered always. " Ismiled and waved my hand. "_Au revoir_, Signorina Capulet, " said I. 

And I took my departure. My blood rejoiced, with a strange fervor, inthe summer moonlight. It was good to be alive. 

7. 

_He Goes Mad in a Garden_

"And, oh, but it is good to be with you again, Signorina!" cried I, asI came with quick strides into the moonlit garden. I caught both herhands in mine, and laughed like an ineffably contented person. Therewas nothing very subtle about the boy that then was I; at worst, heoveracted what he really felt; and just at present he was pleased withthe universe, and he saw no possible reason for concealing the fact. 

It was characteristic, also, that she made no pretence at beingsurprised by my coming. She was expecting me and she smiled veryfrankly at seeing me. Also, in place of the street dress of Tuesday, she wore something that was white and soft and clinging, and left herthroat but half concealed. This, for two reasons, was sensible andpraiseworthy; one being that the night was warm, and the other that itreally broadened my ideas as to the state of perfection which it ispossible for the human throat to attain. 

 2

"So you don't like my stage-name?" she asked, as I sat down besideher. "Well, for that matter, no more do I. " "It doesn't suit you, " Iprotested--"not in the least. Whereas, you might be a SignorinaSomebody-or-other, you know. You are dark and stately and--well, Ican't tell you all the things you are, " I complained, "because theEnglish language is so abominably limited. But, upon the whole, I amwilling to take the word of the playbill, --yes, I am quite willing toaccept you as Signorina Capulet. She had a habit of sitting in gardensat night, I remember. Yes, " I decided, after reflection, "I reallythink it highly probable that you are old Capulet's daughter. I shallmake a point of it to pick a quarrel as soon as possible, with thatimpertinent, trespassing young Montague. He really doesn't deserveyou, you know. "

Unaccountably, her face saddened. Then, "Signorina? Signorina?" sheappraised the title. "It _is_ rather a pretty name. And the other ishorrible. Yes, you may call me Signorina, if you like. "

 3

She would not tell me her real name. She was unmarried, --this much shetold me, but of her past life, her profession, or of her future shenever spoke. "I don't want to talk about it, " she said, candidly. "Weplay for a week in Fairhaven, and here, once off the stage, I intendto forget I am an actress. When I am on the stage, " she added, inmeditative wise, "of course everyone knows I am not. "

I laughed. I found her very satisfying; she was not particularlyintelligent, perhaps, but then I was beginning to consider cleverwomen rather objectionable creatures. There was a sufficiency of themamong the Charteris house-party--Alicia Wade, for instance, andPauline Ashmeade and Cynthia Chaytor, --and I thought of them almostresentfully. The world had accorded them not exactly what they mostwanted, perhaps, but, at least, they had its luxuries; and they saidsharp, cynical things about the world in return. In a woman's mouthepigrams were as much out-of-place as a meerschaum pipe. 

Here, on the contrary, was a woman whom the world had accorded nothingsave hard knocks, and she regarded it, upon the whole, as an eminentlypleasant place to live in. She accepted its rebuffs with a certainlarge calm, as being all in the day's work. There was, no doubt, somegood and sufficient reason for these inconveniences; not for a moment, however, did she puzzle her handsome head in speculating over thisreason. She was probably too lazy. And the few favours the worldaccorded her she took thankfully. 

"You see, " she explained to me--this was on Thursday night, when Ifound her contentedly eating cheap candy out of a paper bag, --"theworld is really very like a large chocolate drop; it's rather bitteron the outside, but when you have bitten through, you find the heartof it sweet. Oh, how greedy!--you've taken the last candied cherry, and I am specially fond of candied cherries!" And indeed, she lookedfrankly regretful as I munched it. 

I thought her adorable; and in exchange for that last candied cherry Ipromised her some of the new books, --_David Harum_ certainly, and, _When Knighthood Was in Flower_, because everybody was reading it, andMr. Dooley, because they said this young fellow Dunne was nearly asfunny as Bill Nye. . . . 

 4

In fact, the moon seemed to shine down each night upon that particulargarden in a more and more delightful and dangerous manner. And I beinga fairly normal and healthy young man, the said moonshine affected mein a fashion which has been peculiar to moonshine since Noah was alikely stripling; my blood appeared to me, at times, to leap andbubble in my veins as if it had been some notably invigorating andheady tipple; and my heart was unreasonably contented, and I gave duethanks for this woman who had come to me unsullied through the world'sgutter. For she came unsullied; there was no questioning that. 

I pictured her in certain execrable rhymes as the Lady in _Comus_, moving serene and unafraid among a rabble of threatening, bestialshapes. And I rejoiced that there were women like this in the world, --brave, wholesome, unutterably honest women, whose very lack ofcleverness--oh, subtle appeal to my vanity!--demanded a gentleman'sprotection. 

As has been said, I was a well-grown lad, but when I thought in thisfashion I seemed to myself, at a moderate computation, ten feet inheight, --and just the person, in short, who would be an idealprotector. 

Thus far my callow meditations. My course of reasoning was perhapsfaulty, but then there are, at twenty-one, many processes moreinteresting and desirable than the perfecting of a mathematicaldemonstration. And so, for a little, my blood rejoiced with a strangefervour in the summer moonlight, and it was good to be alive. 

 5

Thursday was the twenty-third of the month, so upon that afternoon Iwrote to Bettie Hamlyn, in far-off Colorado. 

It was a lengthy letter. It told her of how desolate her garden wasand of how odd Fairhaven seemed without her. It told how I had halfchanged my mind, and would probably not go to Europe with Mr. Charteris, after all. Bettie had been at pains, in the letter I wasanswering, to expatiate upon her hatred of Charteris, whom she hadnever seen. My letter told her, in fine, of a variety of matters. Andit ended:

"I went to the Opera House on Monday. But that, like everything else, isn't the same without you, dear. The woman who played Juliet was, Ibelieve, rather good-looking, but I scarcely noticed her in worryingover the pitiful circumstance that the Apothecary and the Populace ofVerona had only one pair of shoes between them. Besides, Mercutio keptputting on a bathrobe and insisting he was Friar Laurence. . . . I wouldwrite more about it, if I had not almost used up all my paper. Thereis just room to say--"

 6

This was, as I have stated, on Thursday afternoon. Upon the followingevening--

"And why not?" I demanded, for the ninth time. 

But she was resolute. "Oh, it is dear of you!" she cried; "and I--I docare for you, --how could I help it? But it can't be, --it can't everbe, " she repeated wearily; and then she looked at me, and smiled alittle. "Oh, boy, boy! dear, dear boy!" she murmured, half in wonder, "how foolish of you and--how dear of you!"

"And why not?" said I--for the tenth time. 

She gave a sobbing laugh. "Oh, the great, brave, stupid boy!" shesaid, and, for a moment, her hand rested on my hair; "he doesn't knowwhat he is doing, --ah, no, he doesn't know! Why, I might hold you toyour word! I might sue you for breach of promise! I might marry youout of hand! Think of that! Why I am only a strolling actress, andfair game for any man, --any man who isn't particular, " she added, withthe first trace of bitterness I had ever observed in her odd, throatyvoice. "And you would marry me, --you! you would give me your name, youwould make me your wife! You have actually begged me to be your wife, haven't you? Ah, my brave, strong, stupid Bobbie, how many women mustlove you, --women who have a right to love you! And you would give themall up for me, --for me, you foolish Bobbie, whom you haven't known aweek! Ah, how dear of you!" And she caught her breath swiftly, and hervoice broke. 

"Yes, " I brazenly confessed; "I really believe I would give them allup--every blessed one of them--for you. " I inspected her, critically, and then smiled. "And I don't think that I would be deserving any verygreat credit for self sacrifice, either, Signorina. "

"My dear, " she answered, "it pleases you to call me old Capulet'sdaughter, --but if I were only a Capulet, and you a Montague, don't yousee how much easier it would be? But we don't belong to rivalfamilies, we belong to rival worlds, to two worlds that have nothingin common, and never can have anything in common. They are too strongfor us, Bobbie, --my big, dark, squalid world, that you could neversink to, and your gay little world which I can never climb to, --yourworld that would have none of me, even if--even _if_--" But thecondition was not forthcoming. 

"The world, " said I, in an equable tone--"My dear, I may as well warnyou I am shockingly given to short and expressive terms, and as we arelikely to see a deal of each other for the future, you will have to belenient with them, --accordingly, I repeat, the world may be damned. "

And I laughed, in unutterable content. "Have none of you!" I cried. "My faith, I would like to see a world which would have none of you!Ah, Signorina, it is very plain to me that you don't realize what abeauty, what a--a--good Lord, what an unimaginative person it was thatinvented the English language! Why, you have only to be seen, heart'sdearest, --only to be seen, and the world is at your feet, --my world, to which you belong of rights; my world, that you are going to honourby living in; my world, that in a little will go mad for sheer envy ofblundering, stupid, lucky me!" And I laughed her to scorn. 

There was a long silence. Then, "I belonged to your world once, youknow. "

"Why, of course, I knew as much as that. "

"And yet--you never asked--" "Ah, Signorina, Signorina!" I cried;"what matter? Don't I know you for the bravest, tenderest, purest, most beautiful woman God ever made? I doubt you--I! My word!" said I, and stoutly, "that _would_ be a pretty go! You are to tell me justwhat you please, " I went on, almost belligerently, "and when and whereyou please, my lady. And I would thank you, " I added, with appropriatesternness, "to discontinue your pitiful and transparent efforts toarouse unworthy suspicions as to my future wife. They are wasted, madam, --utterly wasted, I assure you. "

"Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!" she sighed; "you are such a beautiful baby! Giveme time, " she pleaded weakly. 

And, when I scowled my disapproval, "Only till tomorrow--only alittle, little twenty-four hours. And promise me, you won't speak ofthis--this crazy nonsense again tonight. I must think. "

"Never!" said I, promptly; "because I couldn't be expected to keepsuch an absurd promise, " I complained, in indignation. 

"And you look so strong, " she murmured, with evident disappointment, --"so strong and firm and--and--admirable!"

So I promised at once. And I kept the promise--that is, I didsubsequently refer to the preferable and proper course to pursue indivers given circumstances "when we are married;" but it was on sixoccasions only, and then quite casually, --and six times, as I myselfobserved, was, all things considered, an extremely moderate allowanceand one that did great credit to my self-control. 

 7

"And besides, why _not_?" I said, --for the eleventh time. 

"There are a thousand reasons. I am not your equal, I am just anostensible actress--Why, it would be your ruin!"

"My dear Mrs. Grundy, I confess that, for the moment, your disguisehad deceived me. But now: I recognize your voice. "

She laughed a little. "And after all, " the grave voice said, whichwas, to me at least, the masterwork of God, "after all, hasn't onealways to answer Mrs. Grundy--in the end?"

"Why, then, you disgusting old harridan, " said I, "I grant you it isutterly impossible to defend my behaviour in this matter, and, believeme, I don't for an instant undertake the task. To the contrary, Iagree with you perfectly, --my conduct is most thoughtless andreprehensible, and merits your very severest condemnation. For lookyou, here is a young man, well born, well-bred, sufficiently wellendowed with this world's goods, in short, an eminently eligiblematch, preparing to marry an 'ostensible actress' a year or two hissenior, --why, of course, you are, --and of whose past he knowsnothing, --absolutely nothing. Don't you shudder at the effrontery ofthe minx? Is it not heart-breaking to contemplate the folly, the utterinfatuation of the misguided youth who now stands ready to foist sucha creature upon the circles of which your ladyship is a distinguishedornament? I protest it is really incredible. I don't believe a word ofit. "

"I cannot quite believe it, either, Bobbie--"

"But you see, he loves her. You, my dear madam, blessed with a wiserestimation of our duties to society, of the responsibilities of ourposition, of the cost of even the most modest establishment, and, above all, of the sacredness of matrimony and the main chance, maywell shrug your shoulders at such a plea. For, as you justly observe, what, after all, is this love? only a passing madness, an explodedsuperstition, an irresponsible _ignis fatuus_ flickering over thequagmires and shallows of the divorce court. People's lives are nolonger swayed by such absurdities; it is quite out of date. "

"Yes; you are joking, Bobbie, I know; yet it is really out of date--"

"But I protest, loudly, my hand upon my heart, that it is true; peopleno longer do mad things for love, or ever did, in spite of lyingpoets; any more than the birds mate in the spring, or the sun rises inthe morning; popular fallacies, my dear madam, every one of them. Youand I know better, and are not to be deceived by appearances, howeverspecious they may be. Ah, but come now! Having attained this highlysatisfactory condition, we can well afford to laugh at all our pastmistakes, --yes, even at our own! For let us be quite candid. Wasn'tthere a time, dear lady, before Mr. Grundy came a-wooing, when, somehow, one was constantly meeting unexpected people in the garden, and, somehow, one sat out a formidable number of dances during theevening, and, somehow, the poets seemed a bit more plausible than theydo today? It was very foolish, of course, --but, ah, madam, there _was_a time, --a time when even our staid blood rejoiced with a strangefervour in the summer moonlight, and it was good to be alive! Comenow, have you the face to deny it, --Mrs. Methuselah?"

"It has not been quite bad to be alive, these last few hours--"

"And, oh, my dear, how each of us will look back some day to this verymoment! And we are wasting it! And I have not any words to tell youhow I love you! I am just a poor, dumb brute!" I groaned. 

Then very tenderly she began to talk with me in a voice I cannot tellyou of, and concerning matters not to be recorded. 

And still she would not promise anything; and I would give an arm, Ithink, could it replevin all the idiotic and exquisite misery I knewthat night. 

8. 

_He Duels with a Stupid Woman_

Yet I approached the garden on Saturday night with an elated heart. This was the last evening of the engagement of the Imperial DramaticCompany. To-morrow the troupe was to leave Fairhaven; but I was veryconfident that the leading lady would not accompany them, and byreason of this confidence, I smiled as I strode through the city ofFairhaven, and hummed under my breath an inane ditty of an extremelysentimental nature. 

As I bent over the little wooden gate, and searched for its elusivelatch, a man came out of the garden, wheeling sharply about the hedgethat, until this, had hidden him; and simultaneously, I was aware ofthe mingled odour of bad tobacco and of worse whiskey. Well, she wouldhave done with such people soon! I threw open the gate, and stoodaside to let him pass; then, as the moon fell full upon the face ofthe man, I gave an inarticulate, startled sound. 

"Fine evening, sir, " suggested the stranger. 

"Eh?" said I; "eh? Oh, yes, yes! quite so!" Afterward I shrugged myshoulders, and went into the garden, a trifle puzzled. 

 2

I found her beneath a great maple in the heart of the enclosure. Itwas a place of peace; the night was warm and windless, and the moon, now come to its full glory, rode lazily in the west through a froth ofclouds. Everywhere the heavens were faintly powdered with stardust, but even the planets seemed pale and ineffectual beside the splendourof the moon. 

The garden was drenched in moonshine--moonshine that silvered theunmown grass-plots, and converted the white rose-bushes into squat-figuredwraiths, and tinged the red ones with dim purple hues. On every side thefoliage blurred into ambiguous vistas, where fireflies loitered; and thelong shadows of the nearer trees, straining across the grass, were wriedpatterns scissored out of blue velvet. It was a place of peace and lightand languid odours, and I came into it, laughing, the possessor of anover-industrious heart and of a perfectly unreasoning joy over the factthat I was alive. 

"I say, " I observed, as I stretched luxuriously upon the grass besideher, "you put up at a shockingly disreputable place, Signorina. ""Yes?" said she. 

"That fellow who just went out, " I explained--"do you know the policewant his address, I think? No, " I continued, after consideration, "Iam sure I'm not mistaken, --that is either Ned Lethbury, the embezzler, or his twin-brother. It's been five years since I saw him, but that ishe. And that", said I, with proper severity, "is a sample of the sortof associate you prefer to your humble servant! Ah, Signorina, Signorina, I am a tolerably worthless chap, I admit, but at least Inever forged and embezzled and then skipped my bail! So you had muchbetter marry me, my dear, and say good-bye to your peculating friends. But, deuce take it! I forgot--I ought to notify the police orsomething, I suppose. "

She caught my arm. Her mouth opened and shut again before she spoke. "He--he is my husband, " she said, in a toneless voice. Then, on asudden, she wailed: "Oh, forgive me! Oh, my great, strong, beautifulboy, forgive me, for I am very unhappy, and I cannot meet your eyes--your honest eyes! Ah, my dear, my dear, do not look at me like that, --you don't know how it hurts!"

The garden noises lisped about us in the long silence that fell. Thenthe far-off whistling of some home going citizen of Fairhaven tinkledshrilly through the night, and I shuddered a bit. 

"I don't understand, " I commenced, strangely quiet. "You told me--"

"Ah, I lied to you! I lied to you!" she cried. "I didn't, mean to--hurt you. I did not know--I couldn't know--I was so lonely, Bobbie, "she pleaded, with wide eyes; "oh, you don't know how lonely I am. Andwhen you came to me that first night, you--why, you spoke to me as themen I once knew used to speak. There was respect in your voice, and Iwanted that so; I hadn't had a man speak to me like that for years, you know, Bobbie. And, boy dear, I was so lonely in my squalidworld, --and it seemed as if the world I used to know was calling me--your world, Bobbie--the world I am shut out from. "

"Yes, " I said; "I think I understand. "

"And I thought for a week--just to peep into it, to be a lady againfor an hour or two--why, it didn't seem wicked, then, and I wanted itso much! I--I knew I could trust you, because you were only a boy. AndI was hungry--_so_ hungry for a little respect, a little courtesy, such as men don't accord strolling actresses. So I didn't tell youtill the very last I was married. I lied to you. Oh, but you don'tunderstand, this stupid, honest boy doesn't understand anything exceptthat I have lied to him!"

"Signorina, " I said, again, and I smiled, resolutely, "I think Iunderstand. " I took both her hands in mine, and laughed a little. "But, oh, my dear, my dear, " I said, "you should have told me that youloved another man; for you have let me love you for a week, and now Ithink that I must love you till I die. "

"Love him!" she echoed. "Oh, boy dear, boy dear, what a Galahad it is!I don't think Ned ever cared for anything but Father's money; and I--why, you have seen him. How _could_ I love him?" she asked, as simplyas a child. 

I bowed my head. "And yet--" said I. Then I laughed again, somewhatbitterly. "Don't let's tell stories, Mrs. Lethbury, " I said; "it iskindly meant, I know, but I remember you now. I even danced with youonce, some seven years ago, --yes, at the Green Chalybeate. I rememberthe night, for a variety of reasons. You are Alfred Van Orden'sdaughter; your father is a wealthy man, a very wealthy man; and yet, when your--your husband disappeared you followed him--to become astrolling actress. Ah, no, a woman doesn't sacrifice everything for aman in the way you have done, unless she loves him. "

I caught my breath. Some unknown force kept tugging down the cornersof my mouth, in a manner that hampered speech; moreover, nothingseemed worth talking about. I had lost her. That was the one thingwhich mattered. 

"Why, of course, I went with him, " she assented, a shade surprised;"he was my husband, you know. But as for loving, --no, I don't thinkNed ever really loved me, " she reflected, with puckering brows. "Hetook that money for--for another woman, if you remember. But he isfond of me, and--and he _needs_ me. "

I did not say anything; and after a little she went on, with a quicklift of speech. 

"Oh, what a queer life we have led since then! You can't imagine it, my dear. He has been a tavern-keeper, a drummer, --everything! Why, last summer we sold rugs and Turkish things in Atlantic City! But heis always afraid of meeting someone who knows him, and--and he drinkstoo much. So we have not got on in the world, Ned and I; and now, after three years, I'm the leading lady of the Imperial DramaticCompany, and he is the manager. I forgot, though, --he is advance-agentthis week, for he didn't dare stay in Fairhaven, lest some of the menat Mr. Charteris's should recognize him, you know. He came back onlythis evening--"

She paused for a moment; a wistful quaver crept into her speech. "Oh, it's queer, it's queer, Bobbie! Sometimes--sometimes when I have timeto think, say on long Sunday afternoons, I remember my old life, everybit of it, --oh, I do remember such strange little details! I rememberthe designs on the bread and butter plates, and all the silver thingson my desk, and the plank by my door that always creaked and somehownever got fixed, and the big, shiny buttons on the coachman's coat, --just trifles like that. And--and they hurt, they hurt, Bobbie, thoselittle, unimportant things! They--grip my throat. "

She laughed, not very mirthfully. "Then I am like the old lady in thenursery rhyme, and say, Surely, this can't be I. But it is I, boydear, --a strolling actress, a barn-stormer! Isn't it queer, Bobbie?But, oh, you don't know half--"

I was remembering many things. I remembered Lethbury, a gross man, superfluously genial, whom I had never liked, although I recalled myadmiration of his whiskers. I recollected young Amelia Van Orden, notcome to her full beauty then, the bud of girlhood scarce slipped; andI remembered very vividly the final crash, the nine days' talk overLethbury's flight in the face of certain conviction, --by his father-in-law's advice (as some said) who had furnished and forfeited heavy bailfor the absconder. Oh, the brave woman who had followed! Oh, the brave, foolish woman! And, for the action's recompense, he was content toexhibit her to yokels, to make of her beauty an article of traffic. Heine was right; there is an Aristophanes in heaven. And then hopeblazed. 

"Your husband, " I said, quickly, "he does not love you? He--he is notfaithful to you?"

"No, " she answered; "there is a Miss Fortescue--she plays secondparts--"

"Ah, my dear, my dear!" I cried, with a shaking voice; "come away, Signorina, --come away with me! He _doesn't_ need you, --and, oh, mydear, I need you so! You can get your divorce and marry me. Ah, Signorina, come away, --come away from this squalid life that iskilling you, to the world you are meant for, to the life you hungerfor! Come back to the clean, lighthearted world you love, the worldthat is waiting to pet and caress you just as it used to do, --ourworld, Signorina! You don't belong here with--with the Fortescues. Youbelong to us. "

I sprang to my feet. "Come now!" said I. "There's Anne Charteris; sheis a good woman, if ever lived one. She used to know you, too, didn'tshe? Well, then, come with me to her, dearest--and tonight! You shallsee your father tomorrow. Your father--why, think how that old manloves you, how he has longed for you, his only daughter, all theseyears. And I?" I spread out my hands, in the tiniest, impotentgesture. "I love you, " I said, simply. "I cannot do without you, heart's dearest. "

Impulsively, she rested both hands upon my breast; then bowed her heada little. The nearness of her seemed to shake in my blood, to catch atmy throat, and my hands, lifted for a moment, trembled with desire ofher. 

"You don't understand, " she said. "I am a Catholic--my mother was one, you know. There is no divorce for us. And--and besides, I'm notmodern. I am very old-fashioned, I suppose, in my ideas. Do you know, "she asked, with a smile upon the face which lifted confidingly towardme, "I--I _really_ believe the world was made in six days; and thatthe whale swallowed Jonah, and that there is a real purgatory and ahell of fire and brimstone. You don't, do you, Bobbie? But I do, --andI promised to stay with him till death parted us, you know, and I mustdo it. I am all he has. He would get even worse without me. I--oh, boydear, boy dear, I love you so!" And her voice broke, in a great, choking sob. 

"A promise--a promise made by an ungrown girl to a brute--a thief--!"

"No, dear, " she answered, quietly; "a promise made to God. "

And looking into her face, I saw love there, and anguish, anddetermination. It seemed monstrous, but of a sudden I knew with a dullsurety; she loved me, but she thought she had no right to love me; shewould not go with me. She would go with that drunken, brutish thief. 

And I suddenly recalled certain clever women--Alicia Wade, PaulineAshmeade, Cynthia Chaytor--the women of that world wherein I wasnovitiate; beyond question, they would raise delicately penciledeyebrows to proclaim this woman a fool--and to wonder. 

They would be right, I thought. She was only a splendid, tender-hearted, bright-eyed fool, the woman that I loved. My heart sickened as herfolly rose between us, an impassable barrier. I hated it; and I reveredit. 

Thus we two stood silent for a time. The wind murmured above in themaples, lazily, ominously. Then the gate clicked, with a vicious snapthat pierced the silence like the report of a distant rifle. "That isprobably Ned, " she said wearily. "I had forgotten they close thebarrooms earlier on Saturday nights. So good-bye, Bobbie. You--you maykiss me, if you like. "

So for a moment our lips met. Afterward I caught her hands in mine, and gripped them close to my breast, looking down into her eyes. Theyglinted in the moonlight, deep pools of sorrow, and tender--oh, unutterably tender and compassionate. 

But I found no hope there. I lifted her hand to my lips, and left heralone in the garden. 

 3

Lethbury was fumbling at the gate. 

"Such nuishance, " he complained, "havin' gate won't unlock. Latch mus'got los'--po' li'l latch, " murmured Mr. Lethbury, plaintively--"all'lone in cruel worl'!"

I opened the gate for him, and stood aside to let him pass toward hiswife. 

9. 

_He Puts His Tongue in His Cheek_

It was not long before John Charteris knew of the entire affair, forin those days I had few concealments from him: and the little wizenedman brooded awhile over my misery, with an odd wistfulness. 

"I remember Amelia Van Orden perfectly, " he said--"now. I ought tohave recognized her. Only, she was never, in her best days, theparagon you depict. She sang, I recollect; people made quite a to-doover her voice. But she was very, very stupid, and used to make loudshrieking noises when she was amused, and was generally reputed to be'fast. ' I never investigated. Even so, there was not any real doubt asto her affair, in any event, with Anton von Anspach, after that nightthe sleigh broke down--"

"Oh, spare me all those ancient Lichfield scandals! She is an angel, John, if there was ever one. "

"In your eyes, doubtless! So your heart is broken. Yet do you notrealize that not a month ago you were heartbroken over StellaMusgrave? Child, I repeat, I envy you this perpetual unhappiness, forI have lost, as you will presently lose, the capacity of being quitemiserable. "

"But, John, it seems as if there were nothing left to live for, now--"

"At twenty-one! Well, certainly, at that age one loves to think oflife as being implacable. But you will soon discover that she ismerely inconsequential, and that none of her antics are of lastingimportance; and you will learn to smile a deal more often than youweep or laugh. "

Then we talked of other matters. It was presently settled thatCharteris was to take me abroad with him that summer; and with thethorough approval of my mother. 

"Mr. Charteris will be of incalculable benefit to you, " she told me, "in introducing you to the very best people, all of whom he knows, ofcourse, and besides you are getting to look older than I, and it isunpleasant to have to be always explaining you are only my stepson, particularly as your father never married anybody but me, though, heaven knows, I wish he had. Of course you will be just as wild asyour father and your Uncle George. I suppose that is to be expected, and I daresay it will break my heart, but all I ask of you is pleaseto keep out of the newspapers, except of course the social items. Andif you _must_ associate with abandoned women, please for my sake, Robert, don't have anything to do with those who can prove that theyare only misunderstood, because they are the most dangerous kind. "

I kissed her. "Dear little mother, I honestly believe that when youget to heaven you will refuse to speak to Mary Magdalen. "

"Robert, let us remember the Bible says, 'in my Father's house aremany mansions, ' and of course nobody would think of putting me in thesame mansion with her. "

It was well-nigh the last conversation I was to hold with my mother;and I was to remember it with an odd tenderness. . . . 

 2

Upon the doings of myself in Europe during the ensuing two years Iprefer to dwell as lightly as possible. I had long anticipated asojourn in divers old-world cities; but the London I had looked tofind was the London of Dickens, say, and my Paris the Paris of Dumas, or at the very least of Balzac. It is needless to mention that in thecircles to which the, quite real, friendship of John Charterisafforded an entry I found little that smacked of such antiquity. I hadentered a world inhabited by people who amused themselves andapparently did nothing else; and I was at first troubled by theirlevity, and afterward envious of it, and in the end embarked uponsedulous attempt to imitate it. I continued to be very boyish; indeed, I found myself by this in much the position of an actor who has madesuch a success in one particular role that the public declines topatronize him in any other. 

 3

It was during this first year abroad that I wrote _The Apostates_, largely through the urging of John Charteris. 

"You have the ability, though, that dances most gracefully in fetters. You will never write convincingly about the life you know, becauselife is, to you, my adorable boy, a series of continuous miracles, towhich the eyes of other men are case-hardened. Write me, then, a bookabout the past. "

"I have thought of it, " said I, "for being over here makes the pastseem pretty real, somehow. Last month when I was at Ingilby I was onfire with the notion of writing something about old Ormskirk--mymother's ancestor, you know. And since I've seen what's left ofBellegarde I have wanted to write about his wife's people too, --thedukes and vicomtes of Puysange, or even about the great Jurgen. Yousee, I am just beginning to comprehend that these are not merelycharacters in Lowe's and La Vrilliere's books, but my flesh and bloodkin, like Uncle George Bulmer--"

"And for that reason you want to write about them! You would, though;it is eminently characteristic. Well, then, why should you notimmortalize the persons who had the honor of begetting you--oh, mosthandsome and most naive of children!--by writing your very best aboutthem?" "Because to succeed--not only among the general but with the'cultured few, ' God save the mark!--it is now necessary to write notbadly but abominably. "

"What would you demand, then, of a book?"

I meditated. "What one most desiderates in the writings of to-day isclarity, and beauty, and tenderness and urbanity, and truth. "

"Not a bad recipe, upon the whole, though I would stipulate forsymmetry and distinction also--Write the book!"

"Ah, " said I, "but this is the kind of book I wish to read when, ofcourse, the mood seizes me. It is not at all the sort of book, though, I would elect to write. The main purpose of writing any book, I takeit, is to be read; and people simply will not read a book when theysuspect it of being carefully written. That sort of thing gets on areader's nerves; it's too much like watching a man walk a tight-ropeand wondering if he won't slip presently. "

"Oh, 'people!'" Charteris flung out, in an extremity of scorn. "Sincetime was young, a generally incompetent humanity has been willing topardon anything rather than the maddening spectacle of labourcompetently done. And they are perfectly right; it is abominable howsuch weak-minded persons occasionally thrust themselves into a worldquite obviously designed for persons who have not any minds at all. But I was not asking you to write a 'best-seller. '"

"No, you were asking me to become an Economist, and be one of 'the fewrare spirits which every age providentially affords, ' and so on. Thatis absolute and immoral nonsense. When you publish a novel you are atleast pretending to supply a certain demand; and if you don'tendeavour honestly to supply it, you are a swindler, no more and noless. No, it is all very well to write for posterity, if it amusesyou, John; personally, I cannot imagine what possible benefit you willderive from it, even though posterity _does_ read your books. And formyself, I want to be read and to be a power while I can appreciate thefact that I _am_ a sort of power, however insignificant. Besides, Iwant to make some money out of the blamed thing. Mother is a dear, ofcourse, but, like all the Bulmers, with age she is becoming tight-fisted. "

"And Esau--" Charteris began. 

"Yes, --but that's Biblical, and publishing a book is business. Peoplesay to authors, just as they do to tailors: 'I want such and such anarticle. Make it and I'll pay you for it. ' Now, your tailor mayconsider the Imperial Roman costume more artistic than that of today, and so may you in the abstract, but if he sent home a toga in place ofa pair of trousers, you would discontinue dealing with him. So if itamuses you to make togas, well and good; I don't quarrel with it; but, personally, I mean to go into the gents' furnishing line and to do mywork efficiently. "

"Yes, --but with your tongue in your cheek. "

"It is the one and only attitude, " I sweetly answered, "in which towrite if you indeed desire to be read with enjoyment. " And presently Irose and launched upon

_A Defence of That Attitude_

"The main trouble with you, John Charteris, is that you will neverrecover from being _fin de siecle_. Yes, you belong to that queerdying nineteenth century. And even so, you have quite overlooked whatis, perhaps, the signal achievement of the nineteenth century, --therelegation of its literature to the pharmacopoeia. The comparison ofthe tailor, I willingly admit, is a bad one. Those who writesuccessfully nowadays must appeal to men and women who seek in fictionnot only a means of relaxation, but spiritual comfort as well, and anuplifting rather than a mere diversion of the mind; so that they arereally druggists who trade exclusively in intoxicants and hypnotics. 

"Half of the customers patronize the reading-matter shops because theywant to induce delusions about a world they know, and do not findparticularly roseate and the other half skim through a book becausethey haven't anything else to do and aren't sleepy, as yet. 

"Oh, in filling either prescription the trick is much the same; youhave simply to avoid bothering the reader's intellect in any waywhatever. You have merely to drug it, you have merely to caress itwith interminable platitudes, or else with the most upliftingavoidances of anything which happens to be unprintably rational. Andyou must remember always that the crass emotions of half-educatedpersons are, in reality, your chosen keyboard; so play upon it with anaxe if you haven't any handier implement, but hit it somehow, and formonths your name will be almost as famous as that of my mother'sfather remains the year round because he invented a celebratedbaking-powder. 

"It is all very well for you to sneer, and talk about art. But thereare already in this world a deal more Standard Works than any man canhope to digest in the average lifetime. I don't quarrel with them, for, personally, I find even Ruskin, like the python in the circus, entirely endurable so long as there is a pane of glass between us. Butwhy, in heaven's name, should you endeavour to harass humanity withone more battalion of morocco-bound reproaches for sins of omission, whenever humanity goes into the library to take a nap? For what otherpurpose do you suppose a gentleman goes into his library, pray? Whenhe is driven to reading he does it decently in bed. 

"Besides, if I like a book, why, then, in so far as I am concerned, it_is_ a good book. No, please don't talk to me about 'the dignity ofliterature'; modern fiction has precisely as much to do with dignityas has vaudeville or billiards or that ridiculous ProhibitionistParty, since the object of all four, I take it, is to afford diversionto people who haven't anything better to do. Thus, a novel which hasdiverted a thousand semi-illiterate persons is exactly ten times asgood as a novel that has pleased a hundred superior persons. It issimply a matter of arithmetic. 

"You prefer to look upon writing as an art, rather than a business?Oh, you silly little man, the touchstone of any artist is the skillwith which he adapts his craftsmanship to his art's limitations. Hewill not attempt to paint a sound or to sculpture a colour, because heknows that painting and sculpture have their limitations, and he, quite consciously, recognizes this fact whenever he sets to work. 

"Well, the most important limitation of writing fiction nowadays isthat you have to appeal to people who would never think of reading youor anybody else, if they could possibly imagine any other employmentfor that particular vacant half-hour. And you cannot hope for anaudience of even moderately intelligent persons, because intelligentpersons do not attempt to keep abreast with modern fiction. It isprobably ascribable to the fact that they enjoy being intelligent, andwish to remain so. 

"You sneer at the 'best-sellers. ' I tell you, in sober earnest, thatthe writing of a frankly trashy novel which will 'sell, ' is thehighest imaginable form of art. For true art, in its last terms, isthe adroit circumvention of an unsurmountable obstacle. I suppose thatform and harmony and colour are very difficult to tame; and thesculptor, the musician and the painter quite probably earn their hire. But people don't go to concerts unless they want to hear music;whereas the people who buy the 'best-sellers' are the people who wouldprefer to do _anything_ rather than be reduced to reading. I protestthat the man who makes these people read on until they see how 'it allcame out' is a deal more than an artist; he is a sorcerer. "

And I paused, a little out of breath. 

"What a boy it is!" said Charteris. "Do you know, you are uncommonlyhandsome when you are talking nonsense? Write the trashy book, then. Inever argue with children; and besides, I do not have to read it. "

 4

It thus fell about that in the second European year, not very longafter my mother's death, _The Apostates_ was given to the world, withwhat result the world has had a plenty of time wherein to forget. . . . It was first published in _The Quaker Post_, with pictures by RoderickKing Hill, and in the autumn was brought out as a book by Stuyvesantand Brothers. I made rather a good thing cut of it financially; butthe numerous letters I received from the people who had liked it Ifound extremely objectionable. They were not the right sort of people, I felt forlornly. . . . So I endured my plaudits without undue elation, for I always held _The Apostates_ to be, at best, a medley ofconventional tricks and extravagant rhetoric, inanimate by any leastparticle of myself, --and its success, say, as though the splendiferoustrappings of an emperor were hung upon a clothier's dummy, and theresult accepted as an adequate presentation of Charlemagne. 

In other words, the book was the most unbridled kind of balderdash, founded on my callow recollections of the Green Chalybeate, --not theleast bit accurate, as I was afterward to discover, --with all the goodpeople exceedingly oratorical and the bad ones singularly epigrammaticand abandoned and obtuse. I introduced a depraved nobleman, of course, to give the requisite touch of high society, seasoned the mixture withFrench and botany and with a trifle of Dolly Dialoguishness, andinserted, at judicious intervals, the most poetical of descriptions, so that the skipping of them might afford an agreeable rest to thereader's eye. There was also a sufficiency of piddling with unsavourymatters to insure the suffrage of schoolgirls. 

And a number of persons, in fine, were so misguided as to enthuse overthe result. The verb is carefully selected, for they one and all werejust the sort of people who "enthuse. "

 5

I was vexed, however, at the time to find I could not achieve anappropriate emotion over my mother's death. The news came, to be sure, at a season when I was preoccupied with getting rid of Agnes Faroy. . . . I have not ever heard of any rational excuse for the quite commonassumption that children ought to be particularly fond of theirparents. Still, my mother was the prettiest woman I had ever known, though without any claim to beauty, and I had always gloried in ourkinship; for I believed her nature to be generous and amiable when shethought of it; and the cablegram which announced the event aroused inme sincere regret that a comely ornament to my progress had beensmashed irrevocably. 

For a little I reflected as to whither she had vanished, and decidedshe had been too futile and well-meaning ever to be punished by anyreasonable Being. Yet how she would have enjoyed the publication of mybook!--without any attempt to read it, however, since she had never, to my knowledge, read anything, with the exception of the dailypapers. . . . And besides, I disliked being unable to have theappropriate emotion. 

But I simply could not manage it. For here, in the midst of the Faroymess, --with Agnes weeping all over the place, and her brothersflourishing pistols and declaiming idiocies, --came the news from UncleGeorge that my mother had left me virtually nothing. She must haveused up, of course, a good share of her Bulmer Baking Powder money insupporting my father comfortably; but she had always lived in suchestate as to make me assume she had retained, anyhow, enough of theBulmer money to last my time. So it was naturally a shock to discoverthat this monetary attitude was inherited from my mother, who had beencheerfully "living on her principle" all these years, withoutconsidering my future. I had no choice but to regard it as abominablyselfish. 

"I think Claire was afraid to tell you, " wrote Uncle George, "howlittle there was left. In any event, she always shirked doing it, soas to stave off unpleasantness. And when we cabled you how ill shewas, it now seems most unfortunate you could not see your way clear togiving up your trip through the chateau country, as your not comingappeared to be on her mind a great deal at the last. I do not wish toseem to criticize you in any way, Robert, but I must say. . . . "

Well, but you know what sort of nonsense that smug gambit heralds inletters from your kindred. Even so, I now owned the Townsend house andan income sufficient for daily bread; and it looked just then asthough the magazine editors were willing to furnish the butter, andoccasional cakes. So the future promised to be pleasant enough. 

 6

Charteris had returned to Algiers in the autumn my book was published, but I elected to pass the winter in England. "Of course, " was Mr. Charteris's annotation--"because it is precisely the most dangerousspot in the world for you. And you are to spend October at Negley? Iwarn you that Jasper Hardress is in love with his wife, and that thewoman has an incurable habit of making experiments and an utterinability to acquire experience. Take my advice, and follow Mrs. Monteagle to the Riviera, instead. Cissie will strip you of everypenny you have, of course, but in the end you will find her a dealless expensive than Gillian Hardress. "

"You possess a low and evil mind, " I observed, "since I am fond, inall sincerity, of Hardress, whereas his wife is not even civil to me. Why, she goes out of her way to be rude to me. "

"Yes, " said Mr. Charteris; "but that is because she is getting worriedabout her interest in you. And what is the meaning of this, by theway? I found it on your table this morning. " He read the doggerelaloud with an unkindly and uncalled-for exaggeration of the rhymingwords. 

 "We did not share the same inheritance, -- I and this woman, five years older than I, Yet daughter of a later century, -- Who is therefore only wearied by that dance Which has set my blood a-leaping. 

 "It is queer To note how kind her face grows, listening To my wild talk, and plainly pitying My callow youth, and seeing in me a dear Amusing boy, --yet somewhat old to be Still reading _Alice Through the Looking-Glass_ And _Water-Babies_. . . . With light talk we pass, "And I that have lived long in Arcady-- I that have kept so many a foolish tryst, And written drivelling rhymes--feel stirring in me Droll pity for this woman who pities me, And whose weak mouth so many men have kissed. "

"That, " I airily said, "is, in the first place, something you had nobusiness to read; and, in the second, simply the blocking out of anentrancingly beautiful poem. It represents a mood. "

"It is the sort of mood that is not good for people, particularly forchildren. It very often gets them shot too full of large and untidyholes. "

"Nonsense!" said I, but not in displeasure, because it made me feellike such a devil of a fellow. So I finished my letter to BettieHamlyn, --for this was on the seventh, --and I went to Negley preciselyas I had planned. 

 7

"We were just speaking of you, " Mrs. Hardress told me, the afternoonof my arrival, --"Blanche and I were talking of you, Mr. Townsend, thevery moment we heard your wheels. "

I shook hands. "I trust you had not entirely stripped me of myreputation?"

"Surely, that is the very last of your possessions any reasonableperson would covet?"

"A palpable hit, " said I. "Nevertheless, you know that all I possessin the world is yours for the asking. "

"Yes, you mentioned as much, I think, at Nice. Or was it ColonelTatkin who offered me a heart's devotion and an elopement? No, Ibelieve it was you. But, dear me, Jasper is so disgustingly healthythat I shall probably never have any chance of recreation. "

I glanced toward Jasper Hardress. "I have heard, " said I, hopefully, "that there is consumption in the family?"

"Heavens, no! he told me that before marriage to encourage me, but Ifind there is not a word of truth in it. "

Then Jasper Hardress came to welcome his guest, and save from adistance I saw no more that evening of Gillian Hardress. 

10. 

_He Samples New Emotions_

It was the following day, about noon, as I sat intent upon my Paris_Herald_ that a tiny finger thrust a hole in it. I gave an inaudibleobservation, and observed a very plump young person in white withdisfavour. 

"And who may you happen to be?" I demanded. 

"I'm Gladys, " the young lady responded; "and I've runned away. "

"But not without an escort, I trust, Miss Gladys? Really--upon myword, you know, you surprise me, Gladys! An elopement without even atincture of masculinity is positively not respectable. " I took thelittle girl into my lap, for I loved children, and all helplessthings. "Gladys, " I said, "why don't you elope with me? And we willspend our honeymoon in the Hesperides. "

"All right, " said Gladys, cheerfully. She leaned upon my chest, andthe plump, tiny hand clasped mine, in entire confidence; and thecontact moved me to an irrational transport and to a yearning whoseaim I could not comprehend. "Now tell me a story, " said Gladys. 

So that I presently narrated to Gladys the ensuing

 _Story of the Flowery Kingdom_

 "Fair Sou-Chong-Tee, by a shimmering brook Where ghost-like lilies loomed tall and straight, Met young Too-Hi, in a moonlit nook, Where they cooed and kissed till the hour was late: Then, with lanterns, a mandarin passed in state, Named Hoo-Hung-Hoo of the Golden Band, Who had wooed the maiden to be his mate-- For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

 "Now, Hoo-Hung-Hoo had written a book, In seven volumes, to celebrate The death of the Emperor's thirteenth cook: So, being a person whose power was great, He ordered a herald to indicate He would blind Too-Hi with a red-hot brand And marry Sou-Chong at a quarter-past-eight, -- For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

 "And the brand was hot, and the lovers shook In their several shoes, when by lucky fate A Dragon came, with his tail in a crook, -- A Dragon out of a Nankeen Plate, -- And gobbled the hard-hearted potentate And all of his servants, and snorted, _and_ Passed on at a super-cyclonic rate, -- For these things occur in the Flowery Land. 

 "The lovers were wed at an early date, And lived for the future, I understand, In one continuous tete-a-tete, -- For these things occur. . . In the Flowery Land. "

Gladys wanted to know: "But what sort of house is a tete-a-tete? Is itlike a palace?"

"It is very often much nicer than a palace, " I declared, --"provided ofcourse you are only stopping over for a week-end. "

"And wasn't it odd the Dragon should have come just when he did?"

"Oh, Gladys, Gladys! don't tell me you are a realist. "

"No, I'm a precious angel, " she composedly responded, with a flavourof quotation. 

"Well! it is precisely the intervention of the Dragon, Gladys, whichproves the story is literature, " I announced. "Don't you pity the poorDragon, Gladys, who never gets a chance in life and has to live alwaysbetween two book-covers?"

She said that couldn't be so, because it would squash him. 

"And yet, dear, it is perfectly true, " said Mrs. Hardress. The leanand handsome woman was regarding the pair of us curiously. "I didn'tknow you cared for children, Mr. Townsend. Yes, she is my daughter. "She carried Gladys away, without much further speech. 

Yet one Parthian comment in leaving me was flung over her shoulder, snappishly. "I wish you wouldn't imitate John Charteris so. You aregetting to be just a silly copy of him. You are just Jack where he isJohn. I think I shall call you Jack. "

"I wish you would, " I said, "if only because your sponsors happened tochristen you Gillian. So it's a bargain. And now when are we going forthat pail of water?"

Mrs. Hardress wheeled, the child in her arms, so that she was lookingat me, rather queerly, over the little round, yellow head. "And it wasonly Jill, as I remember, who got the spanking, " she said. "Oh, well!it always is just Jill who gets the spanking--Jack. "

"But it was Jack who broke his crown, " said I; "Wasn't it--Jill?" Itseemed a jest at the time. But before long we had made these nicknamesa habit, when just we two were together. And the outcome of it all wasnot precisely a jest. . . . 

 2

She told me not long after this, "When I saw Gladys loved you, ofcourse I loved you too. " And I hereby soberly record the statementthat to have a woman fall thoroughly in love with him is the mostuncomfortable experience which can ever befall any man. 

I am tolerably sure I never made any amorous declaration. Rather, itsimply bewildered me to observe the shameless and irrationalinfatuation this woman presently bore for me, and before it I waspowerless. When I told her frankly I did not love her, had never lovedher, had no intention of ever loving her, she merely bleated, "You arecruel!" and wept. When I attempted to restrain her paroxysms ofanguish, she took it as a retraction of what I had told her. 

I would then have given anything in the world to be rid of GillianHardress. This led to scenes, and many scenes, and played the verydevil with the progress of my second novel. You cannot write whenanyone insists on sitting in the same room with you, on the irrelevantplea that she is being perfectly quiet, and therefore is notdisturbing you. Besides, she had no business in my room, and was aptto get caught there. 

 3

I remember one of these contentions. She is abominably rouged, andbefore me she is grovelling, as she must have seen some actress doupon the stage. 

"Oh, I lied to you, " she wailed; "but you are so cruel! Ah, don't becruel, Jack!"

Then I lifted the scented woman to her feet, and she stayedmotionless, regarding me. She had really wonderful eyes. 

"You are evil, " I said, "through and through you are evil, I think, and I can't help thinking you are a little crazy. But I wish you wouldteach me to be as you are, for tonight the hands of my dead fatherstrain from his grave and clutch about my ankles. He has the rightbecause it is his flesh I occupy. And I must occupy the body of aTownsend always. It is not quite the residence I would have chosen--Eh, well, for all that, I am I! And at bottom I loathe you!"

"You love me!" she breathed. 

I thrust her aside and paced the floor. "This is an affair of moment. I may not condescend to sell, as Faustus did, but of my own volitionmust I will to squander or preserve that which is really RobertTownsend. "

I wheeled upon Gillian Hardress, and spoke henceforward withdeliberation. You must remember I was very young as yet. 

"I have often regretted that the colour element of vice is so oddlylacking in our life of to-day. We appear, one and all, to have beenborn at an advanced age and with ladylike manners, and we reach ouryears of indiscretion very slowly; and meanwhile we learn, too late, that prolonged adherence to morality trivialises the mind ashopelessly as a prolonged vice trivialises the countenance. I fearthis has been said by someone else, my too impetuous Jill, and I hopenot, for in that event I might possibly be speaking sensibly, and tobe sensible is a terrible thing and almost as bad as beingintelligible. "

"You are not being very intelligible now, sweetheart. But I love tohear you talk. "

"Meanwhile, I am young, and in youth--_il faut des emotions_, asBlanche Amory is reported to have said, by a novelist named Thackeray, whose productions are now read in public libraries. Still, for arespectable and brougham-supporting person, Thackeray came then asnear to speaking the truth as is possible for people of that class. Inyouth emotions are necessary. Find me, therefore, a new emotion!"

"So many of them, dear!" she promised. 

"I do not love you, understand, --and your husband is my friend, and Iadmire him. But I am I! I have endowments, certain faculties whichmany men are flattering enough to envy--and I will to make of them acarpet for your quite unworthy feet. I will to degrade all that in meis most estimable, and in return I demand a new emotion. "

 4

Well, but women are queer. There is positively no way of affrontingthem, sometimes. She had not even the grace to note that I had taken alittle too much to drink that night. . . . But over all this part of mylife I prefer to pass as quickly as may be expedient. 

 5

I remembered, anyway, after Gillian had gone from my room, to writeBettie Hamlyn a post-card. It was no longer, strictly speaking, thetwenty-third, but considerably after midnight, of course. Still, itwas the writing regularly when I loathed writing letters that countedwith Bettie, I reflected; and virtually I was writing on the twenty-third, and besides, Bettie would never know. 

 6

And thereafter Gillian Hardress made almost no concealment of herfeeling toward me, or employed at best the flimsiest of disguises. Allthat winter she wrote to me daily, and, when the same roof shelteredus, would slip the scribblings into my hand at odd moments, butpreferably before her husband's eyes. She demanded an account of everyminute I spent apart from her, and never believed a syllable of myexplanations; and in a sentence, she pestered me to the verge ofdistraction. 

And always the circumstance which chiefly puzzled me was the host ofmen that were infatuated by Gillian Hardress. There was no doubt aboutit; she made fools of the staidest, if for no better end than that thespectacle might amuse me. 

"Now you watch me, Jack!" she would say. And I obediently would watchher wriggling beguilements, and the man's smirking idiocy, withbewilderment. 

For in me her allurements aroused, now, absolutely no sensation savethat of boredom. Often I used to wonder for what reason it seemedimpossible for me, alone, to adore this woman insanely. It would havebeen so much more pleasant, all around. 

But, I repeat, I wish to have done with this portion of my life asquickly as may be expedient. I am not particularly proud of it. Iwould elide it altogether, were it possible, but as you will presentlysee, that is not possible if I am to make myself intelligible. And Ifind that the more I write of myself the more I am affected by thesame poor itch for self-exposure which has made Pepys and Casanova andRousseau famous, and later feminine diarists notorious. 

Were I writing fiction, now, I would make the entire affair moreplausible. As it stands, I am free to concede that this chapter in mylife history rings false throughout, just as any candid record of anactual occurrence does invariably. It is not at all probable that awoman so much older than I should have taken possession of me in thisfashion, almost against my will. It is even less probable that herhusband, who was by ordinary absurdly jealous of her, should havesuspected nothing and have been sincerely fond of me. 

But then I was only twenty-two, as age went physically, and he lookedupon me as an infant. I was, I think, quite conscientiously childishwith Jasper Hardress. I prattled with him, and he liked it. And sooften, especially when we three were together--say, at luncheon, --Iwas teased by an insane impulse to tell him everything, just casually, and see what he would do. 

I think it was the same feeling which so often prompted her to tellhim, in her flighty way, of how profoundly she adored me. I wouldwriggle and blush; and Jasper Hardress would laugh and protest that headored me too. Or she would expatiate upon this or that personalfeature of mine, or the becomingness of a new cravat, say; and woulddemand of her husband if Jack--for so she always called me, --wasn'tthe most beautiful boy in the world? And he would laugh and answerthat he thought it very likely. 

 7

They were Americans, I should have said earlier, but to all intentsthey lived abroad, and had done so for years. Hardress's father hadbeen thoughtful enough to leave him a sufficient fortune tocountenance the indulgence of this or any other whim, so that theHardresses divided the year pretty equally between their real home atNegley and a tiny chateau which they owned near Aix-les-Bains. Ivisited them at both places. 

It was a pleasant fiction that I came to see Gladys. Regularly, I wastold off to play with her, as being the only other child in the house. It was rather hideous, for the little girl adored me, and I wasbeginning to entertain an odd aversion toward her, as being in a wayresponsible for everything. Had Gillian Hardress never found mecuddling the child, whose sex was visibly a daily aggrievement toJasper Hardress, however conscientiously he strove to conceal thefact, --so that in consequence "I have to love my precious lamb fortwo, Jack, "--Gillian would never, I think, have distinguished me fromthe many other men who, so lightly, tendered a host of gallantspeeches. . . . But I never fathomed Gillian Hardress, beyond learningvery early in our acquaintance that she rarely told me the truth aboutanything. 

Also I should have said that Hardress cordially detested Charteris, just as Bettie Hamlyn did, because for some reason he suspected thelittle novelist of being in love with Hardress's wife. I do not know;but I imagine Charteris had made advances to her, in his own ambiguousfashion, as he was apt to do, barring strenuous discouragement, toevery passably handsome woman he was left alone with. I do know hemade love to her a little later. 

Hardress distrusted a number of other men, for precisely the samereason. Heaven only is familiar with what grounds he had. I merelyknow that Gillian Hardress loathed John Charteris; she was jealous ofhis influence over me. But me her husband never distrusted. I was onlyan amusing and ingenuous child of twenty-two, and not for a moment didit occur to him that I might be in love with his wife. 

Indeed, I believe upon reflection that he was in the right. I think Inever was. 

 8

"Yes, " I said, "I am to meet the Charterises in Genoa. Yes, it israther sudden. I am off to-morrow. I shall not see you dear goodpeople for some time, I fancy. . . . "

When Hardress had gone the woman said in a stifled voice: "No, I willnot dance. Take me somewhere--there is a winter-garden, I know--"

"No, Jill, " said I, with decision. "It's no use. I am really going. Wewill not argue it. "

Gillian Hardress watched the dancers for a moment, as with languidinterest. "You fear that I am going to make a scene. Well! I can't. You have selected your torture chamber too carefully. Oh, after allthat's been between us, to tell me here, to my husband's face, in thepresence of some three hundred people, without a moment's warning, that you are 'off to-morrow!' It--it is for good, isn't it?"

"Yes, " I said. "It had to be--some time, you know. "

"No, don't look at me. Watch the dancing, I will fan myself and seembored. No, I shall not do anything rash. "

I was uncomfortable. Yet at bottom it was the theatric value of thisscene which impressed me, --the gaiety and the brilliance on every sideof her misery. And I did not look at her. I did just as she orderedme. 

"I was proud once. I haven't any pride now. You say you must leave me. Oh, dearest boy, if you only knew how unhappy I will be without you, you could not leave me. Sweetheart, you must know how I love you. Ilong every minute to be with you, and to see you even at a distance isa pleasure. I know it is not right for me to ask or expect you to loveme always, but it seems so hard. "

"It's no use, Jill--"

"Is it another woman? I won't mind. I won't be jealous. I won't makescenes, for I know you hate scenes, and I have made so many. It wasbecause I cared so much. I never cared before, Jack. You have tired ofme, I know. I have seen it coming. Well, you shall have your way ineverything. But don't leave me, dear! oh, my dear, my dear, don'tleave me! Oh, I have given you everything, and I ask so little inreturn--just to see you sometimes, just to touch your hand sometimes, as the merest stranger might do. . . . "

So her voice went on and on while I did not look at her. There was nopassion in this voice of any kind. It was just the long monotonouswail of some hurt animal. . . . They were playing the _Valse Bleu_, Iremember. It lasted a great many centuries, and always that low voicewas pleading with me. Yes, it was uncommonly unpleasant; but always atthe back of my mind some being that was not I was taking notes as toprecisely how I felt, because some day they might be useful, for thebook I had already outlined. "It is no use, Jill, " I kept repeating, doggedly. 

Then Armitage came smirking for his dance. Gillian Hardress rose, andher fan shut like a pistol-shot. She was all in black, and throughoutthat moment she was more beautiful than any other woman I have everseen. 

"Yes, this is our dance, " she said, brightly. "I thought you hadforgotten me, Mr. Armitage. Well! good-bye, Mr. Townsend. Our littletalk has been very interesting--hasn't it? Oh, this dress _always_gets in my way--"

She was gone. I felt that I had managed affairs rather crudely, but itwas the least unpleasant way out, and I simply had not dared to trustmyself alone with her. So I made the best of an ill bargain, andremodeled the episode more artistically when I used it later, in_Afield_. 

11. 

_He Postures Among Chimney-Pots_

I met the Charterises in Genoa, just as I had planned. Anne's firstexclamation was, "Heavens, child, how dissipated you look! I wouldscarcely have known you. "

Charteris said nothing. But he and I lunched at the Isotta thefollowing day, and at the conclusion of the meal the little man leanedback and lighted a cigarette. 

"You must overlook my wife's unfortunate tendency toward the mostunamiable of virtues. But, after all, you are clamantly not quite theboy I left at Liverpool last October. Where are your Hardresses now?"

"In London for the season. And why is your wife rushing on to Paris, John?"

"Shopping, as usual. Yes, I believe I did suggest it was as well tohave it over and done with. Anne is very partial to truisms. Besides, she has an aunt there, you know. Take my advice, and always marry awoman who is abundantly furnished with attractive and visitablerelations, for this precaution is the true secret of every happymarriage. We may, then, regard the Hardress incident as closed?"

"Oh, Lord, yes!" said I, emphatically. 

"Well, after all, you have been sponging off them for a full year. Theadjective is not ill-chosen, from what I hear. I fancy Mrs. Hardresshas found you better company after she had mixed a few drinks for you, and so--But a truce to moral reflections! for I am desirous once moreto hear the chimes at midnight. I hear Francine is in Milan?"

"There is at any rate in Milan, " said I, "a magnificent GothicCathedral of international reputation; and upon the upper gallery ofits tower, as my guidebook informs me, there is a watchman with anefficient telescope. Should I fail to meet that watchman, John, I wouldfeel that I had lived futilely. For I want both to view with him theLombard plain, and to ask him his opinion of Cino da Pistoia, and as towhat was in reality the middle name of Cain's wife. "

 2

Francine proved cordial; but John Charteris was ever fickle, and notlong afterward an Italian countess, classic in feature, but in coloringsmacking of an artistic renaissance, had drawn us both to Switzerland, and thence to Liege. It was great fun, knocking about the Continentwith John, for he knew exactly how to order a dinner, and spoke I don'tknow how many languages, and seemed familiar with every side-street andback-alley in Europe. For myself, my French as acquired in Fairhavenappeared to be understood by everybody, but in replying very few of thenatives could speak their own foolish language comprehensibly. I couldrarely make head or tail out of what they were jabbering about. 

I was alone that evening, because Annette's husband had turned upunexpectedly; and Charteris had gone again to hear Nadine Neroni, thenew prima donna, concerning whom he and his enameled Italian friendraved tediously. But I never greatly cared for music; besides, theopera that night was _Faust_; the last act of which in particular, whenthree persons align before the footlights and scream at the top oftheir voices, for a good half hour, about how important it is not todisturb anybody, I have never been able to regard quite seriously. 

So I was spending this evening sedately in my own apartments at theContinental; and meanwhile I lisped in numbers that (or I flatteredmyself) had a Homeric tang; and at times chewed the end of my pencilmeditatively. "From present indications, " I was considering, "thatRussian woman is cooking something on her chafing-dish again. Itusually affects them that way about dawn. "

I began on the next verse viciously, and came a cropper over the clashof two sibilants, as the distant clamour increased. "Brutes!" said I, disapprovingly. "Sere, clear, dear--Now they have finished, '_Jamais, monsieur_', and begun crying, 'Fire!' Oh, this would draw more thanthree souls out of a weaver, you know! Mere, near, hemisphere--no, butthe Greeks thought it was flat. By Jove! I do smell smoke!"

Wrapping my dressing-gown about me--I had afterward reason to thank thekindly fates that it was the green one with the white fleurs-de-lis, and not my customary, unspeakably disreputable bath-robe, scorched bythe cigarette ashes of years, --I approached the door and peeped outinto the empty hotel corridor. The incandescent lights glimmered mildlythrough a gray haze which was acrid and choking to breathe; littlepuffs of smoke crept lazily out of the lift-shaft just opposite; anddown-stairs all Liége was shouting incoherently, and dragging about theheavier pieces of hotel furniture. 

"By Jove!" said I, and whistled a little disconsolately as I lookeddownward through the bars about the lift-shaft. 

"Do you reckon, " spoke a voice--a most agreeable voice, --"we are in anydanger?"

The owner of the voice was tall; not even the agitation of the momentprevented my observing that, big as I am, her eyes were almost on alevel with my shoulder. They were not unpleasant eyes, and a straydream or two yet lingered under their heavy lids. The owner of thevoice wore a strange garment that was fluffy and pink, --pale pink likethe lining of a sea-shell--and billows of white and the ends of variousblue ribbons peeped out about her neck. I made mental note of the factthat disordered hair is not necessarily unbecoming; it sometimes hasthe effect of an unusually heavy halo set about the face of ahalf-awakened angel. 

"It would appear, " said I, meditatively, "that, in consideration of ourbeing on the fifth floor, with the lift-shaft drawing splendidly, andthe stairs winding about it, --except the two lower flights, which havejust fallen in, --and in consideration of the fire department's probableincompetence to extinguish anything more formidable than a tar-barrel, --yes, it would appear, I think, that we might go further than'dangerous' and find a less appropriate adjective to describe thesituation. "

"You mean we cannot get down?" The beautiful voice was tremulous. 

And my silence made reply. 

"Well, then, " she suggested, cheerfully, after due reflection, "sincewe can't go down, why not go up?"

As a matter of fact, nothing could be more simple. We were on the topfloor of the hotel, and beside us, in the niche corresponding to thestairs below, was an iron ladder that led to a neatly-whitewashedtrapdoor in the roof. Adopting her suggestion, I pushed against thistrap-door and found that it yielded readily; then, standing at the topof the ladder, I looked about me on a dim expanse of tiles andchimneys; yet farther off were the huddled roofs and gables of Liége, and just a stray glimpse of the Meuse; and above me brooded a clear skyand the naked glory of the moon. 

 3

I lowered my head with a distinct sigh of relief. 

"I say, " I called, "it is infinitely nicer up here--superb view of thecity, and within a minute's drop of the square! Better come up. "

"Go first, " said she; and subsequently I held for a moment a veryslender hand--a ridiculously small hand for a woman whose eyes werealmost on a level with my shoulder, --and we two stood together on theroof of the Hôtel Continental. We enjoyed, as I had predicted, anunobstructed view of Liége and of the square, wherein two toy-likeengines puffed viciously and threw impotent threads of water againstthe burning hotel beneath us, and, at times, on the heads of an excitedthrong erratically clad. 

But I looked down moodily, "That, " said I, as a series of smallexplosions popped like pistol shots, "is the café; and, oh, Lord! theregoes the only decent Scotch in all Liége!"

"There is Mamma!" she cried, excitedly; "there!" She pointed to a stoutwoman, who, with a purple? shawl wrapped about her head, was wringingher hands as heartily as a bird-cage, held in one of them, wouldpermit. "And she has saved Bill Bryan!"

"In that case, " said I, "I suppose it is clearly my duty to rescue theremaining member of the family. You see, " I continued, in bending overthe trap-door and tugging at the ladder, "this thing is only abouttwenty feet long; but the kitchen wing of the hotel is a little lessthan that distance from the rear of the house behind it; and with thisas a bridge I think we might make it. In any event, the roof will bedone for in a half-hour, and it is eminently worth trying. " I drew theladder upward. 

Then I dragged this ladder down the gentle slant of the roof, through amaze of ghostly chimneys and dim skylights, to the kitchen wing, whichwas a few feet lower than the main body of the building. I skirted thechimney and stepped lightly over the eaves, calling, "Now then!" when amuffled cry, followed by a crash in the courtyard beneath, shook myheart into my mouth. I turned, gasping; and found the girl lying safe, but terrified, on the verge of the roof. 

"It was a bucket, " she laughed, "and I stumbled over it, --and itfell--and--and I nearly did, --and I am frightened!"

And somehow I was holding her hand in mine, and my mouth was makingirrelevant noises, and I was trembling. "It was close, but--look here, you must pull yourself together!" I pleaded; "because we haven't, as itwere, the time for airy badinage and repartee--just now. "

"I can't, " she cried, hysterically. "Oh, I am so frightened! I can't!"

"You see, " I said, with careful patience, "we must go on. I hate toseem too urgent, but we _must_, do you understand?" I waved my handtoward the east. "Why, look!" said I, as a thin tongue of flame leapedthrough the open trap-door and flickered wickedly for a moment againstthe paling gray of the sky. 

She saw and shuddered. "I'll come, " she murmured, listlessly, and roseto her feet. 

 4

I heaved another sigh of relief, and waving her aside from the ladder, dragged it after me to the eaves of the rear wing. As I had foreseen, this ladder reached easily to the eaves of the house behind the rearwing, and formed a passable though unsubstantial-looking bridge. Iregarded it disapprovingly. 

"It will only bear one, " said I; "and we will have to crawl overseparately after all. Are you up to it?"

"Please go first, " said she, very quiet. And, after gazing into herface for a moment, I crept over gingerly, not caring to look down intothe abyss beneath. 

Then I spent a century in impotence, watching a fluffy, pink figurethat swayed over a bottomless space and moved forward a hair's breadtheach year. I made no sound during this interval. In fact, I do notremember drawing a really satisfactory breath from the time I left thehotel-roof, until I lifted a soft, faint-scented, panting bundle to theroof of the Councillor von Hollwig. 

 5

"You are, " I cried, with conviction, "the bravest, the most--er--thebravest woman I ever knew!" I heaved a little sigh, but this time ofcontent. "For I wonder, " said I, in my soul, "if you have any idea whata beauty you are! what a wonderful, unspeakable beauty you are! Oh, youare everything that men ever imagined in dreams that left them weepingfor sheer happiness--and more! You are--you, and I have held you in myarms for a moment; and, before high heaven, to repurchase thatprivilege I would consent to the burning of three or four more hotelsand an odd city or so to boot!" But, aloud, I only said, "We are quitesafe now, you know. "

She laughed, bewilderingly. "I suppose, " said she, "the next thing isto find a trap-door. "

But there were, so far as we could discover, no trapdoors in the roofof the Councillor von Hollwig, or in the neighbouring roofs; and, aftersearching three of them carefully, I suggested the propriety of waitingtill dawn to be melodramatically rescued. 

"You see, " I pointed out, "everybody is at the fire over yonder. But weare quite safe here, I would say, with an entire block of houses topromenade on; moreover, we have cheerful company, eligible centrallocation in the very heart of the city, and the superb spectacle of abig fire at exactly the proper distance. Therefore, " I continued, andwith severity, "you will please have the kindness to explain yourmotives for wandering about the corridors of a burning hotel at fouro'clock in the morning. "

She sat down against a chimney and wrapped her gown about her. "I sleepvery soundly, " said she, "and we did both museums and six churches andthe Palais de Justice and a deaf and dumb place and the cannon-foundrytoday, --and the cries awakened me, --and I reckon Mamma lost her head. "

"And left you, " thought I, "left you--to save a canary-bird! Good Lord!And so, you are an American and a Southerner as well. "

"And you?" she asked. 

"Ah--oh, yes, me!" I awoke sharply from admiration of her trailinglashes. The burning hotel was developing a splendid light wherein tosee them. "I was writing--and I thought that Russian woman had a fewfriends to supper, --and I was looking for a rhyme when I found you, " Iconcluded, with a fine coherence. 

She looked up. It was incredible, but those heavy lashes disentangledquite easily. I was seized with a desire to see them again perform thisinteresting feat. "Verses?" said she, considering my slippers in a newlight. 

"Yes, " I admitted, guiltily--"of Helen. "

She echoed the name. It is an unusually beautiful name when properlyspoken. "Why, that is my name, only we call it Elena. "

"Late of Troy Town, " said I, in explanation. 

"Oh!" The lashes fell into their former state. It was hopeless thistime; and manual aid would be required, inevitably. "I should think, "said my compatriot, "that live women would be more--inspiring"

"Surely, " I assented. I drew my gown about me and sat down. "But, yousee, she is alive--to me. " And I dwelt a trifle upon the last word. 

"One would gather, " said she, meditatively, "that you have anunrequited attachment for Helen of Troy. "

I sighed a melancholy assent. The great eyes opened to their utmost. The effect was as disconcerting as that of a ship firing a broadside atyou, but pleasanter. "Tell me all about it, " said she, coaxingly. 

"I have always loved her, " I said, with gravity. "Long ago, when I wasa little chap, I had a book--_Stories of the Trojan War_, or somethingof the sort. And there I first read of Helen--and remembered. Therewere pictures--outline pictures, --of quite abnormally straight-nosedwarriors, with flat draperies which amply demonstrated that the laws ofgravity were not yet discovered; and the pictures of slender goddesses, who had done their hair up carefully and gone no further in theirdressing. Oh, the book was full of pictures, --and Helen's was the mostmanifestly impossible of them all. But I knew--I knew, even then, ofher beauty, of that flawless beauty which made men's hearts as waterand drew the bearded kings to Ilium to die for the woman at sight ofwhom they had put away all memories of distant homes and wives; thatflawless beauty which buoyed the Trojans through the ten years offighting and starvation, just with delight in gazing upon Queen Helenday by day, and with the joy of seeing her going about their streets. For I remembered!" And as I ended, I sighed effectively. 

"I know, " said she. 

"'Or ever the knightly years had goneWith the old world to the grave, I was a king in BabylonAnd you were a Christian slave. '"

"Yes, only I was the slave, I think, and you--er--I mean, there goesthe roof, and it is an uncommonly good thing for posterity you thoughtof the trap-door. Good thing the wind is veering, too. By Jove! look atthose flames!" I cried, as the main body of the Continental toppledinward like a house of cards; "they are splashing, actually splashing, like waves over a breakwater!"

I drew a deep breath and turned from the conflagration, only toencounter its reflection in her widened eyes. "Yes, I was a Trojanwarrior, " I resumed; "one of the many unknown men who sought and founddeath beside Scamander, trodden down by Achilles or Diomedes. So theydied knowing they fought in a bad cause, but rapt with that joy theyhad in remembering the desire of the world and her perfect loveliness. She scarcely knew that I existed; but I had loved her; I had overheardsome laughing words of hers in passing, and I treasured them as mentreasure gold. Or she had spoken, perhaps--oh, day of days!--to me, ina low, courteous voice that came straight from the back of the throatand blundered very deliciously over the perplexities of our alienspeech. I remembered--even as a boy, I remembered. "

She cast back her head and laughed merrily. "I reckon, " said she, "youare still a boy, or else you are the most amusing lunatic I ever met. "

"No, " I murmured, and I was not altogether playacting now, "that taleabout Polyxo was a pure invention. Helen--and the gods be praised forit!--can never die. For it is hers to perpetuate that sense ofunattainable beauty which never dies, which sways us just as potentlyas it did Homer, and Dr. Faustus, and the Merovingians too, I suppose, with memories of that unknown woman who, when we were boys, was verycertainly some day, to be our mate. And so, whatever happens, she

"Abides the symbol of all loveliness, Of beauty ever stainless in the stressOf warring lusts and fears. 

"For she is to each man the one woman that he might have lovedperfectly. She is as old as youth, she is more old than April even, andshe is as ageless. And, again like youth and April, this Helen goesabout the world in varied garments, and to no two men is her face thesame. Oh, very often she transmutes her fleshly covering. But throughcountless ages I, like every man alive, have followed her, and foughtfor her, and won her, and have lost her in the end, --but always lovingher as every man must do. And I prefer to think that some day--" But myvoice here died into a whisper, which was in part due to emotion andpartly to an inability to finish the sentence satisfactorily. The logicof my verses when thus paraphrased from memory, seemed rather vague. 

"Yes--like Pythagoras" she said, a bit at random. "Oh, I know. Therereally must be something in it, I have often thought, because youactually do remember having done things before sometimes. "

"And why not? as the March Hare very sensibly demanded. " But now myvoice was earnest. "Yes, I believe that Helen always comes. Is itsimply a proof that I, too, am qualified to sit next to the Hatter?" Ispread out my hands in a helpless little gesture. "I do not know. But Ibelieve that she will come, --and by and by pass on, of course, as Helenalways does. "

"You will know her?" she queried, softly. 

Now I at last had reached firm ground. "She will be very tall, " I said, "very tall and exquisite, --like a young birch-tree, you know, when itsnew leaves are whispering over to one another the secrets of spring. Yes, that is a ridiculous sounding simile, but it expresses the generaleffect of her--the _coup d'oeil_, so to speak, --quite perfectly. Moreover, her hair will be a miser's dream of gold; and it will hangheavily about a face that will be--quite indescribable, just as thedawn yonder is past the utmost preciosity of speech. But her face willflush and will be like the first of all anemones to peep through black, good-smelling, and as yet unattainable earth; and her eyes will bedeep, shaded wells where, just as in the proverb, truth lurks. "

But now I could not see her eyes. 

"No, " I conceded, "I was wrong. For when men talk to her as--as theycannot but talk to her, her face will flush dull red, almost likesmouldering wood; and she will smile a little, and look out over agreat fire, such as that she saw on the night when Ilium was sacked andthe slain bodies were soft under her stumbling feet, as she fledthrough flaming Troy Town. And then I shall know her. "

My companion sighed; and the woes of centuries weighed down her eyelidsobstinately. "It is bad enough, " she lamented, "to have lost all one'sclothes--that new organdie was a dream, and I had never worn it; but tofind yourself in a dressing-gown--at daybreak, on a strange roof--andwith an unintroduced lunatic--is positively terrible!"

The unintroduced lunatic rose to his feet and waved his hand toward theeast. The dawn was breaking in angry scarlet and gold that spread likefire over half the visible horizon; the burning hotel shut out theremaining half with tall flames, which shouldered one anothermonotonously, and seemed lustreless against the pure radiance of thesky. Chill daylight showed in melting patches through the clouds ofblack smoke overhead. 

It was a world of fire, transfigured by the austere magnificence ofdawn and the grim splendour of the shifting, roaring conflagration; andat our feet lay the orchard of the Councillor von Hollwig, and therethe awakened birds piped querulously, and sparks fell crackling amongapple-blossoms. 

"Ilium is ablaze, " I quoted; "and the homes of Pergamos and itstowering walls are now one sheet of flame. "

She inspected the scene, critically. "It does look like Ilium, " sheadmitted. "And that, " peering over the eaves into the desertedby-street, "looks like a milkman. "

I was unable to deny this, though an angry concept crossed my mind thatany milkman, with commendable tastes and feelings, would at this momentbe gaping at the fire at the other end of the block, rather thanprosaically measuring quarts at the Councillor's side-entrance. Butthere was no help for it, when chance thus unblushingly favoured theproprieties; in consequence I clung to a water-pipe, and explained thesituation to the milkman, with a fretted mind and King's CollegeFrench. 

I turned to my companion. She was regarding the burning hotel with animpersonal expression. 

"Now I would give a deal, " I thought, "to know just how long you wouldprefer that milkman to take in coming back. "

12. 

_He Faces Himself and Remembers_

Into the lobby of the Hôtel d'Angleterre strolled, an hour later, atall young man, in a green dressing-gown, and inquired for Charteris. The latter, in evening dress, was mournfully breakfasting in his newquarters. 

Charteris sprang to his feet. I saw, with real emotion, that he hadbeen weeping; but now he was all flippancy. "My dear boy! I have justtorn my hair and the rough drafts of several cablegrams on youraccount! Sit down at once, and try the bacon, since, for a wonder, itis not burnt--and, in passing, I had thought of course that you were. "

Instead, I took a drink, and went to sleep upon the nearest sofa. 

 2

I was very tired, but I awakened about noon and managed to procureenough clothes to make myself not altogether unpresentable to thepublic eye. Charteris had gone already about his own affairs, and I didnot regret it, for I meant, without delay, to follow up my adventure ofthe night before. 

But when I had come out of the Rue de la Casquette, and was approachingthe statue of Gretry, I came upon a very ornately-dressed woman, whowas about to enter en open carriage. I stared; and preposterous as itwas, I knew that I was not mistaken. And I said aloud, "Signorina!"

It was a long while before she said, "Don't--don't ever call me thatagain!" And since the world in general appeared just then to be largelyflavoured with the irresponsibility of dreams, it did not surprise methat we were presently alone in somebody's sitting-room. 

"I have seen you twice in Liége, " she said. "I suppose this had to comeabout. I would have preferred to avoid it, though. Well! _che sara!_You don't care for music, do you? No, --otherwise you would have knownearlier that I am Nadine Neroni now. "

"Ah!" I said, very quietly. I had heard, as everybody had, a dealconcerning the Neroni. "I think, if you will pardon me, I will notintrude upon Baron von Anspach's hospitality any longer, " I said. 

"That is unworthy of you, --no, I mean it would have been unworthy of aboy we knew of. " There was a long pier-glass in these luxurious rooms. She led me to it now. "Look, Bobbie. We have altered a little, haven'twe? I at least, am unmistakable. 'Their eyes are different, somehow', you remember. You haven't changed as much, --not outwardly. I think youare like Dorian Gray. Yes, as soon--as soon as I could afford it, Iread every book you ever talked about, I think. It was damnably foolishof me. For I've heard things. And there was a girl I tried to help inLondon--an Agnès Faroy--"

"Ah!" I said. 

"She had your picture even then, poor creature. She kissed it justbefore she died. She didn't know that I had ever heard of you. Shenever knew. Oh, how _could_ you!" the Neroni said, with something verylike a sob, "Or were you always--just that, at bottom?"

"And have you ever noticed, Mademoiselle Neroni, that every one of usis several people? In consequence I must confess to have beenwondering--?"

"Well! I wasn't. You won't believe it now, perhaps. And it doesn'tmatter, anyhow. " Her grave voice lifted and upon a sudden was changed. "Bobbie, when you had gone I couldn't stand it! I couldn't let you ruinyour life for me, but I could not go on as I had done before--Oh, well, you'll never understand, " she added, wearily. "But Von Anspach hadalways wanted me to go with him. So I wrote to him, at the Embassy. Andafter all, what is the good of talking--now!"

We two were curiously quiet. "No, I suppose there is no good in talkingnow. " We stood there, as yet, hand in hand. The mirror was candid. "Oh, Signorina, I want to laugh as God laughs, and I cannot!"

 3

But I lack the heart to set down all that brief and dreary talk ofours. How does it matter what we said? We two at least knew, even as wetalked, that all we said meant in the outcome, nothing. Yet we talkedawhile and spoke, I think, quite honestly. 

She was not unhappy; and there were inbred Lichfeldian traditions whichprompted me to virtuous indignation over her defects in remorse andmisery. There were my memories, too. 

"I don't sing very well, of course, but then I'm not dependent on mysinging, you know. Oh, why not be truthful? And Von Anspach always seesto it I get the tendered of criticism--in print. And, moreover, I've adeal put by. I'm a miser, _he_ says, and I suppose I am, because I knowwhat it is to be poor. So when the rainy day comes--as of course itwill, --I'll have quite enough to purchase a serviceable umbrella. Meanwhile, I have pretty much everything I want. People talk of course, but it is only on the stage they ever drive you out into a snow-storm. Besides, they don't talk to _me_. "

In fine, I found that the Neroni was a very different being from MissMontmorenci. . . . 

 4

Then I left her. I had not any inclination just now to pursue my fairElena. Rather I sat alone in my new bedroom, thinking, confusedly, first of Amelia Van Orden, and how I danced with her a good eight yearsago; of that woman who had come to me in remote Fairhaven, comingthrough the world's gutter, unsullied, --because that much I yetbelieve, although I do not know. . . . She may have been always the same, even in the old days when Lichfield thought her "fast, " and she wasmore or less "compromised, "--and years before I met her, a blind, inexperienced boy. Only she may then have been a better actress than Isuspected. . . . I thought, in any event, of those execrable rhymes thatlikened her to the Lady in _Comus_, moving serene and unafraid among arabble of threatening bestial shapes; and I thought of the woman whowould, by this time, be with Von Anspach. 

For here again were inbred Lichfieldian traditions of the sort I rarelydare confess to, even to myself, because they are so patently hideboundand ridiculous. These traditions told me that this woman, whom I hadloved, was Von Anspach's harlot. I might--and I did--endeavor to beironical and to be broadminded and to be up-to-date about the wholeaffair, and generally to view the matter through the sophisticated eyesof the author of The Apostates, that Robert Etheridge Townsend who wasa connoisseur of ironies and human foibles; but these futilities did nogood at all. Lichfield had got at and into me when I was too young todefend myself; and I could no more alter the inbred traditions ofLichfield, that were a part of me, than a carpet could change itstexture. My traditions merely told me that the dear woman whom Iremembered had come--in fleeing from discomforts which were unbearable, if that mattered--to be Von Anspach's harlot: and finding her this, mytraditions declined to be the least bit broadminded. In Lichfield suchwomen were simply not respectable; nor could you get around that factby going to Liége. 

There was in the room a _Matin, _ which contained a brief account of theburning of the Continental, and a very lengthy one of the Neroni'sappearance the night before. Drearily, to keep from thinking, I read adeal concerning _la gracieuse cantatrice américaine. _ Whether or notshe had made a fool of me with histrionics in Fairhaven, there was nodoubt that she had chosen wisely in forsaking Lethbury, and the roundof village "Opera Houses. " She had chosen, after all, and precisely asI had done, to make the most of youth while it lasted; and sheappeared, just now, to harvest prodigally. 

"On jouait Faust, " I read, "et jamais le célèbre personnage de Goethen'adore plus exquise Gretchen. Miss Nadine Neroni est, en effet, uneidéale Marguerite à la taille bien prise, au visage joli éclairé desdeux yeux grands et doux. Et lorsqu'elle commença à chanter, ce fut unvéritable ravissement: sa voix se fit l'interprète rêvée de la divinemusique de Gounod, tandis que sa personne et son coeur incarnaientphysiquement et moralement l'héroine de Goethe". . . . 

And so on, for Von Anspach had "seen to it, " prodigally. And "Oh, well!" I thought; "if everybody else is so extravagantly pleased, whatin heaven's name is the use of my being squeamish? Besides, she is onlydoing what I am doing, and getting all the pleasure out of life that ispossible. She and I are very sensible people. At least, I suppose weare. I wonder, though? Meanwhile, I had better go and look for thatpreposterously beautiful Elena. And a fig for the provincial notions ofLichfield, that are poisoning me with their nonsense! and for thenotions of Fairhaven, too, I suppose--"

 5

Then Charteris came into the room. "John, " said I, "this is a trulyremarkable world, and only hypercriticism would venture to suggest thatit is probably conducted by an inveterate humourist. So lend me thatpocket-piece of yours, and we will permit chance to settle the entirematter. That is the one intelligent way of treating anything which isreally serious. You probably believe I am Robert Etheridge Townsend, but as a matter of fact, I am Hercules in the allegory. So! thebeautiful lady or America? Why, the eagle flutters uppermost, and fromevery mountain side let praises ring. Accordingly I am off. "

"And you will cross half the world, " said Charteris, "in the greendressing-gown, or in the coat which Byam borrowed for you this morning?I do not wish to seem inquisitive, you understand--"

"No, I believe I am through with borrowed coats--as with yours, forinstance. But I am quite ready to go in my own dressing-gown ifnecessary--"

I wheeled at the door. 

"By the way, I am done with you, John. I am fond of you, and all that, and I sincerely admire my chimney-pot coquette--of whom you haven'theard, --but, after all, there are real people yonder. And by God, evenafter two years of being pickled in alcohol and chasing after womenthat are quite used to being chased--well, even now I am one of thosereal people. So I am done with you and this perpetual making light ofthings--!"

"The Declaration of Independence, " Charteris observed, "is undoubtedlythe best thing in imaginative literature that we Americans have as yetaccomplished; but I am sufficiently familiar with it, thank you, and Ifind, with age, that only the more untruthful platitudes are endurable. Oh, I predicted for you, at our first meeting, a life withoutachievements but of gusto! Now, it would appear, you plan to pranceamong an interminable saturnalia of the domestic virtues. So be it!but I warn you that the house of righteousness is but a wayside innupon the road to being a representative citizen. "

"You are talking nonsense, " I rapped out--"and immoral nonsense. "

"It is very strange, " John Charteris complained, "how so many of usmanage to reduce everything to a question of morality, --that is, to thealternative of being right or wrong. Now a man's personality, assomebody or other very properly observes, has many parts besides themoral area; and the intelligent, the artistic, even the religious part, need not necessarily have anything to do with ethics--"

"Ah, yes, " said I, "so there is a train at noon--"

"And a virtuous man, " continued Charteris, amicably, "is no more theperfect type of humanity than an intellectual man. In fact, the lowestand certainly the most disagreeable type of all troublesome people isthat which combines an immaculate past with a limited understanding. The religious tenets of this class consist of an unshakable belief thatthe Bible was originally written in English, and contains nothingapplicable to any of the week-days. And in consequence--"

I left him mid-course in speech. "Words, words!" said I; and itappeared to me for the moment that words were of astonishingly trivialimport, however carefully selected, which was in me a wholesome, although fleet, apostacy of yesterday's creed. And I sent a cablegramto Bettie Hamlyn. 

 6

It was on the trip homeward I first met with Celia Reindan. I thenconsidered her a silly little nuisance. . . . 

For I crossed the Atlantic in a contained fury of repentance for thewasted months. I had achieved nothing that was worthy of me, andpresently I would be dead. Why, I might die within the five minutes! Imight never see the lagging minute-hand of my little traveling clockpass that next numeral, say! The thought obsessed me, especially atnight. Once, in a panic, I rose from my berth, and pushed theminute-hand forward a half-hour. "Now, I have tricked You!" I said, aloud; for nervously I was footing a pretty large bill. At twenty-threeone has the funds wherewith to balance these accounts. . . . 

I wanted to live normally--to live as these persons thick about me, whoseemed to grow up, and mate, and beget, and die, in the incuriousfashion of oxen. I wanted to think only from hand to mouth, to think ifpossible not at all, and to be guided always in the conduct of my lifeby gross and obvious truisms, so that I must be judged at last but asone of the herd. "And what is accustomed--what holds of familiarusage--had come to seem the whole essence of wisdom, on all subjects";for I wanted just the sense of companionship, irrevocable and eternaland commonly shared with every one of my kind. And yonder was BettieHamlyn. . . . "Oh, make a man of me, Bettie! just a common man!"

And Bettie might have done it, one considers, even then, for I wasastir with a new impetus. Now, with a grin, the Supernal Aristophanesslipped the tiniest temptation in my way; to reach Fairhaven I wascompelled to spend some three hours of an April afternoon in Lichfield, where upon Regis Avenue was to be met, in the afternoon, everyone worthmeeting in Lichfield; and Stella drove there on fine afternoons, underthe protection of a trim and preternaturally grave tiger; and theafternoon was irreproachable. 

 7

By the way she looked back over her shoulder, I knew that Stella hadnot recognized me. I stood with a yet lifted hat, irresolute. 

"By Jove!" said I, in my soul, "then the Blagdens are in Lichfield!Why, of course! they always come here after Lent. And Bettie would notmind; to call on them would be only courteous; and besides, Bettie neednot ever know. And moreover, I was always very fond of Peter. "

So the next afternoon but four, Stella was making tea for me. . . . 

13. 

_He Baits Upon the Journey_

"You are quite by way of being a gentleman, " had been Stella'sgreeting, that afternoon. Then, on a sudden, she rested both hands uponmy breast. When she did that you tingled all over, in an agreeablefashion. "It was uncommonly decent of you to remember", said thisimpulsive young woman. "It was dear of you! And the flowers werelovely. "

"They ought to have been immortelles, of course, " I apologised, "butthe florist was out of them. Yes, and of daffodils, too. " I sat down, and sighed, pensively. "Dear, dear!" said I, "to think it was only twoyears ago I buried my dearest hopes and aspirations and--er--all thatsort of thing. "

"Nonsense!" said Stella, and selected a blue cup with dragons on it. "At any rate, " she continued, "it is very disagreeable of you to comehere and prate like a death's-head on my wedding anniversary. "

"Gracious gravy!" said I, with a fine surprise, "so it is ananniversary with you, too?" She was absorbed in the sugar-bowl. "What acoincidence!" I suggested, pleasantly. 

I paused. The fire crackled. I sighed. 

"You are such poor company, nowadays, even after the advantages offoreign travel, " Stella reflected. "You really ought to do something toenliven yourself. " After a little, she brightened as to the eyes, andconcentrated them upon the tea-making, and ventured a suggestion. "Whynot fall in love?" said Stella. 

"I am, " I confided, "already in that deplorable condition. "And I ventured on sigh number two. 

"I don't mean--anything silly, " said she, untruthfully. "Why, " shecontinued, with a certain lack of relevance, "why not fall in love withsomebody else?" Thereupon, I regret to say, her glance strayed towardthe mirror. Oh, she was vain, --I grant you that. But I must protest shehad a perfect right to be. 

"Yes, " said I, quite gravely, "that is the reason. "

"Nonsense!" said Stella, and tossed her head. She now assumed her mostmatronly air, and did mysterious things with a perforated silver ball. I was given to understand I had offended, by a severe compression ofher lips, which, however, was not as effective as it might have been. They twitched too mutinously. 

 2

Stella was all in pink, with golden fripperies sparkling inunanticipated localities. Presumably the gown was tucked and ruched andappliquéd, and had been subjected to other processes past thecomprehension of trousered humanity; it was certainly becoming. 

I think there was an eighteenth-century flavour about it, --for itsmacked, somehow, of a patched, mendacious, dainty womanhood, and itsartfulness was of a gallant sort that scorned to deceive. It defiedyou, it allured you, it conquered you at a glance. It might have beenthe last cry from the court of an innocent Louis Quinze. It was, infine, inimitable; and if only I were a milliner, I would describe foryou that gown in some not unbefitting fashion. As it is, you may draftthe world's modistes to dredge the dictionary, and they will fail, asignominiously as I would do, in the attempt. 

For, after all, its greatest charm was that it contained Stella, andconverted Stella into a marquise--not such an one as was her sister, the Marquise d'Arlanges, but a marquise out of Watteau or of Fragonard, say. Stella in this gown seemed out of place save upon a high-backedstone bench, set in an _allée_ of lime-trees, of course, and under aviolet sky, --with a sleek abbé or two for company, and with beribbonedgentlemen tinkling on their mandolins about her. 

I had really no choice but to regard her as an agreeable anachronismthe while she chatted with me, and mixed hot water and sugar and lemoninto ostensible tea. She seemed so out of place, --and yet, somehow, Ientertained no especial desire upon this sleety day to have herdifferent, nor, certainly, otherwhere than in this pleasant, half-litroom, that consisted mostly of ambiguous vistas where a variety ofbrass bric-à-brac blinked in the firelight. 

We had voted it cosier without lamps or candles, for this odoroustwilight was far more companionable. Odorous, for there were a greatnumber of pink roses about. I imagine that someone must have sentthem--because there were not any daffodils obtainable, by reason of thelate and nipping frost--in honour of Stella's second weddinganniversary. 

 3

"Peter says you talk to everybody that way, " quoth she, --almostresentfully, and after a pause. 

"Oh!" said I. For it was really no affair of Peter's. And so--

"Peter, everybody tells me, is getting fat, " I announced, presently. 

Stella witheringly glanced toward the region where my waist used to be. "He isn't!" said she, indignant. 

"Quite like a pig, they assure me, " I continued, with relish. Sheobjected to people being well-built. "His obscene bloatedness appearsto be an object of general comment. "

Silence. I stirred my tea. 

"Dear Peter!" said she. And then--but unless a woman of Stella's sortis able to exercise a proper control over her countenance, she hasabsolutely no right to discuss her husband with his bachelor friends. It is unkind; for it causes them to feel like social outcasts andlumbering brutes and Peeping Toms. If they know the husband well, itpositively awes them; for, after all, it is a bit overwhelming, thissudden glimpse of the simplicity, and the credulity, and the mercifulblindness of women in certain matters. Besides, a bachelor has nobusiness to know such things; it merely makes him envious anduncomfortable. 

Accordingly, "Stella, " said I, with firmness, "if you flaunt yourconnubial felicity in my face like that, I shall go home. "

She was deaf to my righteous rebuke. "Peter is in Washington thisweek, " she went on, looking fondly into the fire. "I had planned aparty to celebrate to-day, but he was compelled to go--business, youknow. He is doing so well nowadays, " she said, after a little, "that Iam quite insufferably proud of him. And I intend for him to be a greatlawyer--oh, much the greatest in America. And I won't ever be contenttill then. "

"H'm!" said I. "H'm" seemed fairly non-committal. 

"Sometimes, " Stella declared, irrelevantly, "I almost wish I had beenborn a man. "

"I wish you had been, " quoth I, in gallant wise. "There are so fewreally attractive men!"

Stella looked up with a smile that was half sad. 

"I'm just a little butterfly-woman, aren't I?" she asked. 

"You are, " I assented, with conviction, "a butterfly out of a queen'sgarden--a marvellous pink-and-gold butterfly, such as one sees only indreams and--er--in a London pantomime. You are a decided ornament tothe garden, " I continued, handsomely, "and the roses bow down inadmiration as you pass, and--ah--at least, the masculine ones do. "

"Yes, --we butterflies don't love one another overmuch, do we? Ah, well, it scarcely matters! We were not meant to be taken seriously, youknow, --only to play in the sunlight, and lend an air to the gardenand--amuse the roses, of course. After all, " Stella summed it up, "ourduties are very simple; first, we are expected to pass through acertain number of cotillions and a certain number of various happeningsin various tête-à-têtes; then to make a suitable match, --so as toenable the agreeable detrimentals to make love to us, with perfectsafety--as you were doing just now, for instance. And after that, wedevelop into bulbous chaperones, and may aspire eventually to a kindlyquarter of a column in the papers, and, quite possibly, the honour ofhaving as many as two dinners put off on account of our death. Yes, it is very simple. But, in heaven's name, " Stella demanded, with asudden lift of speech, "how can any woman--for, after all, a woman ispresumably a reasoning animal--be satisfied with such a life! Yet thatis everything--everything!--this big world offers to us shallow-mindedbutterfly-women!"

Personally, I disapprove of such morbid and hysterical talk outside ofa problem novel; there I heartily approve of it, on account of theconsiderable and harmless pleasure that is always to be derived fromthrowing the book into the fireplace. And, coming from Stella, thisfarrago doubly astounded me. She was talking grave nonsense now, whereas Nature had, beyond doubt, planned her to discuss only thelighter sort. So I decided it was quadruply absurd, little Stellatalking in this fashion, --Stella, who, as all knew, was only meant tobe petted and flattered and flirted with. 

And therefore, "Stella, " I admonished, "you have been reading somethingindigestible. " I set down my teacup, and I clasped my hands. "Don'ttell me, " I pleaded, "that you want to vote!"

She remained grave. "The trouble is, " said she, "that I am not really abutterfly, for all my tinsel wings. I am an ant. "

"Oh, " said I, shamelessly, "I hadn't heard that Lizzie had an item forthe census man. I don't care for brand-new babies, though; they alwayslook so disgracefully sun-burned. "

The pun was atrocious and, quite properly, failed to win a smile oreven a reproof from the morbid young person opposite. "My grandfather, "said she in meditation, "began as a clerk in a country store. Oh ofcourse, we have discovered, since he made his money and since Mothermarried a Musgrave, that his ancestors came over with William theConqueror, and that he was descended from any number of potentates. Buthe lived. He was a rip at first--ah, yes, I'm glad of that as well, --and he became a religious fanatic because his oldest son died veryhorribly of lockjaw. And he browbeat people and founded banks, and madea spectacle of himself at every Methodist conference, and everybody wasafraid of him and honoured him. And I fancy I am prouder of Old TimIngersoll than I am of any of the emperors and things that make such afine show in the Musgrave family tree. For I am like him. And I want toleave something in the world that wasn't there before I came. I want mylife to count, I want--why, a hundred years from now I _do_ want to besomething more than a name on a tombstone. I--oh, I daresay it _is_only my ridiculous egotism, " she ended, with a shrug and Stella's usualquick smile, --a smile not always free from insolence, but alwayssatisfactory, somehow. 

"It's late hours, " I warned her, with uplifted forefinger, "late hoursand too much bridge and too many sweetmeats and too much bothering oversilly New Women ideas. What is the sense of a woman's being useful, " Idemanded, conclusively, "when it is so much easier and so much moreagreeable all around for her to be adorable?"

She pouted. "Yes, " she assented, "that is my career--to be adorable. Itis my one accomplishment, " she declared, unblushingly, --yet not withoutsubstantiating evidence. 

After a little, though, her gravity returned. "When I was a girl--oh, Idreamed of accomplishing all sorts of beautiful and impossible things!But, you see, there was really nothing I could do. Music, painting, writing--I tried them all, and the results were hopeless. Besides, Rob, the women who succeed in anything like that are always so queerlooking. I couldn't be expected to give up my complexion for a career, you know, or to wear my hair like a golf-caddy's. At any rate, Icouldn't make a success by myself. But there was one thing I could do, --I could make a success of Peter. And so, " said Stella, calmly, "I didit. "

I said nothing. It seemed expedient. 

"You know, he was a little--"

"Yes, " I assented, hastily. Peter had gone the pace, of course, butthere was no need of raking that up. That was done with, long ago. 

"Well, he isn't the least bit dissipated now. You know he isn't. Thatis the first big thing I have done. " Stella checked it off with asmall, spear-pointed, glinting finger-nail. "Then--oh, I have helpedhim in lots of ways. He is doing splendidly in consequence; and it ismy part to see that the proper people are treated properly. "

Stella reflected a moment. "There was the last appointment, forinstance. I found that the awarding of it lay with that funny old JudgeWilloughby, with the wart on his nose, and I asked him for it--not thewart, you understand, --and got it. We simply had him to dinner, and Iwas specially butterfly; I fluttered airily about, was as silly as Iknew how to be, looked helpless and wore my best gown. He thought me apretty little fool, and gave Peter the appointment. That is only aninstance, but it shows how I help. " Stella regarded me, uncertainly. "Why, but an authorman ought to understand!"

Of a sudden I understood a number of things--things that had puzzled. This was the meaning of Stella's queer dinner the night before, and theensuing theatre-party, for instance; this was the explanation of thoseimpossible men, vaguely heralded as "very influential in politics, " andof the unaccountable women, painfully condensed in every lurid shade ofsatin, and so liberally adorned with gems as to make them almostvaluable. Stella, incapable by nature of two consecutive ideas, wasdetermined to manipulate the unseen wires, and to be, as she probablyphrased it, the power behind the throne. . . . 

"Eh, it would be laughable, " I thought, "were not her earnestness sopathetic! For here is Columbine mimicking Semiramis. "

Yet it was true that Peter Blagden had made tremendous strides in hisprofession, of late. For a moment, I wondered--? Then I looked at thisbutterfly young person opposite, and I frowned. "I don't like it, " Isaid, decisively. "It is a bit cold-blooded. It isn't worthy of you, Stella. "

"It is my career, " she flouted me, with shrugging shoulders. "It is theone career the world--our Lichfield world--has left me. And I am doingit for Peter. "

The absurd look that I objected to--on principle, you understand--returned at this point in the conversation. I arose, resolutely, for Iwas really unable to put up with her nonsense. 

"You are in love with your husband, " I grumbled, "and I cannotcountenance such eccentricities. These things are simply not done--"

She touched my hand. "Old crosspatch, and to think how near I came tomarrying you. "

"I do think of it--sometimes. So you had better stop pawing at me. Itisn't safe. "

I wish I could describe her smile. I wish I knew just what it was thatStella wanted me to say or do as we stood for a moment silent, in thispleasant, half-lit room where brass things blinked in the firelight. 

"Old crosspatch!" she repeated. . . . 

"Stella, " said I, with dignity, "I wish it distinctly understood that Iam not a funny old judge with a wart on his nose. "

Whereupon I went away. 

14. 

_He Participates in a Brave Jest_

Stella drove on fine afternoons, under the protection of a trim andpreternaturally grave tiger. The next afternoon, by a Lichfieldiantransition, was irreproachable. I was to remember, afterward, wonderingin a vague fashion, as the equipage passed, if the boy's lot was notrather enviable. There might well be less attractive methods of earningthe daily bread and butter than to whirl through life behind Stella. One would rarely see her face, of course, but there would be suchcompensations as an unfailing sense of her presence, and the faintodour of her hair at times and, always, blown scraps of her laughter orshreds of her talk, and, almost always, the piping of the sweet voicethat was stilled so rarely. 

Perhaps the conscienceless tiger listened when she was "seeing theproper people were treated properly"? Yes, one would. Perhaps he groundhis teeth? Well, one would, I suspected. And perhaps--?

There was a nod of recognition from Stella; and I lifted my hat as theybowled by toward the Reservoir. I went down Regis Avenue, mildlyresentful that she had not offered me a lift. 

 2

A vagrant puff of wind was abroad in the Boulevard that afternoon. Itpaused for a while to amuse itself with a stray bit of paper. Presentlythe wind grew tired of this plaything and tossed between the eyes of asorrel horse. Prince lurched and bolted; and Rex, always a viciousbrute, followed his mate. One fancies the vagabond wind must havelaughed over that which ensued. 

After a moment it returned and lifted a bit of paper from the roadway, with a new respect, perhaps, and the two of them frolicked away overclose-shaven turf. It was a merry game they played there in the springsunlight. The paper fluttered a little, whirled over and over, andscuttled off through the grass; with a gust of mirth, the wind wasafter it, now gained upon it, now lost ground in eddying about a tree, and now made up the disadvantage in the open, and at last chuckled overits playmate pinned to the earth and flapping in sharp, indignantremonstrances. Then _da capo_. 

It was a merry game that lasted till the angry sunset had flashed itsfinal palpitant lance through the treetrunks farther down the roadway. There were gaping people in this place, and broken wheels and shafts, and a policeman with a smoking pistol, and two dead horses, and ahorrible looking dead boy in yellow-topped boots. Somebody hadcharitably covered his face with a handkerchief; and men were lifting alimp, white heap from among the splintered rubbish. 

Then wind and paper played half-heartedly in the twilight until thenight had grown too chilly for further sport. There was no more murderto be done; and so the vagabond wind was puffed out into nothingness, and the bit of paper was left alone, and at about this season the bigstars--the incurious stars--peeped out of heaven, one by one. 

 3

It was Stella's sister, the Marquise d'Arlanges, who sent for me thatnight. Across the street a hand-organ ground out its jingling tune asLizzie's note told me what the playful wind had brought about. It was adespairing, hopeless and insistent air that shrilled and piped acrossthe way. It seemed very appropriate. 

The doctors feared--Ah, well, telegrams had failed to reach Peter inWashington. Peter Blagden was not in Washington, he had not been inWashington. He could not be found. And did I think--?

No, I thought none of the things that Stella's sister suggested. Of asudden I knew. I stood silent for a little and heard that damned, clutching tune cough and choke and end; I heard the renewed babblementof children; and I heard the organ clatter down the street, and set upits faint jingling in the distance. And I knew with an unreasoningsurety. I pitied Stella now ineffably, not for the maiming and cripplingof her body, for the spoiling of that tender miracle, that white flowerof flesh, but for the falling of her air-castle, the brave air-castlewhich to her meant everything. I guessed what had happened. 

Later I found Peter Blagden, no matter where. It is not particularly tomy credit that I knew where to look for him. Yet the French have asaying of infinite wisdom in their _qui a bu boira_. The old vice hadgripped the man, irresistibly, and he had stolen off to gratify it insecret; and he had not been sober for a week. He was on the verge ofcollapse even when I told him--oh, with a deliberate cruelty, I grantyou, --what had happened that afternoon. 

Then, swiftly, his demolishment came; and I could not--could not forvery shame--bring this shivering, weeping imbecile to the bedside ofStella, who was perhaps to die that night. Such was the news I broughtto Stella's sister; through desolate streets already blanching in thedawn. 

Stella was calling for Peter. We manufactured explanations. 

 4

Nice customs curtsey to death. I am standing at Stella's bedside, andthe white-capped nurse has gone. There are dim lights about the room, and heavy carts lumber by in the dawn without. A petulant sparrow ischeeping somewhere. 

"Tell me the truth, " says Stella, pleadingly. Her face, showing overbillows of bedclothes, is as pale as they. But beautiful, andexceedingly beautiful, is Stella's face, now that she is come to die. 

It heartened me to lie to her. Peter had been retained in the greatWestern Railway case. He had been called to Denver, San Franciscoand--I forget today just why or even whither. He had kept it as asurprise for her. He was hurrying back. He would arrive in two days. Ishowed her telegrams from Peter Blagden, --clumsy forgeries I hadconcocted in the last half-hour. 

Oh, the story ran lamely, I grant you. But, vanity apart, I told itwith conviction. Stella must and should die in content; that much atleast I could purchase for her; and my thoughts were strangely nimble, there was a devilish fluency in my speech, and lie after lie was fittedsomehow into an entity that surprised even me as it took plausibleform. And I got my reward. Little by little, the doubt died from hereyes as I lied stubbornly in a drug-scented silence; a little by alittle, her cheeks flushed brighter, and ever brighter, as I dilated onthis wonderful success that had come to Peter Blagden, till at last herface was all aflame with happiness. 

She had dreamed of this, half conscious of her folly; she had workedtoward this consummation for months. But she had hardly dared to hopefor absolute success; it almost worried her; and she could not becertain, even now, whether it was the soup or her blue silk that hadinfluenced Allardyce most potently. Both had been planned to wheedlehim, to gain this glorious chance for Peter Blagden. . . . 

"You--you are sure you are not lying?" said Stella, and smiled inspeaking, for she believed me infinitely. 

"Stella, before God, it is true!" I said, with fervour. "On my word ofhonour, it is as I tell you!" And my heart was sick within me as Ithought of the stuttering brute, the painted female thing with tumbledhair, and the stench of liquor in the room--Ah, well, the God I calledto witness strengthened me to smile back at Stella. 

"I believe you, " she said, simply. "I--I am glad. It is a big thing forPeter. " Her eyes widened in wonder and pride, and she dreamed for justa moment of his future. But, upon a sudden, her face fell. "Dear, dear!" said Stella, petulantly; "I'd forgotten. I'll be dead by then. "

"Stella! Stella!" I cried, and very hoarsely; "why--why, nonsense, child! The doctor thinks--he is quite sure, I mean--" I had a horribledesire to laugh. Heine was right; there is an Aristophanes in heaven. 

"Ah, I know, " she interrupted. "I am a little afraid to die, " she wenton, reflectively. "If one only knew--" Stella paused for a moment; thenshe smiled. "After all, " she said, "it isn't as if I hadn'taccomplished anything. I have made Peter. The ball is at his feet now;he has only to kick it. And I helped. "

"Yes, " said I. My voice was shaken, broken out of all control. "Youhave helped. Why, you have done everything, Stella! There is not ayoung man in America with his prospects. In five years, he will be oneof our greatest lawyers, --everybody says so--everybody! And you havedone it all, Stella--every bit of it! You have made a man of him, Itell you! Look at what he was!--and then look at what he is! And--andyou talk of leaving him now! Why, it's preposterous! Peter needs you, Itell you--he needs you to cajole the proper people and keep him steadyand--and--Why, you artful young woman, how could he possibly get onwithout you, do you think? Oh, how can any of us get on without you?You _must_ get well, I tell you. In a month, you will be right as atrivet. You die! Why, nonsense!" I laughed. I feared I would never havedone with laughter over the idea of Stella's dying. 

"But I have done all I could. And so he doesn't need me now. " Stellameditated for yet another moment. "I believe I shall always know whenhe does anything especially big. God would be sure to tell me, you see, because He understands how much it means to me. And I shall beproud--ah, yes, wherever I am, I shall be proud of Peter. You see, hedidn't really care about being a success, for of course he knows thatUncle Larry will leave him a great deal of money one of these days. ButI am such a vain little cat--so bent on making a noise in the world, --that, I think, he did it more to please my vanity than anything else. I nagged him, frightfully, you know, " Stella confessed, "but he wasalways--oh, _so_ dear about it, Rob! And he has never failed me--noteven once, although I know at times it has been very hard for him. "Stella sighed; and then laughed. "Yes, " said she, "I think I amsatisfied with my life altogether. Somehow, I am sure I shall be toldabout it when he is a power in the world--a power for good, as he willbe, --and then I shall be very perky--somewhere. I ought to sing _NuncDimittis_, oughtn't I?" I was not unmoved; nor did it ever lie withinmy power to be unmoved when I thought of Stella and how gaily she wentto meet her death. . . . 

 5

"Good-bye, " said she, in a tired voice. 

"Good-bye, Stella, " said I; and I kissed her. 

"And I don't think you are a mess. And I _don't_ hate you. " She wassmiling very strangely. "Yes, I remember that first time. And no matterwhat they said, I always cared heaps more about you, Rob, than I daredlet you know. And if only you had been as dependable as Peter--But, yousee, you weren't--"

"No, dear, you did the right thing--what was best for all of us--"

"Then don't mind so much. Oh, Bob, it hurts me to see you mind so much!You aren't--being dependable, like Peter, even now, " she said, reproachfully. . . . 

Heine was right; there is an Aristophanes in heaven. 

15. 

_He Decides to Amuse Himself_

I came to Fairhaven half-bedrugged with memories of Stella's funeral, --say, of how lightly she had lain, all white and gold, in thegrotesque and horrid box, and of Peter's vacant red-rimmed eyes thatseemed to wonder why this decorous company should have assembled aboutthe deep and white-lined cavity at his feet and find no answer. Nor, for that matter, could I. 

"But it was flagrant, flagrant!" my heart screeched in a grill ofimpotent wrath. "Eh, You gave me power to reason, so they say! and willYou slay me, too, if I presume to use that power? I say, then, it wasflagrant and tyrannical and absurd! 'Let twenty pass, and stone thetwenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so!' O Setebos, itwasn't worthy of omnipotence. You know it wasn't!" In such a frame ofmind I came again to Bettie Hamlyn. 

 2

It was very odd to see Bettie again. I had been sublimely confident, though, that we would pick up our intercourse precisely where we hadleft off; and this, as I now know, is something which can never happento anybody. So I was vaguely irritated before we had finished shakinghands, and became so resolutely boyish and effusive in my delight atseeing her that anyone in the world but Bettie Hamlyn would have beenquite touched. And my conversational gambit, I protest, was masterly, and would have made anybody else think, "Oh how candid is the egotismof this child!" and would have moved that person, metaphoricallyanyhow, to pat me upon the head. 

But Bettie only smiled, a little sadly, and answered:

"Your book?--Why, dear me, did I forget to write you a nice littleletter about how wonderful it was?"

"You wrote the letter all right. I think you copied it out of _TheComplete Letter Writer_. There was not a bit of you in it. "

"Well, that is why I dislike your book--because there was not a bit of_you_ in it. Of course I am glad it was the big noise of the month, andalso a little jealous of it, if you can understand that phase of thefeminine mind. I doubt it, because you write about women as though theywere pterodactyls or some other extinct animal, which you had neverseen, but had read a lot about. "

"Which attests, in any event, my morals to be above reproach. Youshould be pleased. "

"To roll it into a pill, your book seems pretty much like any otherbook; and it has made me hold my own particular boy's picture more thanonce against my cheek and say, 'You didn't write books, did you, dear?--You did nicer things than write books'--and he did . . . . I hear manythings of you. . . . "

"Oh, well!" I brilliantly retorted, "you mustn't believe all you hear. "And I felt that matters were going very badly indeed. 

"Robin, do you not know that your mess of pottage must be eaten withyou by the people who care for you?--and one of them dislikes pottage. Indeed, I _would_ have liked the book, had anybody else written it. Ialmost like it as it is, in spots, and sometimes I even go to the greatlength of liking you, --because 'if only for old sake's sake, dear, you're the loveliest doll in the world. ' There might be a betterreason, if you could only make up your mind to dispense withpottage. . . . "

The odd part of it, even to-day, is that Bettie was saying preciselywhat I had been thinking, and that to hear her say it made me justtwice as petulant as I was already. 

"Now, please don't preach, " I said. "I've heard so much preachinglately--dear, " I added, though I am afraid the word was ratherobviously an afterthought. 

"Oh, I forgot you stayed over for Stella Blagden's funeral. You werequite right. Stella was a dear child, and I was really sorry to hear ofher death. "

"Really!" It was the lightest possible additional flick upon the raw, but it served. 

"Yes, --I, too, was rather sorry, Bettie, because I have loved Stellaall my life. She was the first, you see, and, somehow, the others havebeen different. And--she disliked dying. I tell you, it is unfair, Bettie, --it is hideously unfair!"

"Robin--" she began. 

"And why should you be living, " I said, in half-conscious absurdity, "when she is dead? Why, look, Bettie! even that fly yonder is alive. Setebos accords an insect what He grudges Stella! Her dying is not evenparticularly important. The big news of the day is that the Presidenthas started his Pacific tour, and that the Harvard graduates object tohis being given an honorary degree, and are sending out seven thousandprotests to be signed. And you're alive, and I'm alive, and PeterBlagden is alive, and only Stella is dead. I suppose she is an angel bythis. But I don't care for angels. I want just the silly little Stellathat I loved, --the Stella that was the first and will always be thefirst with me. For I want her--just Stella--! Oh, it is an excellentjest; and I will cap it with another now. For the true joke is, I cameto Fairhaven, across half the world, with an insane notion of askingyou to marry me, --you who are 'really' sorry that Stella is dead!" AndI laughed as pleasantly as one may do in anger. 

But the girl, too, was angry. "Marry you!" she said. "Why, Robin, youwere wonderful once; and now you are simply not a bad sort of fellow, who imagines himself to be the hit of the entire piece. And whethershe's dead or not, she never had two grains of sense, but just enoughto make a spectacle of you, even now. "

"I regret that I should have sailed so far into the north of youropinion, " said I. "Though, as I dare assert, you are quite probably inthe right. So I'll be off to my husks again, Bettie. " And I kissed herhand. "And that too is only for old sake's sake, dear, " I said. 

Then I returned to the railway station in time for the afternoon train. And I spoke with no one else in Fairhaven, except to grunt "Goodevening, gentlemen, " as I passed Clarriker's Emporium, where ColonelSnawley and Dr. Jeal were sitting in arm chairs, very much as I hadleft them there two years ago. 

 3

It was a long while afterward I discovered that "some damnedgood-natured friend, " as Sir Fretful has immortally phrased it, hadtold Bettie Hamlyn of seeing me at the theatre in Lichfield, withStella and her marvellous dinner-company. It was by an odd quirk theonce Aurelia Minns, in Lichfield for the "summer's shopping, " who hadtold Bettie. And the fact is that I had written Bettie upon the day ofStella's death and, without explicitly saying so, had certainlyconveyed the impression I had reached Lichfield that very morning, andwas simply stopping over for Stella's funeral. And, in addition, Icannot say that Bettie and Stella were particularly fond of each other. 

As it was, I left Fairhaven the same day I reached it, and in somedissatisfaction with the universe. And I returned to Lichfield andpresently reopened part of the old Townsend house . . . . "Robert and I, "my mother had said, to Lichfield's delectation, "just live downstairsin the two lower stories, and ostracise the third floor. . . . " And I wasreceived by Lichfield society, if not with open arms at least withacquiescence. And Byam, an invaluable mulatto, the son of my cousinDick Townsend and his housekeeper, made me quite comfortable. 

Depend upon it, Lichfield knew a deal more concerning my escapades thanI did. That I was "deplorably wild" was generally agreed, and areasonable number of seductions, murders and arsons was, no doubt, accredited to me "on quite unimpeachable authority, my dear. "

But I was a Townsend, and Lichfield had been case-hardened toTownsendian vagaries since Colonial days; and, besides, I had written abook which had been talked about; and, as an afterthought, I wasreputed not to be an absolute pauper, if only because my father hadtaken the precaution, customary with the Townsends, to marry a womanwith enough money to gild the bonds of matrimony. For Lichfield, luckily, was not aware how near my pleasure-loving parents had come, between them, to spending the last cent of this once ample fortune. 

And, in fine, "Well, really now--?" said Lichfield. Then there was atentative invitation or two, and I cut the knot by accepting all ofthem, and talking to every woman as though she were the solitaryspecimen of feminity extant. It was presently agreed that gossip oftenembroidered the actual occurrence and that wild oats were, after all, anot unheard-of phenomenon, and that though genius very often, in aphrase, forgot to comb its hair, these tonsorial deficiencies were bythe broadminded not appraised too strictly. 

I did not greatly care what Lichfield said one way or the other. I wastoo deeply engrossed: first, in correcting the final proofs of_Afield_, my second book, which appeared that spring and was builtaround--there is no harm in saying now, --my relations with GillianHardress; secondly, in the remunerative and uninteresting task ofwriting for _Woman's Weekly_ five "wholesome love-stories with a dashof humor, " in which She either fell into His arms "with a contentedsigh" or else "their lips met" somewhere toward the ending of theseventh page; and, thirdly, in diverting myself with Celia Reindan. . . . 

 4

That, though, is a business I shall not detail, because it was one ofthe very vulgarest sort. It was the logical outgrowth of my admirationfor her yellow hair, --she did have extraordinary hair, confound her!--and of a few moonlit nights. It was simply the result of our commonvanity and of her book-fed sentimentality and, eventually, of herunbridled temper; and in nature the compound was an unsavoury messwhich thoroughly delighted Lichfield. Lichfield will be only too glad, even nowadays, to discourse to you of how I got wedged in that infernaltransom, and of how Celia alarmed everybody within two blocks of herbedroom by her wild yells. 

 5

I had meanwhile decided, first, to write another and a better book than_The Apostates_ or _Afield_ had ever pretended to be; and afterward tomarry Rosalind Jemmett, whom I found, in my too-hackneyed but habitualphrase, "adorable. " For this Rosalind was an eminently "sensiblematch, " and as such, I considered, quite appropriate for a Townsend. 

The main thing though, to me, was to write the book of which I hadalready the central idea, --very vague, as yet, but of an unquestionablemagnificence. Development of it, on an at all commensurate scale, necessitated many inconveniences, and among them, the finding ofsomeone who would assist me in imbuing the love-scenes--of which theremust unfortunately be a great many--with reality; and for the tale's_milieu_ I again pitched upon the Green Chalybeate, --where, as you mayremember, I first met with Stella. 

So I said a not unpromising farewell to Rosalind Jemmett, who was goinginto Canada for the summer. She was quite frankly grieved by theabsolute necessity of my taking a rigorous course of the Chalybeatewaters, but agreed with me that one's health is not to be trifled with. And of course she would write if I really wanted her to, though shecouldn't imagine _why_--But I explained why, with not a little detail. And she told me, truthfully, that I was talking like an idiot; and wasnot, I thought, irrevocably disgusted by my idiocy. So that, all inall, I was not discontented when I left her. 

Then I ordered Byam to pack and, by various unveraciousrepresentations, induced my Uncle George Bulmer--as a sort of visibleand outward sign that I forgave him for declining to lend me anotherpenny--to accompany me to the Green Chalybeate. Besides, I was fond ofthe old scoundrel. . . . 

 6

When I began to scribble these haphazard memories I had designed to bevery droll concerning the "provincialism" of Lichfield; for, as everyinhabitant of it will tell you, it is "quite hopelessly provincial, "--and this is odd, seeing that, as investigation will assure you, thecity is exclusively inhabited by self-confessed cosmopolitans. I hadmeant to depict Fairhaven, too, in the broad style of _Cranford_, say;and to be so absolutely side-splitting when I touched upon the GreenChalybeate as positively to endanger the existence of any apoplecticreader, who presumed to peruse the chapter which dealt with thisresort. 

But, upon reflection, I am too familiar with these places to attempt totreat them humorously. The persons who frequent their byways are toomuch like the persons who frequent the byways of any other place, Ifind, at bottom. For to write convincingly of the persons peculiar toany locality it is necessary either to have thoroughly misunderstoodthem, or else perseveringly to have been absent from daily intercoursewith them until age has hardened the brain-cells, and you haveforgotten what they are really like. Then, alone, you may write thenecessary character studies which will be sufficiently abundant inhuman interest. 

For, at bottom, any one of us is tediously like any other. Comprehension is the grave of sympathy; scratch deeply enough and youwill find not any livelily-coloured Tartarism, but just a mediocre andthoroughly uninteresting human being. So I may not ever be so droll asI had meant to be; and if you wish to chuckle over the grotesque placesI have lived in, you must apply to persons who have spent two weeksthere, and no more. 

For the rest, Lichfield, and Fairhaven also, got at and into me when Iwas too young to defend myself. Therefore Lichfield and Fairhavencannot ever, really, seem to me grotesque. To the contrary, it is theother places which must always appear to me a little queer when judgedby the standards of Fairhaven and Lichfield. 

16. 

_He Seeks for Copy_

I had aforetime ordered Mr. George Bulmer to read _The Apostates_, and, as the author of this volume explained, from motives that were purelywell-meaning. To-night I was superintending the process. 

"For the scene of the book is the Green Chalybeate, " said I; "and itmay be my masterly rhetoric will so far awaken your benighted soul, Uncle George, as to enable you to perceive what the more immediatescenery is really like. Why, think of it! what if you should presentlyfall so deeply in love with the adjacent mountains as to consent tooverlook the deficiencies of the more adjacent café! Try now, nunky!try hard to think that the right verb is really more important than theright vermouth! and you have no idea what good it may do you. "

Mr. Bulmer read on, with a bewildered face, while I gently stirred thecontents of my tall and delectably odored glass. It was "frosted" to anicety. We were drinking "Mamie Taylors" that summer, you may remember;and I had just brought up a pitcherful from the bar. 

"Oh, I say, you know!" observed Uncle George, as he finished the sixthchapter, and flung down the book. 

"Rot, utter rot, " I assented pleasantly; "puerile and futile triflingwith fragments of the seventh commandment, as your sturdy common-senseinstantly detected. In fact, " I added, hopefully, "I think that chapteris trivial enough to send the book into a tenth edition. In _Afield_, you know, I tried a different tack. Actuated by the noblest sentiments, the heroine mixes prussic acid with her father's whiskey and water; and'Old-Fashioned' and 'Fair Play' have been obliging enough to write tothe newspapers about this harrowing instance of the deplorably lowmoral standards of to-day. Uncle George, do you think that a real ladyis ever justified in obliterating a paternal relative? You ought tomeditate upon that problem, for it is really a public questionnowadays. Oh, and there was a quite lovely clipping last week I forgotto show you--all about Electra, as contrasted with Jonas Chuzzlewit, and my fine impersonal attitude, and the survival of the fittest, andso on. "

But Uncle George refused to be comforted. "Look here, Bob!" said he, pathetically, "why don't you brace up and write something--well! we'llput it, something of the sort you _can_ do. For you can, you know. "

"Ah, but is not a judicious nastiness the market-price of a secondedition before publication?" I softly queried. "I had no money. I wasashamed to beg, and I was too well brought up to steal anythingadroitly enough not to be caught. And so, in view of my own uncle'sdeafness to the prayers of an impecunious orphan, I have descended tothis that I might furnish butter for my daily bread. " I refilled myglass and held the sparkling drink for a moment against the light. "This time next year, " said I, as dreamily, "I shall be able to affordcake; for I shall have written _As the Coming of Dawn_. "

Mr. Bulmer sniffed, and likewise refilled his glass. "You catch melending you any money for your--brief Biblical words!" he said. 

"For the reign of subtle immorality, " I sighed, "is well-nigh over. Already the augurs of the pen begin to wink as they fable of a race ofmen who are evilly scintillant in talk and gracefully erotic. We knowthat this, alas, cannot be, and that in real life our peccadilloesdwindle into dreary vistas of divorce cases and the police-court, andthat crime has lost its splendour. We sin very carelessly--sordidly, attimes, --and artistic wickedness is rare. It is a pity; life was once ascarlet volume scattered with misty-coated demons; it is now a yellowjournal, wherein our vices are the hackneyed formulas of journalists, and our virtues are the not infrequent misprints. Yes, it is a pity!"

"Dearest Robert!" remonstrated Mr. Bulmer, "you are sadly _passé_: thatpose is of the Beardsley period and went out many magazines ago. "

"The point is well taken, " I admitted, "for our life of to-day isalready reflected--faintly, I grant you, --in the best-selling books. Wehave passed through the period of a slavish admiration for wickednessand wide margins; our quondam decadents now snigger in a parody ofprimeval innocence, and many things are forgiven the latter-day poet ifhis botany be irreproachable. Indeed, it is quite time; for we havetossed over the contents of every closet in the _menage à trois_. AndI--_moi, qui vous parle_, --I am wearied of hansom-cabs and the flaringlights of great cities, even as so alluringly depicted in _Afield_; andhenceforth I shall demonstrate the beauty of pastoral innocence. "

"Saul among the prophets, " Uncle George suggested, helpfully. 

"Quite so, " I assented, "and my first prophecy will be _As the Comingof Dawn_. "

Mr. Bulmer tapped his forehead significantly. "Mad, quite mad!" saidhe, in parenthesis. 

"I shall be idyllic, " I continued, sweetly; "I shall write of theineffable glory of first love. I shall babble of green fields and thekeen odours of spring and the shamefaced countenances of lovers, metafter last night's kissing. It will be the story of love that stirsblindly in the hearts of maids and youths, and does not know that it islove, --the love which manhood has half forgotten and that youth has notthe skill to write of. But I, at twenty-four, shall write its story asit has never been written; and I shall make a great book of it, thatwill go into thousands and thousands of editions. Yes, before heaven, Iwill!"

I brought my fist down, emphatically, on the table. 

"H'm!" said Mr. Bulmer, dubiously; "going back to renew associationswith your first love? I have tried it, and I generally find hergrandchildren terribly in the way. "

"It is imperative, " said I, --"yes, imperative for the scope of my book, that I should view life through youthful and unsophisticated eyes. Idiscovered that, upon the whole, Miss Jemmett is too obviously an urbanproduct to serve my purpose. And I can't find any one who will. "

Uncle George whistled softly. "'Honourable young gentleman, '" hemurmured, as to himself, "'desires to meet attractive and innocentyoung lady. Object: to learn how to be idyllic in three-hundredpages. '"

There was no commentary upon his text. 

"I say, " queried Mr. Bulmer, "do you think this sort of thing is fairto the girl? Isn't it a little cold-blooded?"

"Respected nunky, you are at times very terribly the man in the street!Anyhow, I leave the Green Chalybeate to-morrow in search of _As theComing of Dawn_. "

"Look here, " said Mr. Bulmer, rising, "if you start on a tour of thecountry, looking for assorted dawns and idylls, it will end in myabducting you from some rustic institution for the insane. You take aliver-pill and go to bed! I don't promise anything, mind, but perhapsabout the first I can manage a little cheque if only you will make oathon a few Bibles not to tank up on it in Lichfield. The transoms there, "he added unkindlily, "are not built for those full rich figures. "

Next morning, I notified the desk-clerk, and, quite casually, both thenewspaper correspondents, that the Green Chalybeate was about to bebereft of the presence of a distinguished novelist. Then, as my traindid not leave till night, I resolved to be bored on horseback, ratherthan on the golf-links, and had Guendolen summoned, from the stable, for a final investigation of the country roads thereabouts. 

Guendolen this afternoon elected to follow a new route; and knowing byexperience that any questioning of this decision could but result inundignified defeat, I assented. Thus it came about that we circledparallel to the boardwalk, which leads uphill to the deserted RoyalHotel, and passed its rows of broken windows; and went downhill again, always at Guendolen's election; and thus came to the creek, whichbabbled across the roadway and was overhung with thick foliage thatlisped and whispered cheerfully in the placid light of the decliningsun. It was there that the germ of _As the Coming of Dawn_ was found. 

For I had fallen into a reverie over the deplorable obstinacy of my newheroine, who declined, for all my labours, to be unsophisticated; andtaking advantage of this, Guendolen had twitched the reins from my handand proceeded to satisfy her thirst in a manner that was rather toonoisy to be quite good form. I sat in patience, idly observing thesparkling reflection of the sunlight on the water. I was elaborating acomparison between my obstinate heroine and Guendolen. Then Guendolensnorted, as something rustled through the underbrush, and turning, Iperceived a Vision. 

The Vision was in white, with a profusion of open-work. There were blueribbons connected with it. There were also black eyes, of thealmond-shaped, heavy-lidded variety that I had thought existed only inLely's pictures, and great coils of brown hair which was gold where thechequered sunlight fell upon it, and two lips that were inexpressiblyred. I was filled with pity for my tired horse, and a resolve that forthis once her thirst should be quenched. 

Thereupon, I lifted my cap hastily; and Guendolen scrambled to theother bank, and spluttered, and had carried me well past the IronSpring, before I announced to the evening air that I was a fool, andthat Guendolen was describable by various quite picturesque andderogatory epithets. And I smiled. 

"Now, Robert Etheridge Townsend, you writer of books, here is a subjectmade to your hand!" And then:

 "Only 'twixt the light and shadeFloating memories of my maidMake me pray for Guendolen. "

After this we retraced our steps. I was peering anxiously about theroadway. 

"Pardon me, " said I, subsequently; "but _have_ you seen anything of awatch--a small gold one, set with pearls?"

"Heavens!" said the Vision, sympathetically, "what a pity! Are you sureit fell here?"

"I don't seem to have it about me, " I answered, with cryptic, butentire veracity. I searched about my pockets, with a puckered brow. "And as we stopped here--"

I looked inquiringly into the water. 

"From this side, " observed the Vision, impersonally, "there is lessglare from the brook. "

Having tied Guendolen to a swinging limb, I sat down contentedly inthese woods. The Vision moved a little, lest I be crowded. 

"It might be further up the road, " she suggested. 

"Oh, I must have left it at the hotel, " I observed. 

"You might look--" said she, peering into the water. 

"Forever!" I assented. 

The Vision flushed, "I didn't mean--" she began. 

"But I did, " quoth I, --"and every word of it. "

"Why, in that case, " said she, and rose to her feet, "I'd better--" Afrown wrinkled her brow; then a deep, curved dimple performed a similaroffice for her cheek. "I wonder--" said she. 

"Why, you would be a bold-faced jig, " said I, composedly; "but, afterall there is nobody about. And, besides, --for I suspect you of beingone of the three dilapidated persons in veils who came last night, --weare going to be introduced right after supper, anyway. "

The Vision sat down. "You mentioned your sanatorium?" quoth she. 

"The Asylum of Love, " said I; "discharged--under a false impression, --as cured, and sent to paradise. 

"Oh!" said I, defiant, "but it _is_!"

She looked about her. "The woods _are_ rather beautiful, " she conceded, softly. 

"They form a quite appropriate background, " said I. "It is a veritableEden, before the coming of the snake. "

"Before?" she queried, dubiously. 

"Undoubtedly, " said I, and felt my ribs, in meditative wise. "Ah, but Ithought I missed something! We participate in a historic moment. Thisis in Eden immediately after the creation of--Well, but of course youare acquainted with that famous bull about Eve's being the fairest ofher daughters?"

"It is _quite_ time, " said she, judicially, "for me to go back to thehotel, before--since we are speaking of animals, --your presence here isnoticed by one of the squirrels. "

"It is not good, " I pleaded, "for man to be alone. "

"I have heard, " said she, "that--almost any one can cite scripture tohis purpose. "

I thrust out a foot for inspection. "No suggestion of a hoof, " said I;"and not the slightest odour of brimstone, as you will kindly note; andmy inoffensive name is Robert Townsend. "

"Of course, " she submitted, "I could never think of making youracquaintance in this irregular fashion; and, therefore, of course, Icould not think of telling you that my name is Marian Winwood. "

"Of course not, " I agreed; "it would be highly improper. "

"--And it is more than time for me to go to supper, " she concludedagain, with a lacuna, as it seemed to me, in the deduction. 

"Look here!" I remonstrated; "it isn't anywhere near six yet. " Iexhibited my watch to support this statement. 

"Oh!" she observed, with wide, indignant eyes. 

"I--I mean--" I stammered. 

She rose to her feet. 

"--I will explain how I happened to be carrying two watches--"

"I do not care to listen to any explanations. Why should I?"

"--upon, " I firmly said, "the third piazza of the hotel. And this veryevening. "

"You will not. " And this was said even more firmly. "And I hope youwill have the kindness to keep away from these woods; for I shallprobably always walk here in the afternoon. " Then, with an indignanttoss of the head, the Vision disappeared. 

 3

I whistled. Subsequently I galloped back to the hotel. 

"See here!" said I, to the desk-clerk; "how long does this place keepopen?"

"Season closes latter part of September, sir. "

I told him I would need my rooms till then. 

17. 

_He Provides Copy_

So it was Uncle George Bulmer who presently left the Green Chalybeate, to pursue Mrs. Chaytor with his lawless arts. I stayed out the season. 

Now I cannot conscientiously recommend the Green Chalybeate againstyour next vacation. Once very long ago, it was frequented equally forthe sake of gaiety and of health. In the summer that was Marian's theresort was a beautiful and tumble-down place where invalids congregatedfor the sake of the nauseous waters, --which infallibly demolish a solidcolumn of strange maladies I never read quite through, although itbordered every page of the writing-paper you got there from thedesk-clerk, --and a scanty leaven of persons who came thither, apparently, in order to spend a week or two in lamenting "how very dullthe season is this year, and how abominable the fare is. "

But for one I praise the place, and I believe that Marian Winwood alsobears it no ill-will. For we two were very happy there. We took part inthe "subscription euchres" whenever we could not in time devise anexcuse which would pass muster with the haggard "entertainer. " Wedanced conscientiously beneath the pink and green icing of theball-room's ceiling, with all three of the band playing _Hearts andFlowers_; and with a dozen "chaperones"--whom I always suspected oftaking in washing during the winter months, --lined up as closely as waspossible to the door, as if in preparation for the hotel's catchingfire any moment, to give us pessimistic observal. And having thusdischarged our duty to society at large, we enjoyed ourselvestremendously. 

For instance, we would talk over the book I was going to write in theautumn. That was the main thing. Then one could golf, or drive, or--Iblush to write it even now--croquet. Croquet, though, is a muchmaligned game, as you will immediately discover if you ever play it onthe rambling lawn of the Chalybeate, about six in the afternoon, say, when the grass is greener than it is by ordinary, and the shadows arelong, and the sun is well beneath the tree-tops of the Iron Bank, andyour opponent makes a face at you occasionally, and on each side theold, one-storied cottages are builded of unusually red bricks and arequite ineffably asleep. 

Or again there is always the creek to divert yourself in. Once I caughtfive crawfishes there, while Marian waited on the bank; and afterwardwe found an old tomato-can and boiled them in it, and they came out areally gorgeous crimson. This was the afternoon that we were SpanishInquisitors. . . . Oh, believe me, you can have quite a good time at theChalybeate, if you set about it in the proper way. 

 2

Only it is true that sometimes, when it rained, say, with that hopelessinsistency which, I protest, is unknown anywhere else in the world; andwhen Marian was not immediately accessible, and cigarettes were notquite satisfactory, because the entire universe was so sodden thatmatches had to be judiciously coaxed before they would strike; and whenif you happened to be writing a fervid letter to Rosalind Jemmett, letus say, the ink would not dry for ever so long:--why, it is true thatin these circumstances you would feel a shade too like the wicked LordSo-and-So of a melodrama to be comfortable. 

Yet even in these circumstances, reason told me that the Book was themain thing, that the girl would be thoroughly over the affair byNovember at latest, and that at the cost of a few inconsequent tears, she would have meanwhile immeasurably obliged posterity. And I knewthat no man may ever write in perdurable fashion save by ruthlesslyconverting his own life into "copy, " since of other persons' lives hecan, at most, reproduce but the blurred and misinterpreted by-ends, byreason of almost any author's deplorable lack of omniscience. Yes, theBook was the main thing; and yet the girl--knowingly to dip my pen intoher heart as into an inkstand was not, at best, chivalric. . . . 

"But the Book!" said I. "Why, I must be quite idiotically in love tothink of letting that Book perish!" And I viciously added: "Confoundthe pretty simpleton!". . . 

 3

So the book was builded, after all, a little by a little. Hardly anevening came when after leaving Marian I had not at least one excellentand pregnant jotting to record in my note-book. Now it would be just anodd turn of language, or a description of some gesture she had made, orof a gown she had worn that day; and now a simile or some other rathergood figure of speech which had popped into my mind when I was makinglove to her. 

Nor had I any difficulty in preserving nearly all she said to me, forMarian was never a chatterbox; yet her responses had, somehow, thatlong-sought tang it wasn't in me to invent for any imaginary youngwoman who must be, for the sake of my new novel, quite heels over headin love. 

And I began to see that Bettie was right, as usual. I had portrayedGillian Hardress pretty well in _Afield_; but by and large, I hadalways written about women as though they were "pterodactyls or someother extinct animal, which you had never seen, but had read a lotabout. "

And now, in looking over my notes, I knew, and my heart glowed to know, that I was not about to repeat the error. 

So the Book was builded, after all, a little by a little. And a littleby a little the summer wore on; and in the lobby of the Main Hotel washung the beautiful Spirit of the Falls poster of the BuffaloExposition; and we talked of Oom Paul Krüger, and Shamrock II, and theNicaragua Canal, and lanky Bob Fitzsimmons, and the Boxer outrages; andwe read _To Have and To Hold_ and _The Cardinal's Snuff Box_, andthought it droll that the King of England was not going to call himselfKing Albert, after all. 

And then came the news of how the President had been shot, "with apoisoned bullet, " and a week of contradictory bulletins from theMilburn House in Buffalo. And there were panicky surmises raisedeverywhere as to "what these anarchists may do next, " so that Maggiowas mobbed in Columbus, and Emma Goldman in Chicago; and ColonelRoosevelt was found, after days of search, on Mt. Marcy in theAdirondacks, and was told in the heart of a forest that to-morrow hewould be at the head of a nation. And the country's guidance wasentrusted to a mere lad of forty-three, with general uneasiness as towhat might come of it; and the dramatic tale of Colonel Roosevelt'staking of the oath of office was in that morning's paper; and Marianand I were about to part. 

 4

"It will be dreadful, " sighed she; "for we have to stay a whole weeklonger, and I shall come here every afternoon. And there will be onlyghosts in the woods, and I shall be very lonely. "

"Dear, " said I, "is it not something to have been happy? It has beensuch a wonderful summer; and come what may, nothing can rob us now ofits least golden moment. And it is only for a little. "

"You will come back?" said she, half-doubtingly. 

"Yes, " I said. "You wonderful, elfin creature, I shall undoubtedly comeback--to your real home, and claim you there. Only I don't believe youdo live in Aberlin, --you probably live in some great, gnarled oakhereabouts; and at night its bark uncloses to set you free, and you andyour sisters dance out the satyrs' hearts in the moonlight. Oh, I know, Marian! I simply _know_ you are a dryad, --a wonderful, laughing, clear-eyed dryad strayed out of the golden age. "

"What a boy it is!" she said. "No, I am only a really and truly girl, dear, --a rather frightened girl, with very little disposition tolaughter, just now. For you are going away--Oh, my dear, you have meantso much to me! The world is so different since you have come, and I amso happy and so miserable that--that I am afraid. " An infinitesimalhandkerchief went upward to two great, sparkling eyes, and dabbed atthem. 

"Dear!" said I. And this remark appeared to meet the requirements ofthe situation. 

There was a silence now. We sat in the same spot where I had firstencountered Marian Winwood. Only this was an autumnal forest thatglowed with many gem-like hues about us; and already the damp odour ofdecaying leaves was heavy in the air. It was like the Tosti thingtranslated out of marine terms into a woodland analogue. The summer wasended; but _As the Coming of Dawn_ was practically complete. 

It was not the book that I had planned, but a far greater one which wasscarcely mine. There was no word written as yet. But for two months Ihad viewed life through Marian Winwood's eyes; day by day, myhalf-formed, tentative ideas had been laid before her with elaboratefortuitousness, to be approved, or altered, or rejected, just as shedecreed; until at last they had been welded into a perfect whole thatwas a Book, bit by bit, we had planned it, I and she; and, as I dreamedof it as it would be in print, my brain was fired with exultation, andI defied my doubt and I swore that the Book, for which I had pawned acertain portion of my self-respect, was worth--and triply worth--theprice which had been paid. . . . This was in Marian's absence. 

"Dear!" said she. . . . 

Her eyes were filled with a tender and unutterable confidence thatthrilled me like physical cold. "Marian, " said I, simply, "I shallnever come back. "

The eyes widened a trifle, but she did not seem to comprehend. 

"Have you not wondered, " said I, "that I have never kissed you, exceptas if you were a very holy relic or a cousin or something of thatsort?"

"Yes, " she answered. Her voice was quite emotionless. 

"And yet--yet--" I sprang to my feet. "Dear God, how I have longed!Yesterday, only yesterday, as I read to you from the verses I had madeto other women, those women that are colourless shadows by the side ofyour vivid beauty, --and you listened wonderingly and said the properthings and then lapsed into dainty boredom, --_how_ I longed to take youin my arms, and to quicken your calm blood a little with another sortof kissing. You knew--you must have known! Last night, for instance--"

"Last night, " she said, very simply, "I thought--And I hoped youwould. "

"What a confession for a nicely brought up girl! Well! I didn't. Andafterward, all night, I tossed in sick, fevered dreams of you. I am madfor love of you. And so, once in a while I kiss your hand. Dear God, your hand!" My voice quavered, effectively. 

"Yes, " said she; "still, I remember--"

"I have struggled; and I have conquered this madness, --for a madness itis. We can laugh together and be excellent friends; and we can never, never be anything more. Well! we have laughed, have we not, dear, awhole summer through? Now comes the ending. Ah, I have seen youpuzzling over my meaning before this. You never understood methoroughly; but it is always safe to laugh. "

She smiled; and I remember now it was rather as Mona Lisa smiles. 

"For we can laugh together, --that is all. We are not mates. You wereborn to be the wife of a strong man and the mother of his sturdychildren; and you and your sort will inherit the earth and make thelaws for us weaklings who dream and scribble and paint. We are notmates. But you have been very kind to me, Marian dear. So I thank youand say good-bye; and I pray that I may never see you after to-day. "

There was a sub-tang of veracity in my deprecation of an unasked-forartistic temperament; the thing is very often a nuisance, and was justthen a barrier which I perceived plainly; and with equal plainness Iperceived the pettier motives that now caused me to point it out as abarrier to Marian. My lips curled half in mockery of myself, as Iframed the bitter smile I felt the situation demanded; but I was firedwith the part I was playing; and half-belief had crept into my mindthat Marian Winwood was created, chiefly, for the purpose which she hadalready served. 

I regarded her, in fine, as through the eyes of future readers of mybiography. She would represent an episode in my life, as others do inthat of Byron or of Goethe. I pitied her sincerely; and, under all, what moralists would call my lower nature, held in leash for two monthspast, chuckled, and grinned, and leaped, at the thought of a holiday. 

She rose to her feet. "Good-bye, " said she. 

"You--you understand, dear?" I queried, tenderly. 

"Yes, " she answered; "I understand--not what you have just told me, forin that, of course, you have lied. That Jemmett girl and her money isat the bottom of it all, of course. You didn't want to lose her, andstill you wanted to play with me. So you were pulled two ways, poordear. "

"Oh, well, if that is what you think of me--!"

"You see, you are not an uncommon type, --a type not strong enough tolive life healthily, just strong enough to dabble in life, to triflewith emotions, to experiment with other people's lives. Indeed, I amnot angry, dear; I am only--sorry; for you have played with me verynicely indeed, and very boyishly, and the summer has been very happy. "

 5

I returned to Lichfield and wrote _As the Coming of Dawn_. 

I spent six months in this. My work at first was mere copying of thebook that already existed in my brain; but when it was transcribedtherefrom, I wrote and rewrote, shifted and polished and adorned untilit seemed I would never have done; and indeed I was not anxious to havedone with any labour so delightful. 

Particularly did I rejoice in the character for which Marian Winwoodhad posed. Last summer's note-book here came into play; and now, foronce, my heroine was in no need of either shoving or prompting. She didthings of her own accord, and I was merely her scribe. . . 

I would vain-gloriously protest, just to myself, that the love scenesin this story were the most exquisite and, with all that, the mostgenuine love scenes I knew of anywhere. "By God!" I would occasionallysay with Thackeray; "I _am_ a genius!"

Besides, the story of the book, I knew, was novel and astutely wrought;its progress caught at once and teased your interest always, so thathaving begun it, most people would read to the end, if only to discover"how it all came out. " I knew the book, in fine, could hardly fail toplease and interest a number of people by reason of its plot alone. 

I ought to have been content with this. But I had somehow contracted aninsane notion that a novel is the more enjoyable when it is adroitlywritten. In point of fact, of course, no man who writes with care isever read with pleasure; you may toil through a page or two perhaps, but presently you are noting how precisely every word is fitted to thethought, and later you are noting nothing else. You are insensiblybeguiled into a fidgety-footed analysis of every clause, which fatiguesin the outcome, and by the tenth page you are yawning. 

But I did not comprehend this then. And so I fashioned my apt phrases, and weighed my synonyms, and echoed this or that vowel very skilfully, I thought, and alliterated my consonants with discretion. In fine, Idid not overlook the most meticulous device of the stylist; and Ienjoyed it. It was a sort of game; and they taught me at least, thosesix delightful months, that a man writes admirable prose not at all forthe sake of having it read, but for the more sensible reason that heenjoys playing solitaire. 

I led a hermit's life that winter; and I enjoyed that too. Night, afterall, is the one time for writing, particularly when you are inaneenough to hanker after perfected speech, and so misguided as to be theslave of the "right word. " You sit alone in a bright, comfortable room;the clock ticks companionably; there is no other sound in the worldexcept the constant scratching of your pen, and the occasional far-offpuffing of a freight-train coming into Lichfield; there is snowoutside, but before your eyes someone, that is not you exactly, arranges and redrills the scrawls which will bring back the sweet andlanguid summer and remarshal all its pleasant trivialities for anyonethat chooses to read through the printed page, although he read twocenturies hence, in Nova Zembla. . . . 

Then you dip into an Unabridged, and change every word that has beenwritten, for a better one, and do it leisurely, rolling in the mouth, as it were, the flavour of every possible synonym, before decision. Then you reread, with a corrective pen in hand the while, and youventure upon the whole to agree with Mérimée that it is preferable towrite one's own books, since those of others are not, after all, particularly worth reading in comparison. 

And by this time the windows are pale blue, like the blue of a dyingflame, and you peep out and see the sparrows moving like rather poorlymade mechanical toys about the middle of the deserted street, wherethere is neither light nor shade. The colour of everything is perfectlydiscernible, but there is no lustre in the world as yet, though yonderthe bloat sun is already visible in the blue and red east, which islike a cosmic bruise; and upon a sudden you find it just possible tostay awake long enough to get safely into bed. . . . 

 6

Thus I dandled the child of my brain for a long while, and arrayed itin beautiful and curious garments, adorning each beloved notion withfar-sought words that had a taste in the mouth, and would one day lendan aroma to the printed page; and I rejoiced shamelessly in that whichI had done. Then it befell that I went forth and sought the luxury of aTurkish bath, and in the morning, after a rub-down and an ammoniacocktail, awoke to the fact that the world had been going on much asusual, that winter. 

Young Colonel Roosevelt seemed not to have wrecked civilization, afterall, according to the morning _Courier-Herald_, despite that Democraticpaper's colorful prophecies last autumn in the vein of Jeremiah. To thecontrary, Major-General McArthur was testifying before the Senate as tothe abysmal unfitness of the Filipinos for self-government; the Women'sClubs were holding a convention in Los Angeles; there had been terriblehailstorms this year to induce the annual ruining of the peach-crop, and the submarine Fulton had exploded; the California Limited had beenderailed in Iowa, and in Memphis there was some sort of celebration inhonor of Admiral Schley; and the Boer War seemed over; and Mr. Havemeyer also was before the Senate, to whom he was making it clearthat his companies were in no wise responsible for sugar having reachedthe unprecedentedly high price of four and a half cents a pound. 

The world, in short, in spite of my six months' retiring therefrom, seemed to be getting on pleasantly enough, as I turned from the paperto face the six months' accumulation of mail. 

 7

A few weeks later, I sent for Mr. George Bulmer, and informed him ofhis avuncular connection with a genius; and waved certain typewrittenpages to establish his title. 

Subsequently I read aloud divers portions of _As the Coming of Dawn_, and Mr. Bulmer sipped Chianti, and listened. 

"Look here!" he said, suddenly; "have you seen _The ImperialVotaress?_"

I frowned. It is always annoying to be interrupted in the middle of aparticularly well-balanced sentence. "Don't know the lady, " said I. 

"She is advertised on half the posters in town, " said Mr. Bulmer. "Andit is the book of the year. And it is your book. "

At this moment I laid down my manuscript. '"I _beg_ your pardon?" saidI. 

"Your book!" Uncle George repeated firmly; "and scarcely a hair'sdifference between them, except in the names. "

"H'm!" I observed, in a careful voice. "Who wrote it?"

"Some female woman out west, " said Mr. Bulmer. "She's a GeorgeSomething-or-other when she publishes, of course, like all thoseauthorines when they want to say about mankind at large what lessgifted women only dare say about their sisters-in-law. I wish to heaventhey would pick out some other Christian name when they want to cut uplike pagans. Anyhow, I saw her real name somewhere, and I remember itbegan with an S--Why, to be sure! it's Marian Winwood. "

"Amaimon sounds well, " I observed; "Lucifer, well; Larbason, well; yetthey are devils' additions, the names of fiends: but--Marian Winwood!"

"Dear me!" he remonstrated. "Why, she wrote _A Bright Particular Star_, you know, and _The Acolytes_, and lots of others. "

The author of _As the Coming of Dawn_ swallowed a whole glass ofChianti at a gulp. 

"Of course, " I said, slowly, "I cannot, in my rather peculiar position, run the risk of being charged with plagiarism--by a Chinese-eyed mentalsneak-thief. . . . "

Thereupon I threw the manuscript into the open fire, which mypreference for the picturesque rendered necessary, even in May. 

"Oh, look here!" my uncle cried, and caught up the papers. "It isinfernally good, you know! Can't you--can't you fix it, --and--er--change it a bit? Typewriting is so expensive these days that it seems apity to waste all this. "

I took the manuscript and replaced it firmly among the embers. "As youjustly observe, " said I, "it is infernally good. It is probably a dealbetter than anything else I shall ever write. "

"Why, then--" said Uncle George. 

"Why, then, " said I, "the only thing that remains to do is to read _TheImperial Votaress. _"

 8

And I read it with an augmenting irritation. Here was my great andcomely idea transmuted by "George Glock"--which was the woman's foolishpen-name, --into a rather clever melodrama, and set forth anyhow, in ahit or miss style that fairly made me squirm. I would cheerfully havestrangled Marian Winwood just then, and not upon the count of larceny, but of butchery. 

"And to cap it all, she has assigned her hero every pretty speech Iever made to her! I honestly believe the rogue took shorthand jottingson her cuffs. 'There is a land where lovers may meet face to face, andheart to heart, and mouth to mouth'--why, that's the note I wrote heron the day she wasn't feeling well!"

Presently, however, I began to laugh, and presently sitting therealone, I began to applaud as if I were witnessing a play that took myfancy. 

"Oh, the adorable jade!" I said; and then: "George Glock, forsooth!_George Dandin, tu l' as voulu. _"

 9

Naturally I put the entire affair into a short story. And--though evento myself it seems incredible, --Miss Winwood wrote me within three daysof the tale's appearance, a very indignant letter. 

For she was furious, to the last exclamation point and underlining, about my little magazine tale. . . . "Why don't you stop writing, and tryplumbing or butchering or traveling for scented soap? _You can'twrite!_ If you had the light of creation you wouldn't be using mymaterial". . . . 

--Which caused me to reflect forlornly that I had wasted a great dealof correct behavior upon Marian, since any of the more intimatelyamorous advances which I might have made, and had scrupulouslyrefrained from making, would very probably have been regarded as raw"material, " to be developed rather than shocked by. . . . 

18. 

_He Spends an Afternoon in Arden_

I had, in a general way, intended to marry Rosalind Jemmett so soon asI had completed _As the Coming of Dawn_; but in the fervour of writingthat unfortunate volume, I had at first put off a little, and then alittle longer, the answering of her last letter, because I wasinterested just then in writing well and not particularly interested inanything else; and I had finally approximated to forgetfulness of theyoung lady's existence. 

Now, however, my thoughts harked back to her; and I found, uponinquiry, that Rosalind had spent all of May and a good half of April inLichfield, in the same town with myself, and was now engaged to AlfredChaytor, --an estimable person, but popularly known as "Sissy" Chaytor. 

 2

And this gave an additional whet to my intentions. So I called upon thegirl, and she, to my chagrin, received me with an air of having dancedwith me some five or six times the night before; our conversation wasat first trivial and, on her part, dishearteningly cordial; and, infine, she completely baffled me by not appearing to expect any leastexplanation of my discourteous neglect. This, look you, when I had beenat pains to prepare a perfectly convincing one. 

It must be conceded I completely lost my temper; shortly afterwardneither of us was speaking with excessive forethought; and each of uslanguidly advanced a variety of observations which were more dexterousthan truthful. But I followed the intractable heiress to the Moncrieffsthat spring, in spite of this rebuff, being insufferably provoked byher unshakable assumptions of my friendship and of nothing more. 

 3

It was perhaps a week later she told me: "This, beyond any reasonabledoubt, is the Forest of Arden. "

"But where Rosalind is is always Arden, " I said, politely. Yet I made amental reservation as to a glimpse of the golf-links, which thisparticular nook of the forest afforded, and of a red-headed caddy insearch of a lost ball. 

But beyond these things the sun was dying out in a riot of colour, andits level rays fell kindlily upon the gaunt pines that were thick aboutus two, converting them into endless aisles of vaporous gold. 

There was primeval peace about; an evening wind stirred lazily above, and the leaves whispered drowsily to one another over the waters ofwhat my companion said was a "brawling loch, " though I had previouslyheard it reviled as a particularly treacherous and vexatious hazard. Altogether, I had little doubt that we had reached, in any event, theoutskirts of Arden. 

"And now, " quoth she, seating herself on a fallen log, "what would youdo if I were your very, very Rosalind?"

"Don't!" I cried in horror. "It wouldn't be proper! For as a decentself-respecting heroine, you would owe it to Orlando not to listen. "

"H'umph!" said Rosalind. The exclamation does not look impressive, written out; but, spoken, it placed Orlando in his proper niche. 

"Oh, well, " said I, and stretched myself at her feet, fulllength, --which is supposed to be a picturesque attitude, --"why quarrelover a name? It ought to be Gamelyn, anyhow; and, moreover, by thekindness of fate, Orlando is golfing. "

Rosalind frowned, dubiously. 

"But golf is a very ancient game, " I reassured her. Then I bit apine-needle in two and sighed. "Foolish fellow, when he might be--"

"Admiring the beauties of nature, " she suggested. 

Just then an impudent breeze lifted a tendril of honey-coloured hairand toyed with it, over a low, white brow, --and I noted that Rosalind'shair had a curious coppery glow at the roots, a nameless colour that Ihave never observed anywhere else. . . . 

"Yes, " said I, "of nature. "

"Then, " queried she, after a pause, "who are you? And what do you inthis forest?"

"You see, " I explained, "there were conceivably other men in Arden--"

"I suppose so, " she sighed, with exemplary resignation. 

"--For you were, " I reminded her, "universally admired at your uncle'scourt, --and equally so in the forest. And while Alfred--or, strictlyspeaking, Gamelyn, or, if you prefer it, Orlando, --is the great love ofyour life, still--"

"Men are so foolish!" said Rosalind, irrelevantly. 

"--it did not prevent you--"

"Me!" cried she, indignant. 

"You had such a tender heart, " I suggested, "and suffering wasabhorrent to your gentle nature. "

"I don't like cynicism, sir, " said she; "and inasmuch as tobacco is notyet discovered--"

"It is clearly impossible that I am smoking, " I finished; "quite true. "

"I don't like cheap wit, either, " said Rosalind. "You, " she went on, with no apparent connection, "are a forester, with a good cross-bow andan unrequited attachment, --say, for me. You groan and hang verses andthings about on the trees. "

"But I don't write verses--any longer, " I amended. "Still how wouldthis do, --for an oak, say, --

"I found a lovely centre-pieceUpon the supper-table, But when I looked at it againI saw I wasn't able, And so I took my mother homeAnd locked her in the stable. "

She considered that the plot of this epic was not sufficientlyinevitable. It hadn't, she lamented, a quite logical ending; and theplot of it, in fine, was not, somehow, convincing. 

"Well, in any event, " I optimistically reflected, "I am a nickel in. Ifyour dicta had emanated from a person in Peoria or Seattle, who hadn'tbothered to read my masterpiece, they would have sounded exactly thesame, and the clipping-bureau would have charged me five cents. Maybe I can't write verses, then. But I am quite sure I can groan. " AndI did so. 

"It sounds rather like a fog-horn, " said Rosalind, still in thecritic's vein; "but I suppose it is the proper thing. Now, " shecontinued, and quite visibly brightening, "you can pretend to have anunrequited attachment for me. "

"But I can't--" I decisively said. 

"Can't, " she echoed. It has not been mentioned previously that Rosalindwas pretty. She was especially so just now, in pouting. And, therefore, "--pretend, " I added. 

She preserved a discreet silence. 

"Nor, " I continued, with firmness, "am I a shambling, nameless, unshaven denizen of Arden, who hasn't anything to do except to carry aspear and fall over it occasionally. I will no longer conceal thesecret of my identity. I am Jaques. "

"You can't be Jaques, " she dissented; "you are too stout. "

"I am well-built, " I admitted, modestly; "as in an elder case, sighingand grief have blown me up like a bladder; yet proper pride, if nothingelse, demands that my name should appear on the programme. "

"But would Jaques be the sort of person who'd--?"

"Who wouldn't be?" I asked, with appropriate ardour. "No, depend uponit, Jaques was not any more impervious to temptation than the rest ofus; and, indeed, in the French version, as you will find, he eventuallymarried Celia. "

"Minx!" said she; and it seemed to me quite possible that she referredto Celia Reindan, and my heart glowed. 

"And how, " queried Rosalind, presently, "came you to the Forest ofArden, good Jaques?"

I groaned once more. "It was a girl, " I darkly said. 

"Of course, " assented Rosalind, beaming as to the eyes. Then she wenton, and more sympathetically: "Now, Jaques, you can tell me the wholestory. "

"Is it necessary?" I asked. 

"Surely, " said she, with sudden interest in the structure ofpine-cones; "since for a long while I have wanted to know all aboutJaques. You see Mr. Shakespeare is a bit hazy about him. "

"_So_!" I thought, triumphantly. 

And aloud, "It is an old story, " I warned her, "perhaps the oldest ofall old stories. It is the story of a man and a girl. It began with achance meeting and developed into a packet of old letters, which is theusual ending of this story. "

Rosalind's brows protested. 

"Sometimes, " I conceded, "it culminates in matrimony; but the ending isnot necessarily tragic. "

I dodged exactly in time; and the pine-cone splashed into the hazard. 

"It happened, " I continued, "that, on account of the man's health, theywere separated for a whole year's time before--before things hadprogressed to any extent. When they did progress, it was largely byletters. That is why this story ended in such a large package. 

"Letters, " Rosalind confided, to one of the pines, "are sounsatisfactory. They mean so little. "

"To the man, " I said, firmly, "they meant a great deal. They broughthim everything that he most wished for, --comprehension, sympathy, and, at last, comfort and strength when they were sore needed. So the man, who was at first but half in earnest, announced to himself that he hadmade a discovery. 'I have found, ' said he, 'the great white love whichpoets have dreamed of. I love this woman greatly, and she, I think, loves me. God has made us for each other, and by the aid of her love Iwill be pure and clean and worthy even of her. ' You have doubtlessdiscovered by this stage in my narrative, " I added, as in parenthesis, "that the man was a fool. "

"Don't!" said Rosalind. 

"Oh, he discovered it himself in due time--but not until after he hadwritten a book about her. _As the Coming of Dawn_ the title was to havebeen. It was--oh, just about her. It tried to tell how greatly he lovedher. It tried--well, it failed of course, because it isn't within thepower of any writer to express what the man felt for that girl. Why, his love was so great--to him, poor fool!--that it made him at timesforget the girl herself, apparently. He didn't want to write hertrivial letters. He just wanted to write that great book in her honour, which would _make_ her understand, even against her will, and then todie, if need be, as Geoffrey Rudel did. For that was the one thingwhich counted--to make her understand--" I paused, and anyone could seethat I was greatly moved. In fact, I was believing every word of it bythis time. 

"Oh, but who wants a man to _die_ for her?" wailed Rosalind. 

"It is quite true that one infinitely prefers to see him make a fool ofhimself. So the man discovered when he came again to bring his foolishbook to her, --the book that was to make her understand. And so heburned it--in a certain June. For the girl had merely liked him, andhad been amused by him. So she had added him to her collection of men, --quite a large one, by the way, --and was, I believe, a little proud ofhim. It was, she said, rather a rare variety, and much prized bycollectors. "

"And how was _she_ to know?" said Rosalind; and then, remorsefully:"Was it a very horrid girl?"

"It was not exactly repulsive, " said I, as dreamily, and looking upinto the sky. 

There was a pause. Then someone in the distance--a forester, probably, --called "Fore!" and Rosalind awoke from her reverie. 

"Then--?" said she. 

"Then came the customary Orlando--oh, well! Alfred, if you like. Thename isn't altogether inappropriate, for he does encounter existencewith much the same abandon which I have previously noticed in a muffin. For the rest, he was a nicely washed fellow, with a sufficiency of themediaeval equivalents for bonds and rubber-tired buggies and countryplaces. Oh, yes! I forgot to say that the man was poor, --also that thegirl had a great deal of common-sense and no less than three longheadedaunts. And so the girl talked to the man in a common-sense fashion--andafter that she was never at home. "

"Never?" said Rosalind. 

"Only that time they talked about the weather, " said I. "So the manfell out of bed just about then, and woke up and came to his sobersenses. "

"He did it very easily, " said Rosalind, almost as if in resentment. 

"The novelty of the process attracted him, " I pleaded. "So he said--ina perfectly sensible way--that he had known all along it was only agame they were playing, --a game in which there were no stakes. That wasa lie. He had put his whole soul into the game, playing as he knew forhis life's happiness; and the verses, had they been worthy of the lovewhich caused them to be written, would have been among the great songsof the world. But while the man knew at last that he had been a fool, he was swayed by a man-like reluctance against admitting it. So helaughed--and lied--and broke away, hurt, but still laughing. "

"You hadn't mentioned any verses before, " said Rosalind. 

"I told you he was a fool, " said I. "And, after all, that is the entirestory. "

Then I spent several minutes in wondering what would happen next. During this time I lost none of my interest in the sky. I believedeverything I had said: my emotions would have done credit to a Romeo oran Amadis. 

"The first time that the girl was not at home, " Rosalind observed, impersonally, "the man had on a tan coat and a brown derby. He put onhis gloves as he walked down the street. His shoulders were the mostindignant--and hurt things she had ever seen. Then the girl wrote tohim, --a strangely sincere letter, --and tore it up. "

"Historical research, " I murmured, "surely affords no warrant for suchattire among the rural denizens of tranquil Arden. "

"You see, " continued Rosalind, oblivious to interruption, "I know allabout the girl, --which is more than you do. "

"That, " I conceded, "is disastrously probable. "

"When she realised that she was to see the man again--_Did_ you everfeel as if something had lifted you suddenly hundreds of feet aboverainy days and cold mutton for luncheon, and the possibility of othergirls' wearing black evening dresses, when you wanted yours to be theonly one in the room? Well, that is the way she felt at first, when sheread his note. At first, she realised nothing beyond the fact that hewas nearing her, and that she would presently see him. She didn't evenplan what she would wear, or what she would say to him. In anindefinite way, she was happier than she had ever been before--or hasbeen since--until the doubts and fears and knowledge that give childrenand fools a wide berth came to her, --and _then_ she saw it all againsther will, and thought it all out, and came to a conclusion. "

I sat up. There was really nothing of interest occurring overhead. 

"They had played at loving--lightly, it is true, but they had gone sofar in their letter writing that they could not go backward, --onlyforward, or not at all. She had known all along that the man was buthalf in earnest--believe me, a girl always knows that, even though shemay not admit it to herself, --and she had known that a love affairmeant to him material for a sonnet or so, and a well-turned letter ortwo, and nothing more. For he was the kind of man that never quitegrows up. He was coming to her, pleased, interested, and a littleeager--in love with the idea of loving her, --willing to meet herhalf-way, and very willing to follow her the rest of the way--if shecould draw him. And what was she to do? Could she accept his gracefullyinsulting semblance of a love she knew he did not feel? Could they seeeach other a dozen times, swearing not to mention the possibility ofloving, --so that she might have a chance to reimpress him with herblondined hair--it _is_ touched up, you know--and small talk? And--and_besides_--"

"It is the duty of every young woman to consider what she owes to herfamily, " said I, absentmindedly. Rosalind Jemmett's family consists ofthree aunts, and the chief of these is Aunt Marcia, who lives inLichfield. Aunt Marcia is a portly, acidulous and discomposing person, with eyes like shoe-buttons and a Savonarolan nose. She is also awell-advertised philanthropist, speaks neatly from the platform, andhas wide experience as a patroness, and extreme views as toineligibles. 

Rosalind flushed somewhat. "And so, " said she, "the girl exercised hercommon-sense, and was nervous, and said foolish things about new plays, and the probability of rain--to keep from saying still more foolishthings about herself; and refused to talk personalities; and let himgo, with the knowledge that he would not come back. Then she went toher room, and had a good cry. Now, " she added, after a pause, "youunderstand. "

"I do not, " I said, very firmly, "understand a lot of things. "

"Yet a woman would, " she murmured. 

This being a statement I was not prepared to contest, I waved it aside. "And so, " said I, "they laughed; and agreed it was a boy-and-girlaffair; and were friends. "

"It was the best thing--" said she. 

"Yes, " I assented, --"for Orlando. "

"--and it was the most sensible thing. "

"Oh, eminently!"

This seemed to exhaust the subject, and I lay down once more among thepine-needles. 

"And that, " said Rosalind, "was the reason Jaques came to Arden?"

"Yes, " said I. 

"And found it--?"

"Shall we say--Hades?"

"Oh!" she murmured, scandalised. 

"It happened, " I continued, "that he was cursed with a good memory. Andthe zest was gone from his little successes and failures, now there wasno one to share them; and nothing seemed to matter very much. Oh, hereally was the sort of man that never grows up! And it was dreary tolive among memories of the past, and his life was now somewhatperturbed by disapproval of his own folly and by hunger for a woman whowas out of his reach. "

"And Rosalind--I mean the girl--?"

"She married Orlando--or Gamelyn, or Alfred, or Athelstane, orEthelred, or somebody, --and, whoever it was, they lived happily everafterward, " I said, morosely. 

Rosalind pondered over this dénouement for a moment. 

"Do you know, " said she, "I think--"

"It's a rather dangerous practice, " I warned her. 

Rosalind sighed, wearily; but in her cheek at about this time occurreda dimple. 

"--I think that Rosalind must have thought the playvery badly named. "

"_As You Like It_?" I queried, obtusely. 

"Yes--since it wasn't, for her. "

It is unwholesome to lie on the ground after sunset. 

 4

"I had rather a scene with Alfred yesterday morning. He said you drank, and gambled, and were always running after--people, and weren't infine, a desirable person for me to know. He insinuated, in fact, thatyou were a villain of the very deepest and non-crocking dye. He told meof instances. His performance would have done credit to Ananias. I was_mad_! So I gave him his old ring back, and told him things I can'ttell _you_, --no, not just yet, dear. He is rather like a muffin, isn'the?" she said, with the lightest possible little laugh--"particularlylike one that isn't quite done. "

"Oh, Rosalind, " I babbled, "I mean to prove that you were right. And I_will_ prove it, too!"

And indeed I meant all that I said--just then. 

Rosalind said: "Oh, Jaques, Jaques! what a child you are!"

19. 

_He Plays the Improvident Fool_

Now was I come near to the summit of my desires, and advantageouslybetrothed to a girl with whom I was, in any event, almost in love; butI presently ascertained, to my dismay, that sophisticated, "proper"little Rosalind was thoroughly in love with me, and always in the backof my mind this knowledge worried me. 

Imprimis, she persisted in calling me Jaques, which was uncomfortablyreminiscent of that time wherein I was called Jack. Yet my objection tothis silly nickname was a mischancy matter to explain. There was no wayof telling her that I disliked anything which reminded me of GillianHardress, without telling more about Gillian than would be pleasant totell. So Rosalind went on calling me Jaques; and I was compelled to putup with a trivial and unpremeditated, but for all that a daily, annoyance; and I fretted under it. 

Item, she insisted on presenting me with all sorts of expensiveknick-knacks, and being childishly grieved when I remonstrated. 

"But I have the money, " Rosalind would say, "and you haven't. So whyshouldn't I? And besides, it's really only selfishness on my part, because I like doing things for you, and _if_ you liked doing thingsfor me, Jaques, you'd understand. "

So I would eventually have to swear that I did like "doing things" forher; and it followed--somehow--that in consequence she had a perfectright to give me anything she wanted to. 

And this too fretted me, mildly, all the summer I spent at Birnam Beachwith Rosalind and with the opulent friends of Rosalind's aunt from St. Louis. . . . They were a queer lot. They all looked so unspeakably new;their clothes were spick and span, and as expensive as possible, butthat was not it; even in their bathing suits these middle-agedpeople--they were mostly middle-aged--seemed to have been very recentlyfinished, like animated waxworks of middle-aged people just come fromthe factory. And they spent money in a continuous careless way thatfrightened me. 

But I was on my very best, most dignified behavior; and when Aunt Lorapresented me as "one of the Lichfield Townsends, you know, " thesebrewers and breweresses appeared to be properly impressed. One ofthem--actually--"supposed that I had a coat-of-arms"; which inLichfield would be equivalent to "supposing" that a gentleman possesseda pair of trousers. But they were really very thoughtful about neverletting me pay for anything; in this regard there seemed afoot a sortof friendly conspiracy. 

So the summer passed pleasantly enough; and we bathed, and held handsin the moonlight, and danced at the Casino, and rode themerry-go-round, and played ping-pong, and read _Dorothy Vernon ofHaddon Hall_, --which was much better, I told everybody, than thatidiotic George Clock book, _The Imperial Votaress_. And we drankinterminable suissesses, and it was all very pleasant. 

Yet always in the rear of my mind was stirring restively the instinctto get back to my writing; and these sedately frolicsome benevolentpeople--even Rosalind--plainly thought that "writing things" was justthe unimportant foible of an otherwise fine young fellow. 

 2

And in September Rosalind came to visit her Aunt Marcia in Lichfield, to get clothes and all other matters ready for our wedding in November;and Lichfield, as always, made much of Rosalind, and she had the honorof "leading" the first Lichfield German with Colonel Rudolph Musgrave. My partner at that dance was the Marquise d'Arlanges. . . . 

I was seeing a deal of the Marquise d'Arlanges. She was Stella's onlysister, as you may remember, and was that autumn paying a perfunctoryvisit to her parents--the second since her marriage. 

I shall not expatiate, however, concerning Madame la Marquise. You havedoubtless heard of her. For Lizzie has not, even yet, found a timewherein to be idle; she has been busied since the hour of her birth inacquiring first, plain publicity, and then social power, and everyother amenity of life in turn. I had not the least doubt even then ofher ending where she is now. . . . 

She was at this time still well upon the preferable side o! thirty, andhad no weaknesses save a liking for gossip, cigarettes, and admiration. Lizzie was never the woman to marry a Peter Blagden. Once Stella wassettled, Lizzie Musgrave had sailed for Europe, and eventually hadarrived at Monaco with an apologetic mother, several letters ofintroduction, and a Scotch terrier; and had established herself at theHôtel de la Paix, to look over the "available" supply of noblemen inreduced circumstances. Before the end of a month Miss Musgrave hadreached a decision, had purchased her Marquis, much as she would havedone any other trifle that took her fancy, and had shipped her motherback to America. Lizzie retained the terrier, however, as she washonestly attached to it. 

Her marriage had been happy, and she found her husband on furtheracquaintance, as she told me, a mild-mannered and eminently suitableperson, who was unaccountably addicted to playing dominoes, and whospent a great deal of money, and dined with her occasionally. In asentence, the marquise was handsome, "had a tongue in her head, " and, to utilise yet another ancient phrase, was as hard as nails. 

And yet there was a family resemblance. Indeed, in voice and featureshe was strangely like an older Stella; and always I was cheatingmyself into a half-belief that this woman I was talking with wasStella; and Lizzie would at least enable me to forget, for a wholehalf-hour sometimes, that Stella was dead. . . . 

 * * * * *

"I must thank you, " I said, one afternoon, when I arose to go, "for amost pleasant dream of--what we'll call the Heart's Desire. I suppose Ihave been rather stupid, Lizzie; and I apologise for it; but people arenever exceedingly hilarious in dreams, you know. "

She said, very gently: "I understand. For I loved Stella too. And thatis why the room is never really lighted when you come. Oh, you stupidman, how could I have _helped_ knowing it--that all the love you havemade to me was because you have been playing I was Stella? Thatknowledge has preserved me, more than once, my child, from succumbingto your illicit advances in this dead Lichfield. "

And I was really astonished, for she was not by ordinary the sort ofwoman who consents to be a makeshift. 

I said as much, "And it _has_ been a comfort, Lizzie, because shedoesn't come as often now, for some reason--"

"Why--what do you mean?"

The room was very dark, lit only by the steady, comfortable glow of asoft-coal fire. For it was a little after sunset, and outside, carriages were already rumbling down Regis Avenue, and people werereturning from the afternoon drive. I could not see anythingdistinctly, excepting my own hands, which were like gold in thefirelight; and so I told her all about _The Indulgences of Ole-Luk-Ole_. 

"She came, that first time, over the crest of a tiny upland that lay insome great forest, --Brocheliaunde, I think. I knew it must be autumn, for the grass was brown and every leaf upon the trees was brown. Andshe too was all in brown, and her big hat, too, was of brown felt, andabout it curled a long ostrich feather dyed brown; and my firstthought, as I now remember, was how in the dickens could any mediaevallady have come by such a garb, for I knew, somehow, that this was awoman of the Middle Ages. 

"Only her features were those of Stella, and the eyes of this womanwere filled with an unutterable happiness and fear, as she came towardme, --just as the haunting eyes of Stella were upon the night shemarried Peter Blagden, and I babbled nonsense to the moon. 

"'Oh, I have wanted you, --I have wanted you!' she said; and afterward, unarithmeticably dimpling, just as she used to do, you may remember:_'Depardieux, _ messire! have you then forgotten that upon this forenoonwe hunt the great boar?"

"'Stella!' I said, 'O dear, dear Stella! what does it mean?'

"'You silly! it means, of course, that Ole-Luk-Oie is kind, and has putus both into the glaze of the mustard-jar--only I wonder which one wehave gotten into?' Stella said. 'Don't you remember them, dear--theblue mustard-jar and the red one your Mammy had that summer at theGreen Chalybeate, with men on them hunting a boar?'

"'They stood, one on each corner of the mantelpiece, ' I said; 'and inthe blue one she kept matches, and in the other--'

"'She kept buttons in the red one, ' said Stella, --'big, shiny whitebuttons, with four holes in them, that had come off your underclothes, and were to be sewed on again. One day you swallowed one of 'em, Iremember, because you _would_ keep it in your mouth while you swung inthe hammock. And you thought it would surely kill you, so you kneltdown in the dry leaves and prayed God He wouldn't let it kill you. '

"'But you weren't there, ' I protested; 'nobody was there. So nobodyever knew anything about it, though may be you--' For I had justremembered that Stella was dead, only I knew it was against some ruleto mention it. 

"'Well, at any rate I'm _here_, ' said Stella, 'and Ole-Luk-Oie is kind;and we had better go and hunt the great boar at once, I suppose, sincethat is what the people on the mustard-jars always do. '

"'But how did you come hither, O my dear--?'

"'Why, through your wanting me so much, ' she said. 'How else?'

"And I understood. . . . 

"So we went and slew the great boar. I slew it personally, with a longspear, and with Stella clasping her hands in the background. Only therewas a nicked place in the mustard-jar, where I had dropped it on thehearth some fifteen years ago, and my horse kept stumbling over thiscrevice, so that I knew it was the red jar and the buttons we wereriding around. And afterward I made a song in honour of my Stella, --asong so perfect that I presently awoke, weeping with joy that I hadmade a song so beautiful, and with the knowledge I could not nowrecollect a single word of it; and I knew that neither I nor any otherman could ever make again a song one-half so beautiful. . . . 

"Since then Ole-Luk-Oie--or someone--has been very kind at times. Healways lets me into pictures, though, never into mouse-holes andhen-houses and silly places like that, as he did little Hjalmar. Idon't know why. . . . 

"Once it was into the illustrations to the _Popular Tales ofPoictesme_, and we met my great grandfather Jurgen there. And once itwas into the picture on the cover of that unveracious pamphlet themanager of the Green Chalybeate sends in the spring to everybody whohas once been there. That time was very odd. 

"It is a picture of the Royal Hotel, you may remember, as it used to bea good ten years ago. Both fountains were playing in the sunlight, --they were torn down when I was at college, and I had almost forgottentheir existence; and elegant and languid ladies were riding by, invictorias, and under tiny parasols trimmed with fringe, and all theseladies wore those preposterously big sleeves they used to wear then;and men in little visored skull caps were passing on tall old-fashionedbicycles, just as they do in the picture. Even the silk-hattedgentleman in the corner, pointing out the beauties of the building withhis cane, was there. 

"And Stella and I walked past the margin of the picture, and so on downthe boardwalk to the other hotel, to look for our parents. And weagreed not to tell anyone that we had ever grown up, but just to let itbe a secret between us two; and we were to stay in the picture forever, and grow up all over again, only we would arrange everythingdifferently. And Stella was never to go driving on the twenty-seventhof April, so that we would be quite safe, and would live together for along, long while. 

"She wouldn't promise, though, that when Peter Blagden asked to beintroduced, she would refuse to meet him. She just giggled and shookher sunny head. She hadn't any hat on. She was wearing theblue-and-white sailor-suit, of course. ". . . . 

 4

But a servant was lighting up the front-hall, and the glare of it camethrough the open door, and now the room was just like any other room. 

"And you are Robert Townsend!" the marquise observed. "The one mymother doesn't approve of as a visitor!"

Madame d'Arlanges said, with a certain lack of sequence: "And yet youare planning to do precisely what Peter Blagden did. He liked Stella, she amused him, and he thought her money would come in very handy; andso he, somehow, contrived to marry her in the end, because she was justa child, and you were a child, and he wasn't. And he always lied to herabout--about those business-trips--even from the very first. I knew, because I'm not a sentimental person. But, Bob, how can you stoop tomimic Peter Blagden! For you are doing precisely what he did; and forRosalind, just as it was for Stella, it is almost irresistible, to havethe chance of reforming a man who has notoriously been 'talked about. 'Still, I see that for Stella's sake you won't lie as steadfastly toRosalind as Peter did to Stella. It is none of my business of course;oh, I don't meddle. I merely prophesy that you won't. "

But those lights had made an astonishing difference. And so, "But whynot?" said I. "It is the immemorial method of dealing with savages; andsurely women can never expect to become quite civilised so long aschivalry demands that a man say to a woman only what he believes shewants to hear? Ah, no, my dear Lizzie; when a man tries to get into awoman's favour, custom demands that he palliate the invasion withflatteries and veiled truths--or, more explicitly, with lies, --just asany sensible explorer must come prepared to leave a trail oflooking-glasses and valueless bright beads among the original owners ofany unknown country. For he doesn't know what obstacles he mayencounter, and he has been taught, from infancy, to regard any woman asa baleful and unfathomable mystery--"

"She is never so--heaven help her!--if the man be sufficientlyworthless. "

"I rejoice that we are so thoroughly at one. For upon my word, Ibelieve this widespread belief in feminine inscrutability is the resultof a conspiracy on the part of the weaker sex; and that every mother issomehow pledged to inculcate this belief into the immature masculinemind. Apparently the practice originated in the Middle Ages, for itnever seemed to occur to anybody before then that a woman wasparticularly complex. Though, to be sure, Catullus now--" "This is nota time for pedantry. I don't in the least care what Catullus or anyoneelse observed concerning anything--" "But I had not aspired, my dearLizzie, to be even remotely pedantic. I was simply about to remark thatCatullus, or Ariosto, or Coventry Patmore, or King Juba, or Posidonius, or Sir John Vanbrugh, or perhaps, Agathocles of Chios, or elseSimonides the Younger, has conceded somewhere, that women are, incertain respects, dissimilar, as it were, to men. " "I am merely urgingyou not to marry this silly little Rosalind, for the excellent reasonthat you _did_ love my darling Stella even more than I, and thatRosalind is in love with you. " "Do you really think so?" said I. "Why, then, actuated by the very finest considerations of decency andprudence and generosity, I shall, of course, espouse her the very nextNovember that ever is. "

The marquise retorted: "No, --because you are at bottom too fond ofRosalind Jemmett; and, besides, it isn't really a question of yourfeeling toward _her_. In any event, I begin to like you too well, Bob, to let you kiss me any more. "

I declared that I detested paradox. Then I went home to supper. 

 5

But, for all this, I meditated for a long while upon what Lizzie hadsaid. It was true that I was really fond of "proper" little RosalindJemmett; concerning myself I had no especial illusions; and, to mycredit, I faced what I considered the real issue, squarely. 

We were in Aunt Marcia's parlour. Rosalind was an orphan, and lived inturn with her three aunts. She said the other two were less unendurablethan Aunt Marcia, and I believed her. I consider, to begin with, that aperson is not civilised who thumps upon the floor upstairs with apoker, simply because it happens to be eleven o'clock; and moreover, Aunt Marcia's parlour--oh, it really was a "parlour, "--was entirely toolike the first night of a charity bazaar, when nothing has been sold. 

The room was not a particularly large one; but it contained exactlythree hundred and seven articles of bijouterie, not estimating thechina pug-dog upon the hearth. I know, for I counted them. 

Besides, there were twenty-eight pictures upon the walls--one in oilsof the late Mr. Dumby (for Aunt Marcia was really Mrs. Clement Dumby), painted, to all appearances, immediately after the misguided gentlemanwho married Aunt Marcia had been drowned, and before he had been wipeddry, --and for the rest, everywhere the eye was affronted by engravingsframed in gilt and red-plush of "Sanctuary, " "Le Hamac, " "MartyreChrétienne, " "The Burial of Latané, " and other Victorian outrages. 

Then on an easel there was a painting of a peacock, perched upon anurn, against a gilded background; this painting irrelevantly deceivedyour expectations, for it was framed in blue plush. Also there were"gift-books" on the centre table, and a huge volume, again in redplush, with its titular "Album" cut out of thin metal and nailed to thecover. This album contained calumnious portraits of Aunt Marcia'sfamily, the most of them separately enthroned upon the same imitationrock, in all the pride of a remote, full-legged and starchy youth, eachpicture being painfully "coloured by hand. "

 6

"Do you know why I want to marry you?" I demanded of Rosalind, in suchsurroundings, apropos of a Mrs. Vokins who had taken a house inLichfield for the winter, and had been at school somewhere in thebackwoods with Aunt Marcia, and was "dying to meet me. "

She answered, in some surprise: "Why, because you have the good tasteto be heels over head in love with me, of course. "

I took possession of her hands. "If there is anything certain in thisworld of uncertainties, it is that I am not the least bit in love withyou. Yet, only yesterday--do you remember, dear?"

She answered, "I remember. "

"But I cannot, for the life of me, define what happened yesterday. Imerely recall that we were joking, as we always do when together, andthat on a wager I loosened your hair. Then as it tumbled in greathoney-coloured waves about you, you were silent, and there came intoyour eyes a look I had never seen before. And even now I cannot definewhat happened, Rosalind! I only know I caught your face between myhands, and for a moment held it so, with fingers that have not yetforgotten the feel of your soft, thick hair, --and that for a breathingspace your eyes looked straight into mine. Something changed in methen, my lady. Something changed in you, too, I think. "

Then Rosalind said, "Don't, Jaques--!" She was horribly embarrassed. 

"For I knew you willed me to possess you, and that possession wouldseem as trivial as a fiddle in a temple. . . . Yet, too, there was alustful beast, somewhere inside of me, which nudged me to--kiss you, say! But nothing happened. I did not even kiss you, my beautiful andwealthy Rosalind. "

"Don't keep on talking about the money, " she wailed. "Why, you can'tbelieve I think you mercenary!"

"I would estimate your intellect far more cheaply, my charmingRosalind, if you thought anything else; for of course I am. I wanted tosettle myself, you conceive, and as an accomplice you were veryeligible. I now comprehend it is beyond the range of rationality, dearstranger, that we should ever marry each other; and so we must not. Wemust not, you comprehend, since though we lived together through tenpatriarchal lifetimes we would die strangers to each other. For you, dear clean-souled girl that you are, were born that you mightbe the wife of a strong man and the mother of his sturdy children. Theworld was made for you and for your offspring; and in time yourchildren will occupy this world and make the laws for us irrelevantfolk that scribble and paint and design all useless and beautifulthings, and thus muddle away our precious lives. No, you may not wiselymate with us, for you are a shade too terribly at ease in the universe, you sensible people. "

"But I love Art, " said Rosalind, bewildered. 

"Yes, --but by the tiniest syllable a thought too volubly, my dear. Youare the sort that quotes the Rubaiyat. Whereas I--was it yesterday orthe day before you told me, with a wise pucker of your beautiful low, white brow, that I had absolutely no sense of the responsibilities oflife? Well, I really haven't, dear stranger, as you appraise them; and, indeed, I fear we must postpone our agreement upon any possiblesubject, until the coming of the Coquecigrues. We see the world sodifferently, you and I, --and for that same reason I cannot but adoreyou, Rosalind. For with you I can always speak my true thought and knowthat you will never for a moment suspect it to be anything but irony. Ah, yes, we can laugh and joke together, and be thorough friends; butif there is anything certain in this world of uncertainties, it is thatI am not, and cannot be, in love with you. And yet--I wonder now?" saidI, and I rose and paced Aunt Marcia's parlour. 

"You wonder? Don't you understand even now?" the girl said shyly. "I amnot as clever as you, of course; I have known that for a long while, Jaques; and to-night in particular I don't quite follow you, my dear, but I love you, and--why, there is _nothing_ I could deny you!"

"Then give me back my freedom, " said I. "For, look you, Rosalind, marriage is proverbially a slippery business. Always there are avariety of excellent reasons for perpetrating matrimony; but the rub ofit is that not any one of them insures you against to-morrow. Love, forexample, we have all heard of; but I have known fine fellows to flingaway their chances in life, after the most approved romantic fashion, on account of a pretty stenographer, and to beat her within thetwelvemonth. And upon my word, you know, nobody has a right to blamethe swindled lover for doing this--"

I paused to inspect the china pug-dog which squatted on the pink-tiledhearth and which glared inanely at the huge brass coal-box justopposite. Then I turned from these two abominations and faced Rosalindwith a bantering flirt of my head. 

"--For put it that I marry some entrancing slip of girlhood, what am Ito say when, later, I discover myself irrevocably chained to a fat anddowdy matron? I married no such person, I have indeed sworn eternalfidelity to an entirely different person; and this unsolicited usurperof my hearth is nothing whatever to me, unless perhaps the object of myentire abhorrence. Yet am I none the less compelled to justify theensuing action before an irrational audience, which faces common logicin very much the attitude of Augustine's famed adder! Decidedly I thinkthat, on the whole, I would prefer my Freedom. "

It was as though I had struck her. She sat as if frozen. "Jaques, isthere another woman in this?"

"Why, in a fashion, yes. Yet it is mainly because I am really fond ofyou, Rosalind. "

She handed me that exceedingly expensive ring the jeweler had chargedto me. I thought her action damnably theatrical, but still, it was notas though I could afford to waste money on rings, so I took the trinketabsent-mindedly. 

"You are unflatteringly prompt in closing out the account, " I said, with a grieved smile. . . . 

"Good-bye!" said Rosalind, and her voice broke. "Oh, and I hadthought--! Well, as it is, I pay for the luxury of thinking, just asyou forewarned me, don't I, Jaques? And you won't forget thehall-light? Aunt Marcia, you know--but how glad _she_ will be! I feelrather near to Aunt Marcia to-night, " said Rosalind. 

 7

She left Lichfield the next day but one, and spent the following winterwith the aunt that lived in Brooklyn. She was Rosalind Gelwix the nexttime I saw her. . . . 

And Aunt Marcia, whose taste is upon a par with her physicalattractions, inserted a paragraph in the "Social Items" of theLichfield _Courier-Herald_ to announce the breaking-off of theengagement. Aunt Marcia also took the trouble to explain, quiteconfidentially, to some seven hundred and ninety-three people, just whythe engagement had been broken off: and these explanations were morecreditable to Mrs. Dumby's imagination than to me. 

And I remembered, then, that the last request my mother made of me wasto keep out of the newspapers--"except, of course, the socialitems". . . . 

20. 

_He Dines Out, Impeded by Superstitions_

Within the week I had repented of what I termed my idiotic quixotism, and for precisely nine days after that I cursed my folly. And then, atthe Provises, I comprehended that in breaking off my engagement toRosalind Jemmett I had acted with profound wisdom, and I unfolded mynapkin, and said:

"Do you know I didn't catch your name--not even this time?"

She took a liberal supply of lemon juice. "How delightful!" shemurmured, "for I heard yours quite distinctly, and these oysters aredelicious. "

I noted with approval that her gown was pink and fluffy; it had also theadvantage of displaying shoulders that were incredibly white, and athroat which was little short of marvellous. "I am glad, " I whispered, confidentially, "that you are still wearing that faint vein about yourleft temple. I thought it admirable for early morning wear upon thehouse tops of Liege, but it seems equally effective for dinner parties. "

She raised her eyebrows slightly and selected a biscuit. 

"You see, " said I, "I was horribly late. And when Kittie Provis said, 'Allow me, ' and I saw--well, I didn't care, " I concluded, lucidly, "because to have every one of your dreams come true, all of a sudden, leaves you past caring. "

"It really is funny, " she confided to a spoonful of _consomme a laJulienne_. 

"After almost two years!" sighed I, ever so happily. But I continued, with reproach, "To go without a word--that very day--"

"Mamma--" she began. 

I recalled the canary-bird, and the purple shawl. "I sought wildly, "said I; "you were evanished. The _proprietaire_ was tearing his hair--noinsurance--he knew nothing. So I too tore my hair; and I said things. There was a row. For he also said things: 'Figure to yourselves, messieurs! I lose the Continental--two ladies come and go, I know notwho--I am ruined, desolated, is it not?--and this pig of an Americanblusters--ah, my new carpets, just down, what horror!' And then, youknow, he launched into a quite feeling peroration concerning ournotorious custom of tomahawking one another--

"Yes, " I coldly concluded into Mrs. Clement Dumby's ear, "we all behaveddisgracefully. As you very justly observe, liquor has been the curse ofthe South. " It was of a piece with Kittie Provis to put me next to AuntMarcia, I reflected. 

And mentally I decided that even though a portion of my assertions hadnot actually gone through the formality of occurring, it all might veryeasily have happened, had I remained a while longer in Liege; and thenensued a silent interval and an entree. 

"And so--?"

"And so I knocked about the world, in various places, hoping againsthope that at last--"

"Your voice carries frightfully--"

I glanced toward Mrs. Clement Dumby, who, as a dining dowager of manyyears' experience, was, to all appearances, engrossed by the contents ofher plate. "My elderly neighbour is as hard of hearing as atelephone-girl, " I announced. She was the exact contrary, which was whyI said it quite audibly. "And your neighbour--why, _his_ neighbour isNannie Allsotts. We might as well be on a desert island, Elena--" Andthe given name slipped out so carelessly as to appear almost accidental. 

"Sir!" said she, with proper indignation; "after so short anacquaintance--"

"Centuries, " I suggested, meekly. "You remember I explained about that. "

She frowned, --an untrustworthy frown that was tinged with laughter. "Onemeets so many people! Yes, it really is frightfully warm, ColonelGrimshaw; they ought to open some of the windows. "

"Er--haw--hum! Didn't see you at the Anchesters. "

"No; I am usually lucky enough to be in bed with a sick headache whenMrs. Anchester entertains. Of two evils one should choose the lesser, you know. "

In the manner of divers veterans Colonel Grimshaw evinced his mirth upona scale more proper to an elephant; and relapsed, with a reassuring airof having done his duty once and for all. 

"I never, " she suggested, tentatively, "heard any more of your poem, about--?"

"Oh, I finished it; every magazine in the country knows it. It is poorstuff, of course, but then how could I write of Helen when Helen haddisappeared?"

The lashes exhibited themselves at full length. "I looked her up, "confessed their owner, guiltily, "in the encyclopaedia. It was veryinstructive--about sun-myths and bronzes and the growth of the epic, youknow, and tree-worship and moon-goddesses. Of course"--here ensued aflush and a certain hiatus in logic, --"of course it is nonsense. "

"Nonsense?" My voice sank tenderly. "Is it nonsense, Elena, that for twoyears I have remembered the woman whose soft body I held, for oneunforgettable moment, in my arms? and nonsense that I have fought allthis time against--against the temptations every man has, --that I mightask her at last--some day when she at last returned, as always I knewshe would--to share a fairly decent life? and nonsense that I havedreamed, waking and sleeping, of a wondrous face I knew in Ilium first, and in old Rome, and later on in France, I think, when the Valois werekings? Well!" I sighed, after vainly racking my brain for a tendererfragment of those two-year-old verses, "I suppose it is nonsense!"

"The salt, please, " quoth she. She flashed that unforgotten broadside atme. "I believe you need it. "

"Why, dear me! of course not!" said I, to Mrs. Dumby; "immorality lostthe true _cachet_ about the same time that ping-pong did. Nowadaysdivorces are going out, you know, and divorcees are not allowed to. Quite modish women are seen in public with their husbands nowadays. "

"H'mph!" said Mrs. Dumby; "I've no doubt that you must find it a mostinconvenient fad!"

I ate my portion of duck abstractedly. "Thus to dive into therefuse-heap of last year's slang does not quite cover the requirementsof the case. For I wish--only I hardly dare to ask--"

"If I were half of what you make out, " meditatively said she, "I wouldbe a regular fairy, and couldn't refuse you the usual three wishes. "

"Two, " I declared, "would be sufficient. "

"First?"

"That you tell me your name. "

"I adore orange ices, don't you? And the second?" was her comment. 

"Well, then, you' re a pig, " was mine. "You are simply a nomenclaturalBerkshire. But the second is that you let me measure your finger--oh, any finger will do. Say, the third on the left hand. "

"You really talk to me as if--" But this non-existent state of affairsproved indescribable, and the unreal condition lapsed into a pout. 

"Oh, very possibly!" I conceded; "since the way in which a man talks toa woman--to _the_ woman--depends by ordinary upon the depth--"

"The depth of his devotion?" she queried, helpfully. "Of course!"

I faced the broadside, without flinching. "No, " said I, critically; "thedepth of her dimples. "

"Nonsense!" Nevertheless, the dimples were, and by a deal, the moreconspicuous. We were getting on pretty well. 

I bent forward; there was a little catch in my voice. Aunt Marcia waslistening. I wanted her to listen. 

"You must know that I love you, " I said, simply, "I have always lovedyou, I think, since the moment my eyes first fell upon you inthat--other pink thing. Of course, I realize the absurdity of my talkingin this way to a woman whose name I don't know; but I realise morestrongly that I love you. Why, there is not a pulse in my body whichisn't throbbing and tingling and leaping riotously from pure joy ofbeing with you again, Elena! And in time, you will love me a little, simply because I want you to, --isn't that always a woman's main reasonfor caring for a man?"

She considered this, dubious and flushed. 

"I will not insist, " said I, with a hurried and contented laugh, "thatyou were formerly an Argive queen. I mean I will not be obstinate aboutit, because that, I confess, was a paraphrase of my verses. But Helenhas always been to me the symbol of perfect loveliness, and so it wasnot unnatural that I should confuse you with her. "

"Thank you, sir, " said she, demurely. 

"I half believe it is true, even now; and if not--well, Helen wasacceptable enough in her day, Elena, but I am willing to Italianise, forI have seen you and loved you, and Helen is forgot. It is not exactlythe orthodox pace for falling in love, " I added, with a boyish candour, "but it is very real to me. "

"You--you couldn't have fallen in love--really--"

"It was not in the least difficult, " I protested. 

"And you don't even know my _name_--"

"I know, however, what it is going to be, " said I; "and Mrs. 'Enry'Awkins, as we'll put it, has found favour in the judgment ofconnoisseurs. So after dinner--in an hour--?"

"Oh, very well! since you're an author and insist, I will be ready, inan hour, to decline you, with thanks. "

"Rejection not implying any lack of merit, " I suggested. "This isdamnable iteration; but I am accustomed to it. "

But by this, Mrs. Provis was gathering eyes around the table, and herguests arose, with the usual outburst of conversation, and swishing ofdresses, and the not always unpremeditated dropping of handkerchiefs andfans. Mrs. Clement Dumby bore down upon us now, a determined andgenerously proportioned figure in her notorious black silk. 

"Really, " said she, aggressively, "I never saw two people moreengrossed. My dear Mrs. Barry-Smith, you have been so taken up with Mr. Townsend, all during dinner, that I haven't had a chance to welcome youto Lichfield. Your mother and I were at school together, you know. Andyour husband was quite a beau of mine. So I don't feel, now, at all asif we were strangers--"

And thus she bore Elena off, and I knew that within ten minutes Elenawould have been warned against me, as "not quite a desirableacquaintance, you know, my dear, and it is only my duty to tell you thatas a young and attractive married woman--"

 2

"And so, " I said in my soul, as the men redistributed themselves, "sheis married, --married while you were pottering with books and the turn ofphrases and immortality and such trifles--oh, you ass! And to a mannamed Barry-Smith--damn him, I wonder whether he is the hungry scut thathasn't had his hair cut this fall, or the blancmange-bellied one withthe mashed-strawberry nose? Yes, I know everybody else. And Jimmy Travisis telling a funny story, so _laugh_! People will think you are grievingover Rosalind. . . . But why in heaven's name isn't Jimmy at home this verymoment, --with a wife and carpet-slippers and a large-size bottle ofparegoric on his mantelpiece, --instead of here, grinning like a foolover some blatant indecency? He ought to marry; every young man ought tomarry. Oh, you futile, abject, burbling twin-brother of the first patronthat procured a reputation for Bedlam! why aren't _you_ married--marriedyears ago, --with a home of your own, and a victoria for Mrs. Townsendand bills from the kindergarten every quarter? Oh, you bartender ofverbal cocktails! I believe your worst enemy flung your mind at you in amoment of unbridled hatred. "

So I snapped the stem of my glass carefully, and scowled with morosedisapproval at the unconscious Mr. Travis, and his now-applauded andvery Fescennine jest. . . . 

 3

I found her inspecting a bulky folio with remarkable interest. There wasa lamp, with a red shade, that cast a glow over her, such as onesometimes sees reflected from a great fire. The people about us werechattering idiotically, and something inside my throat prevented mybreathing properly, and I was miserable. 

"Mrs. Barry-Smith, "--thus I began, --"if you've the tiniest scrap of pityin your heart for a very presumptuous, blundering and unhappy person, Ipray you to forgive and to forget, as people say, all that I haveblatted out to you. I spoke, as I thought, to a free woman, who had theright to listen to my boyish talk, even though she might elect to laughat it. And now I hardly dare to ask forgiveness. "

Mrs. Barry-Smith inspected a view of the Matterhorn, with carefuldeliberation. "Forgiveness?" said she. 

"Indeed, " said I, "I _don't_ deserve it. " And I smiled most resolutely. "I had always known that somewhere, somehow, you would come into my lifeagain. It has been my dream all these two years; but I dream carelessly. My visions had not included this--obstacle. "

She made wide eyes at me. "What?" said she. 

"Your husband, " I suggested, delicately. 

The eyes flashed. And a view of Monaco, to all appearances, awoke somepleasing recollection. "I confess, " said Mrs. Barry-Smith, "that--forthe time--I had quite forgotten him. I--I reckon you must think mevery horrid?"

But she was at pains to accompany this query with a broadside thatrendered such a supposition most unthinkable. And so--

"I think you--" My speech was hushed and breathless, and ended in aclick of the teeth. "Oh, don't let's go into the minor details, "I pleaded. 

Then Mrs. Barry-Smith descended to a truism. "It is usually better notto, " said she, with the air of an authority. And latterly, addressingthe facade of Notre Dame, "You see, Mr. Barry-Smith being so mucholder than I--"

"I would prefer that. Of course, though, it is none of my business. "

"You see, you came and went so suddenly that--of course I never thoughtto see you again--not that I ever thought about it, I reckon--" Hercandour would have been cruel had it not been reassuringlyover-emphasized. "And Mr. Barry-Smith was very pressing--"

"He would be, " I assented, after consideration. "It is, indeed, thesingle point in his outrageous conduct I am willing to condone. "

"--and he was a great friend of my father's, and I _liked_ him--"

"So you married him and lived together ever afterward, without everthrowing the tureen at each other. That is the most modern version; butthere is usually a footnote concerning the bread-and-butter plates. "

She smiled, inscrutably, a sphinx in Dresden china. "And yet, " shemurmured, plaintively, "I _would_ like to know what you think of me. "

"Why, prefacing with the announcement that I pray God I may never seeyou after to-night, I think you the most adorable creature He ever made. What does it matter now? I have lost you. I think--ah, desire o' theworld, what can I think of you? The notion of you dazzles me likeflame, --and I dare not think of you, for I love you. "

"Yes?" she queried, sweetly; "then I reckon Mrs. Dumby was right afterall. She said you were a most depraved person and that, as a youngand--well, _she_ said it, you know--attractive widow--"

"H'm!" said I; and I sat down. "Elena Barry-Smith, " I added, "you are anunmitigated and unconscionable and unpardonable rascal. There is justone punishment which would be adequate to meet your case; and I warn youthat I mean to inflict it. Why, how dare you be a widow! The courtdecides it is unable to put up with any such nonsense, and that you'vegot to stop it at once. "

"Really, " said she, tossing her head and moving swiftly, "one wouldthink we _were_ on a desert island!"

"Or a strange roof"--and I laughed, contentedly. "Meanwhile, about thatring--it should be, I think, a heavy, Byzantine ring, with the stonessunk deep in the dull gold. Yes, we'll have six stones in it; say, R, aruby; O, an opal; B, a beryl; E, an emerald; R, a ruby again, I suppose;and T, a topaz. Elena, that's the very ring I mean to buy as soon asI've had breakfast, tomorrow, as a token of my mortgage on the desire ofthe world, and as the badge of your impendent slavery. " And I reflectedthat Rosalind had, after all, behaved commendably in humiliating me byso promptly returning this ring. 

Very calmly Elena Barry-Smith regarded the Bay of Naples; very calmlyshe turned to the Taj Mahal. "An obese young Lochinvar, " she reflectedaloud, "who has seen me twice, unblushingly assumes he is about to marryme! Of course, " she sighed, quite tolerantly, "I know he is clean out ofhis head, for otherwise--" "Yes, --otherwise?" I prompted. 

"--he would never ask me to wear an opal. Why, " she cried in horror, "Icouldn't think of it!" "You mean--?" said I. 

She closed the album, with firmness. "Why, you are just a child, " saidMrs. Barry-Smith. "We are utter strangers to each other. Please rememberthat, for all you know, I may have an unbridled temper, or an importedcomplexion, or a liking for old man Ibsen. What you ask--only you don't, you simply assume it, --is preposterous. And besides, opals_are_ unlucky. "

"Desire o' the world, " I said, in dolorous wise, "I have just rememberedthe black-lace mitts and reticule you left upon the dinner-table. Oh, truly, I had meant to bring 'em to you--Only _do_ you think it quitegood form to put on those cloth-sided shoes when you've been invited toa real party?"

For a moment Mrs. Barry-Smith regarded me critically. Then she shook herhead, and tried to frown, and reopened the album, and inspected thecrater of Vesuvius, and quite frankly laughed. And a tender, pink-tippedhand rested upon my arm for an instant, --a brief instant, yet pulsingwith a sense of many lights and of music playing somewhere, and of aman's heart keeping time to it. 

"If you were to make it an onyx--" said Mrs. Barry-Smith. 

21. 

_He is Urged to Desert His Galley_

She had been a widow even when I first encountered her in Liege. I mayhave passed her dozens of times, only she was in mourning then, forBarry-Smith, and so I never really saw her. 

It seems, though, that "in the second year" it is permissible to wearpink garments in the privacy of your own apartments, and that if peoplesee you in them, accidentally, it is simply their own fault. 

And very often they are punished for it; as most certainly was I, forElena led me a devil's dance of jealousy, and rapture, and abjectmisery, and suspicion, and supreme content, that next four months. Sheand her mother had rented a house on Regis Avenue for the winter; and Ifrequented it with zeal. Mrs. Vokins said I "came reg'lar asthe milkman. "

 2

Now of Mrs. Vokins I desire to speak with the greatest respect, if onlyfor the reason that she was Elena Barry-Smith's mother. Mrs. Vokins had, no doubt, the kindest heart in the world; but she had spent the firstthirty years of her life in a mountain-girdled village, and after herhusband's wonderful luck--if you will permit me her vernacular, --inbeing "let in on the groundfloor" when the Amalgamated Tobacco Companywas organised, I believe that Mrs. Vokins was never again quite at ease. 

I am abysmally sure she never grew accustomed to being waited on by anyservant other than a girl who "came in by the day"; though, oddlyenough, she was incessantly harassed by the suspicion that one oranother "good-for-nothing nigger was getting ready to quit. " Her timewas about equally devoted to tending her canary, Bill Bryan, and tofurthering an apparently diurnal desire to have supper served a quarterof an hour earlier to-night, "so that the servants can get off. "

Finally Mrs. Vokins considered that "a good woman's place was right inher own home, with a nice clean kitchen, " and was used to declare thatthe fummadiddles of Mrs. Carrie Nation--who was in New York that winter, you may remember, advocating Prohibition, --would never have been stoodfor where Mrs. Vokins was riz. Them Yankee huzzies, she estimated, didbeat her time. 

 3

It was, and is, the oddest thing I ever knew of that Elena could havebeen her daughter. Though, mind you, even to-day, I cannot commit myselfto any statement whatever as concerns Elena Barry-Smith, beyondasserting that she was beautiful. I am willing to concede that since theworld's creation there may have lived, say, six or seven women who wereequally good to look upon; but at the bottom of my heart I know theconcession is simply verbal. For she was not pretty; she was nothandsome; she was beautiful. Indeed, I sometimes thought her beautyovershadowed any serious consideration of the woman who wore it, just asin admiration of a picture you rarely think to wonder what sort ofcanvas it is painted on. 

Yes, I am quite sure, upon reflection, that to Elena Barry-Smith herbeauty was a sort of tyrant. She devoted her life, I think, to theretention of her charms; and what with the fixed seven hours forsleep--no more and not a moment less, --the rigid limits of her diet, thewalking of exactly five miles a day, and her mathematical adherence to apredetermined programme of massage and hair-treatment and manicuring andface-creams and so on, Elena had hardly two hours in a day at herown disposal. 

She would as soon have thought of sacrificing her afternoon walk to theMusgrave Monument and back, as of having a front-tooth unnecessarilyremoved; and would as willingly have partaken of prussic acid as ofcandy or potatoes. She was, in fine, an artist of the truest type, inthat she immolated her body, and her own preferences, in the causeof beauty. 

Nor was she vain, or stupid either, though what I have written vaguelysounds as though she were both. She was just Elena Barry-Smith, of whomyour memory was always how beautiful she had been at this or thatparticular moment, rather than what she said or did. And I believe thatevery man in Lichfield was in love with her. 

But, in recollection of any person with whom you have had intimate andtender intercourse, the pre-eminent feature is the big host of questionswhich you cannot answer, or not, at least, with certainty. . . . 

 4

For instance: the night of the Allardyce dance, after seeing Elena home, I stepped in for a moment to get warm and have her mix me a highball. Wesat for a considerable while on the long sofa in the dimly-lighteddining room, talking in whispers so as not to disturb the rest of thehouse: and Elena was unusually beautiful that night, and I was more thanusually in love, more thanks to three of the five drinks she mixed. . . . 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, " she stated, sighing. 

I did not say anything. 

"Oh, well, then--! If you will just promise me, " she stipulated, "thatyou will never in any way refer to it afterwards--"

So I promised. . . . And the next day she met me, cool as the proverbialcucumber, and never once did she "refer to it afterwards, " nor did Ithink it wise to do so either. But the incident, however delightful, puzzled me. It puzzles me even now. . . . 

 5

In any event, she was not only beautiful but exceedingly well-to-dolikewise, since her dead father and her husband also had provided forher amply; and Lichfield sniggered in consequence, and as a matter ofcourse assumed my devotion to be of astute and mercenary origin. But Ihad, in this period, a variety of reasons to know that Lichfield was foronce entirely in the wrong; and that what Lichfield mistook to be thebegetter of, was in reality--so we will phrase it--the almostunnecessary augmenter of my infatuation. Of course I did not exactlyobject to her having money. . . . 

Meantime Elena was profoundly various. I told her once that beingmarried to her would be the very next thing to owning a harem. And inconsequence of this same mutability, it was as late as March beforeElena Barry-Smith made up her mind to marry me; and I was so deliciouslyperturbed that the same night I wrote to tell Bettie Hamlyn all aboutit. I had accepted Rosalind more calmly somehow. Now I was dithyrambic;and you would never have suspected I had lived within fifty miles ofBettie for an entire two years without attempting to communicate withher, for very certainly my letter did not touch upon the fact. I was, infine, supremely happy, and I wanted Bettie, first of all, to know ofthis circumstance, because my happiness had always made her happy too. 

The act was natural enough; only Elena telephoned, at nine the followingmorning, that she had altered her intention. 

"My regret is beyond expression, " said I, politely, "I shall come for mytea at five, however. "

She entered upon a blurred protest. "You have already broken my heart, "I said, with some severity, "and now it would appear you contemplateswindling the remainder of my anatomy out of its deserts. You are acurmudgeon. " And I hung up the receiver. 

And my first thought was, "Oh, how gladly I would give the gold of Ormusand of Alaska just to have my letter back!" But I had mailed it, shuffling to the corner in my slippers, and without any collar on, inthe hushed middle of the night, because my letter had seemed soimportant then. 

 6

"Will you not have me, lady?" I began that afternoon. 

"No, my lord, " she demurely responded, "for I've decided it would be toomuch like living in my Sunday-clothes. "

And "I give it up. So what's the answer?" was my annotation. 

"Oh, I'm not making jokes to-day. Why are you so--Oh, as we used to sayat school, " she re-began, _"Que diable allais-tu faire danscette galere?"_

"I was born in a vale of tears, Elena, and must take the consequences ofbeing found in such a situation. "

She came to me, and her finger-tips touched my hand ever so lightly. "That is another quotation, I suppose. And it is one other reason why Imean not to marry you. Frankly, you bore me to death with yourerudition; you are three-quarters in love with me, but you pay heapsless attention to what I say about anything than to what Aristotle orsome other old fellow said about it. Oh, that I should have lived to bejealous of Aristotle! Indeed I am, for I have the misfortune to behideously in love with you. You are so exactly the sort of infant Iwould like to adopt. "

"Love, " I suggested, "while no longer an excuse for marriage, is atleast a palliation. "

"Listen, dear. From the first I have liked you, but that was not verystrange, because I like almost everybody; but it was strange I shouldhave remembered you and have liked the idea of you ever since you wentaway that first time. "

"Oh, well, this once I will excuse you--"

"But it happened in this way: I had found everybody--very nice, youknow--particularly the men, --and the things which cannot be laughed at Ihad always put aside as not worth thinking about. You like to laugh, too, but I have always known--and sometimes it gets me real mad to thinkabout it, I can tell you--that you could be in earnest if you chose, andI can't. And that makes me a little sorry and tremendously glad, because, quite frankly, I _am_ head over heels in love with you. That iswhy I don't intend to marry you. "

And I was not a little at sea. "Oh, very well!" I pleasantly announced, "I shall become a prominent citizen at once, if that's all that isnecessary. I will join every one of the patriotic societies, and sitperpetually on platforms with a perspiring water-pitcher, and unveilthings every week, with felicitous allusions to the glorious past of ourgrand old State; and have columns of applause in brackets on the frontpage of the _Courier-Herald_. I will even go into civic politics, if youinsist upon it, and leave round-cornered cards at all the drugstores, sothat everybody who buys a cigar will know I am subject to the Democraticprimary. I wonder, by the way, if people ever survive that malady? Itsounds to me a deal more dangerous that epilepsy, say, yet lots ofpersons seem to have it--"

But Elena was not listening. "You know, " she re-began, "I could get outof it all very gracefully by telling you you drink too much. Youcouldn't argue it, you know--particularly after your behaviorlast Tuesday. "

"Oh, now and then one must be sociable. You aren't a prude, Elena--"

"However, I am not really afraid of that, somehow. I even confess Idon't actually _mind_ your being rather good for nothing. No woman everreally does, though she has her preference, and pretends, of course, tomind a great deal. What I mean, then, is this: You don't marry just me. I--I have very few relations, just two brothers and my mother; yet, in asense, you know, you marry them as well. But I don't believe you wouldlike being married to them. They are so different from you, dear. Yourwhole view-point of life is different--"

I had begun to speak when she broke in: "No, don't say anything, please, until I'm quite, quite through. My brothers are the most admirable men Iever knew. I love them more than I can say. I trust them more than I doyou. But they are just _good_. They don't fail in the really importantthings of life, but they are remiss in little ways, they--they don't_care_ for the little elegantnesses, if that's a word. Even Arthur chewstobacco when he feels inclined. And he thinks no _man_ would smoke acigarette. Oh, I can't explain just what I mean--"

"I think I understand, Elena. Suppose we let it pass as said. "

"And Mamma is not--we'll say, particularly highly educated. Oh, you'vebeen very nice to her. She adores you. You won _her_ over completelywhen you took so much trouble to get her the out-of-print papernovels--about the village maidens and the wicked dukes--in that idioticCarnation Series she is always reading. The whole affair was just likeboth of you, I think. "

"But, oh, my dear--!" I laughed. 

"No, not one man in a thousand would have remembered it after she hadsaid she did think the titles 'were real tasty'; and I don't believe anyother man in the world would have spent a week in rummaging thesecond-hand bookstores, until he found them. Only I don't know, evenyet, whether it was really kindness, or just cleverness that put you upto it--on account of me. And I do know that you are nice to her inpretty much the same way you were nice to the negro cook yesterday. AndI have had more advantages than she's had. But at bottom I'm really justlike her. You'd find it out some day. And--and that is what I mean, I think. "

I spoke at some length. It was atrocious nonsense which I spoke; in anyevent, it looked like atrocious nonsense when I wrote it down just now, and so I tore it up. But I was quite sincere throughout that moment; itis the Townsend handicap, I suspect, always to be perfectly sincere forthe moment. 

"Oh, well!" she said; "I'll think about it. "

 7

That night Elena and I played bridge against Nannie Allsotts and WarwickRisby. I was very much in love with Elena, but I hold it against her, even now, that she insisted on discarding from strength. However, therewas to be a little supper afterward, and you may depend upon it thatMrs. Vokins was seeing to its preparation. 

She came into the room about eleven o'clock, beaming with kindliness andflushed--I am sure, --by some slight previous commerce with thekitchen-fire. 

"Well, well!" said Mrs. Vokins, comfortably; "and who's a-beating?"

I looked up. I must protest, until my final day, I could not help it. "Why, we is, " I said. 

And Nannie Allsotts giggled, ever so slightly, and Warwick Risby hadhalf risen, with a quite infuriate face, and I knew that by to-morrowthe affair would be public property, and promptly lost the game andrubber. Afterward we had our supper. 

When the others had gone--for my footing in the house was such that I, by ordinary, stayed a moment or two after the others had gone, --ElenaBarry-Smith came to me and soundly boxed my jaws. 

"That, " she said, "is one way to deal with you. "

A minute ago I had been ashamed of myself. I had not room to be thatnow; I was too full of anger. "I did make rather a mess of it, " Iequably remarked, "but, you see, Nannie had shown strength in diamonds, and I simply couldn't resist the finesse. So they made every one oftheir clubs. And I hadn't any business to take the chance of course atthat stage, with the ace right in my hand--"

"Arthur would have said, before he'd thought of it, 'You damn fool--!'And then he would have apologised for forgetting himself in the presenceof a lady, " she said, in a sorry little voice. "Yes, you--you _have_hurt me, " she presently continued, --"just as you meant to do, if that'sa comfort to you. I feel as though I'd smacked a marble statue. You arethe sort that used to take snuff just before they had their heads cutoff, and when _they_ were in the wrong. And I'm not. That's always beenthe trouble. "

"Elena!" I began, --"wait, just a moment! I'm in anger now--!" It was notmuch to stammer out, but for me, who have the Townsend temper, it wasvery hard to say. 

"You talk about loving me! and I believe you do love me, in at any ratea sort of way. But you'll never forget, you never _have_ forgotten, those ancestors of yours who were in the House of Burgesses when Ihadn't any ancestors at all. It isn't fair, because we haven't got thechance to pick our parents, and it's absurd, and--it's true. The womanis my mother, and I'll be like her some day, very probably. Yes, she_is_ ignorant and tacky, and at times she is ridiculous. She hadn't eventhe smartness to notice it when you made a fool of her; and if anybodywere to explain it to her she would just laugh and say, 'Law, I don'tmind, because young people always have to have their fun, I reckon. ' Andshe would forgive you! Why, she adores you! she's been telling me formonths that you're 'a heap the nicest young man that visits with me. '"

Afterward Elena paused for an instant. "I think that is all, " she said. "It's a difference that isn't curable. Yes, I simply wanted to tell youthat much, and then ask you to go, I believe--"

"So you don't wish me, Elena, in the venerable phrase, to make an honestwoman of you?"

She had half turned, standing, in pink and silver fripperies, with onebared arm resting on the chair back, in one of her loveliest attitudes. "What do you mean?"

"I was referring to what happened the other night, after the Allardycedance. "

And Elena smiled rather strangely. "You baby! how much would it shockyou if I told you no woman really minds about that either? Any way, youhave broken your solemn promise, " she said, with indignation. 

"Ah, but perfidy seemed, somehow, in tone with an establishment whereinone concludes the evening's entertainment by physical assault upon theguests. Frankly, my dear"--I observed, with my most patronizing languor, --"your breeding is not quite that to which I have been accustomed, andI have had a rather startling glimpse of Lena Vokins, with all thelaboriously acquired veneering peeling off. Still, in view ofeverything, I suppose I do owe it to you to marry you, if you insist--"

"Insist! I wouldn't wipe my feet on you!"

"That especial demonstration of affection was not, as I recall, requested of you. So it is all off? along with the veneering, eh? Well, perhaps I did attach too much importance to that diverting epilogue tothe Allardyce dance. And as you say, Elena--and I take your word for it, gladly, --once one has become used to granting these little favorsindiscriminately--"

"Get out of my house!" Elena said, quite splendid in her fury, "or Iwill have you horsewhipped. I was fond of you. You would not let me bein peace. And I didn't know you until to-night for the sneering, stuck-up dirty beast you are at heart--" She came nearer, and herglittering eyes narrowed. "And you have no hold on me, no letters toblackmail me with, and nobody anywhere would take your word for anythingagainst mine. You would only be whipped by some real man, and probablyshot. So do you remember to keep a watch upon that lying, sneering mouthof yours! And do you get out of my house!"

"It is only rented, " I submitted: "yet, after all, to boastvaingloriously of their possessions is pardonable in those who haverisen in the world, and aren't quite accustomed to it. . . . " There were apair of us when it came to tempers. 

 8

And I went homeward almost physically sick with rage. I knew, even then, that, while Elena would forgive me in the outcome, if I set about thematter properly, I could never bring myself to ask forgiveness. If onlyshe had been in the wrong, I could have eagerly gone back and havesubmitted to the extremest and the most outrageous tyranny shecould devise. 

But--although I would never have blackmailed her, I think, --she had beenmainly in the right. She had humiliated me, with a certain lack ofdecorum, to be sure, but with some justice: and to pardon plainretaliation is beyond the compass of humanity. At least, it ranks amongachievements which have always baffled me. 

22. 

_He Cleans the Slate_

It was within a month of this other disaster that Jasper Hardress cameto America, accompanied by his wife. They planned a tour of the States, which they had not visited in seven years, and more particularly, as hisforerunning letter said, they meant to investigate certain miningproperties which Hardress had acquired in Montana. So, not unstirred bytrepidations, I met them at the pier. 

For I was already in New York, in part to see a volume of my shortstories through the press--which you may or may not have read, in itselaborate "gift-book" form, under the title of _The Aspirants_, --and inpart about less edifying employments. I was trying to forget Elena, andin Lichfield it was not possible to induce such forgetfulness withoutaffording unmerited pleasure for gabbling busybodies. . . . It was not inme to apologise, except in a letter, where the wording and interminabletinkering with phraseology would enable me to forget it was I who wasapologising, until a bit of nearly perfect prose was safely mailed; andI knew she would not read any letter from me, because Elena comprehendedthat I always persuaded her to do what I prompted, if only shelistened to me. 

As it was, I talked that morning for an hour or more with fat JasperHardress. . . . Even now I find the two errands which brought him toAmerica of not unlaughable incongruity. 

 2

For, first, he came as an agent of the Philomatheans, who wereendeavouring to secure official recognition by the churches of Americaand England of a revised translation of, in any event, the NewTestament. 

He told me of a variety of buttressing reasons, --which I suppose arewell-founded, though I must confess I never investigated the matter. Hetold me how the Authorised Version was a paraphrase, abounding inconfusions and in mistranslations from the Greek of Erasmus's NewTestament, which, as the author confessed, "was rather tumbled headlonginto the world than edited. " And he told me how the edition of Erasmusitself was hastily prepared from careless copies of inaccuratetranscriptions of yet further copies of divers manuscripts of which theoldest dates no further back than the fourth century, and is in turn, most probably, just a liberal paraphrase, as all the others are, ofstill another manuscript. 

So that the English version, as I gathered, may be very fine English, but has scarcely a leg left, when you consider it as a safe foundationfor superiority, or pillorying, or as a guide in conduct. 

I suspect, however, that Jasper Hardress somewhat overstated the case, since on this subject he was a fanatic. To me it seemed rather quaintthat Hardress or anybody else should be bothering about such things. 

And as he feelingly declaimed concerning the great Uncials, andexplained why in this particular verse the Ephraem manuscript was in theright, whereas to probe the meaning of the following verse we clearlymust regard the Syriac version as of supreme authority, I could wellunderstand how at one period or another his young wife must inevitablyhave considered him in the light of a rather tedious person. 

And I told him that it hardly mattered, because the true test of achurch-member was the ability to believe that when the Bible saidanything inconvenient it really meant something else. 

But actually I was not feeling over-cheerful, because Jasper's secondobject in coming to America was to leave his wife in Sioux City, so thatshe could secure a divorce from him, on quite un-Scriptural grounds. Hardress told me of this at least without any excitement. He did notblame her. He was too old for her, too stolid, too dissimilar in everyrespect, he said. Their marriage had been a mistake, that was all, --amismating, as many marriages were. She wanted to marry someone else, herather thought. 

And "Oh, Lord! yes!" I inwardly groaned. "She probably does. "

Aloud I said: "But the Bible--Yes, I _am_ provincial at bottom. It'sbecause I always think in nigger-English and translate it when I talk. It was my Mammy, you see, who taught me how to think, --and in ournigger-English, what the Bible says is true. Why, Jasper, even thisRevised Version of yours says flatly that a man--"

"Child, child!" said Jasper Hardress, and he patted my hair, and Ireally think it crinkled under his touch, "when you grow up--if indeedyou ever do, --you will find that a man's feeling for his wife and themother of his children, is not altogether limited by what he has read ina book. He wants--well, just her happiness. "

I looked up without thinking; and the aspect of that gross andunattractive man humiliated me. He had reached a height denied to suchas I; and inwardly I cursed and envied this fat Jasper Hardress. . . . Iwould have told him everything, had not the waiter come just then. 

 3

And the same afternoon I was alone with Gillian Hardress, for the firsttime in somewhat more than two years. We had never written each other; Ihad been too cautious for that; and now when the lean, handsome womancame toward me, murmuring "Jack--" very tenderly, --for she had alwayscalled me Jack, you may remember, --I raised a hand in protest. 

"No, --that is done with, Jill. That is dead and buried now, my dear. "

She remained motionless; only her eyes, which were like chrysoberyls, seemed to grow larger and yet more large. There was no anger in them, only an augmenting wonder. 

"Ah, yes, " she said at last, and seemed again to breathe; "so that isdead and buried--in two years. " Gillian Hardress spoke with laboriousprecision, like a person struggling with a foreign language, andarticulating each word to its least sound before laying tongue to itssuccessor. 

"Yes! we have done with each other, once for all, " said I, half angrily. "I wash my hands of the affair, I clean the slate today. I am not politeabout it, and--I am sorry, dear. But I talked with your husband thismorning, and I will deceive Jasper Hardress no longer. The man loves youas I never dreamed of loving any woman, as I am incapable of loving anywoman. He dwarfs us. Oh, go and tell him, so that he may kill us both! Iwish to God he would!"

Mrs. Hardress said: "You have planned to marry. It is time the prodigalmarry and settle down, is it not? So long as we were in England it didnot matter, except to that Faroy girl you seduced and flung out into thestreets--"

"I naturally let her go when I found out--"

"As if I cared about the creature! She's done with. But now we are inAmerica, and Mr. Townsend desires no entanglements just now that mightprevent an advantageous marriage. So he is smitten--veryconveniently--with remorse. " Gillian began to laugh. "And he discoversthat Jasper Hardress is a better man than he. Have I not always knownthat, Jack?"

Now came a silence. "I cannot argue with you as to my motives. Let ushave no scene, my dear--"

"God keep us respectable!" the woman said; and then: "No; I can affordto make no scene. I can only long to be omnipotent for just one instantthat I might deal with you, Robert Townsend, as I desire--and even then, heaven help me, I would not do it!" Mrs. Hardress sat down upon thedivan and laughed, but this time naturally. "So! it is done with? I havehad my dismissal, and, in common justice, you ought to admit that I havereceived it not all ungracefully. "

"From the first, " I said, "you have been the most wonderful woman I haveever known. " And I knew that I was sincerely fond of Gillian Hardress. 

"But please go now, " she said, "and have a telegram this evening thatwill call you home, or to Kamchatka, or to Ecuador, or anywhere, onunavoidable business. No, it is not because I loathe the sight of you orfor any melodramatic reason of that sort. It is because, I think, I hadfancied you to be not completely self-centred, after all, and I cannotbear to face my own idiocy. Why, don't you realize it was only yesterdayyou borrowed money from Jasper Hardress--some more money!"

"Well, but he insisted on it: and I owed it to you to do nothing toarouse his suspicions--"

"And I don't hate you even now! I wish God would explain to me why Hemade women so. "

"You accuse me of selfishness, " I cried. "Ah, let us distinguish, forthere is at times a deal of virtue in this vice. A man who devoteshimself to any particular art or pursuit, for instance, becomes more andmore enamoured of it as time wears on, because he comes to identify itwith himself; and a husband is fonder of his wife than of any otherwoman, --at least, he ought to be, --not because he considers her the mostbeautiful and attractive person of his acquaintance, but because she isthe one in whom he is most interested and concerned. He has aproprietary interest in her welfare, and she is in a manner part ofhimself. Thus the arts flourish and the home-circle is maintained, andall through selfishness. "

I snapped my fingers airily; I was trying, of course, to disgust her bymy callousness. And it appeared I had almost succeeded. 

"Please go!" she said. 

"But surely not while we are as yet involved in a question of plainlogic? You think selfishness a vice. None the less you must concede thatthe world has invariably progressed because, upon the whole, we findcivilisation to be more comfortable than barbarism; and that a wholesomeapprehension of the penitentiary enables many of us to rise todeaconships. Why, deuce take it, Jill! I may endow a hospital because Iwant to see my name over the main entrance, I may give a beggar a pennybecause his gratitude puts me in a glow of benevolence that is cheap atthe price. So let us not rashly declare that selfishness is a vice, and--let us part friends, my dear. "

And I assumed possession of the thin hands that seemed to push me fromher in a species of terror, and I gallantly lifted them to my lips. 

The ensuing event was singular. Gillian Hardress turned to the door ofher bedroom and brutally, as with two bludgeons, struck again and againupon its panels with clenched hand. She extended her hands to me, andeverywhere their knuckles oozed blood. "You kissed them, " she said, "andeven today they liked it, and so they are not clean. They will neveragain be clean, my dear. But they were clean before you came. "

Then Gillian Hardress left me, and where she had touched it, the brassdoor knob of her bedroom door was smeared with blood. . . . 

 4

When I had come again to Lichfield I found that in the brief interim ofmy absence Elena Barry-Smith, without announcement, had taken the trainfor Washington, and had in that city married Warwick Risby. This was, Iknew, because she comprehended that, if I so elected, it was always inmy power to stop her halfway up the aisle and to dissuade her fromadvancing one step farther. . . . "I don't know _how_ it is!--" she wouldhave said, in that dear quasi-petulance I knew so well. . . . 

But as it was, I met the two one evening at the Provises', and withexuberant congratulation. Then straddling as a young Colossus on thehearth-rug, and with an admonitory forefinger, I proclaimed to theuniverse at large that Mrs. Risby had blighted my existence andbeseeched for Warwick some immediate and fatal and particularlyexcruciating malady. In fine, I was abjectly miserable the while that Idisarmed all comment by being quite delightfully boyish for a wholetwo hours. 

I must record it, though, that Mrs. Vokins patted my hand when nobodyelse was looking, and said: "Oh, my dear Mr. Bob, I wish it had beenyou! You was always the one I liked the best. " For that, in view ofevery circumstance, was humorous, and hurt as only humour can. 

So in requital, on the following morning, I mailed to Mrs. Risby someverses. This sounds a trifle like burlesque; but Elena had always a sortof superstitious reverence for the fact that I "wrote things. " It wouldnot matter at all that the verses were abominable; indeed, Elena wouldnever discover this; she would simply set about devising an excellentreason for not showing them to anybody, and would consider WarwickRisby, if only for a moment, in the light of a person who, whatever hisundeniable merits, had neither the desire nor the ability to write"poetry. " And, though it was hideously petty, this was precisely what Idesired her to do. 

So I dispatched to her a sonnet-sequence which I had originallyplagiarized from the French of Theodore Passerat in honour of Stella. Iloathed sending Stella's verses to anyone else, somehow; but, after all, my one deterrent was merely a romantic notion; and there was not time tocompose a new set. Moreover, "your eyes are blue, your speech isgracious, but you are not she; and I am older, --and changed howutterly!--I am no longer I, you are not you, " and so on, was absolutelyappropriate. And Elena most undoubtedly knew nothing of TheodorePasserat. And Stella, being dead, could never know what I had done. 

So I sent the verses, with a few necessitated alterations, to theaddress of Mrs. Warwick Risby. 

 5

I had within the week, an unsigned communication which, for a long whileafterward, I did not comprehend. It was the photograph of an infant, with the photographer's address scratched from the cardboard and withoutof course any decipherable postmark; and upon the back of the thing waswritten: "His has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and theflowers; and gentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyes have beenupon him. Let others eat his honey that please, so that he has had hismorsel and his song. "

I thought it was a joke of some sort. 

Then it occurred to me that this might be--somehow--Elena's answer. Itwas an interpretation which probably appealed to the SupernalAristophanes. 

23. 

_He Reviles Destiny and Climbs a Wall_

But now the spring was come again, and, as always at this season, I waspricked with vague longings to have done with roofs and paven places. Iwanted to be in the open. I think I wanted to fall in love withsomebody, and thereby somewhat to prolong the daily half-minute, immediately after awakening in the morning, during which I did not thinkabout Elena Risby. 

I was bored in Lichfield. For nothing of much consequence seemed, as Iyawned over the morning paper, to be happening anywhere. The IllinoisLegislature had broken up in a free fight, a British square had beenbroken in Somaliland, and at the Aqueduct track Alado had broken hisjockey's neck. A mob had chased a negro up Broadway: Russia had demandedthat China cede the sovereignty of Manchuria; and Dr. Lyman Abbott wasexplaining why the notion of equal suffrage had been abandoned finallyby thinking people. 

Such negligible matters contributed not at all to the comfort or thediscomfort of Robert Etheridge Townsend; and I was pricked with vaguesweet longings to have done with roofs and paven places. If only Ipossessed a country estate, a really handsome Manor or a Grange, I wasreflecting as I looked over the "Social Items, " and saw that MissHugonin and Colonel Hugonin had re-opened Selwoode for the summermonths. . . . 

So I decided I would go to Gridlington, whither Peter Blagden hadforgotten to invite me. He was extremely glad to see me, though, to dohim justice. For Peter--by this time the inheritor of his unlamenteduncle's estate, --had, very properly, developed gout, which is, I takeit, the time-honoured appendage of affluence and, so to speak, itstrade-mark; and was, for all his wealth, unable to get up and down thestairs of his fine house without, as we will delicately word it, thedisplay and, at times, the overtaxing of a copious vocabulary. 

 2

I was at Gridlington entirely comfortable. It was spring, to begin with, and out of doors in spring you always know, at twenty-five, thatsomething extremely pleasant is about to happen, and that She is quiteprobably around the very next turn of the lane. 

Moreover, there was at Gridlington a tiny private garden which had oncebeen the recreation of Peter Blagden's aunt (dead now twelve years ago), and which had remained untended since her cosseting; and I in naturetook charge of it. 

There was in the place a wilding peach-tree, which I artistically sawedinto shape and pruned and grafted, and painted all those profitablewounds with tar; and I grew to love it, just as most people do theirchildren, because it was mine. And Peter, who is a person of nosensibility, wanted to ring for a servant one night, when there was ahint of frost and I had started out to put a bucket of water under mytree to protect it. I informed him that he was irrevocably dead to allthe nobler sentiments, and went to the laundry and got a wash-tub. 

Peter was not infrequently obtuse. He would contend, for instance, thatit was absurd for any person to get so gloriously hot and dirty whilesetting out plants, when that person objected to having a flower in thesame room. For Peter could not understand that a cut flower is a deador, at best, a dying thing, and therefore to considerate people is justso much abhorrent carrion; and denied it would be really quite asrational to decorate your person or your dinner table with the severedheads of chickens as with those of daffodils. 

"But that is only because you are not particularly bright, " I told him. "Oh, I suppose you can't help it. But why make _all_ the actions of yourlife so foolish? What good do you get out of having the gout, forinstance?"

Whereupon Mr. Blagden desired to be informed if I considered thosewith-various-adjectives-accompanied twinges in that qualified foot to bea source of personal pleasure to the owner of the very-extensively-hiatusedfoot. In which case, Mr. Blagden felt at liberty to express his opinion ofmy intellectual attainments, which was of an uncomplimentary nature. 

"Because, you know, " I pursued, equably, "you wouldn't have the gout ifyou did not habitually overeat yourself and drink more than is good foryou. In consequence, here you are at thirty-two with a foot the samegeneral size and shape as a hayrick, only rather less symmetrical, andquite unable to attend to the really serious business of life, which isto present me to the heiress. It is a case of vicarious punishment whichstrikes me as extremely unfair. You have made of your stomach a god, Peter, and I am the one to suffer for it. You have made of yourstomach, " I continued, venturing aspiringly into metaphor, "a brazenMoloch, before which you are now calmly preparing to immolate myprospects in life. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter!"

Mr. Blagden's next observation was describable as impolite. 

"Fate, too, " I lamented, in a tragic voice, "appears to have enteredinto this nefarious conspiracy. Here, not two miles away, is one of thegreatest heiresses in America, --clever, I am told, beautiful, I am sure, for I have yet to discover a woman who sees anything in the leastattractive about her, --and, above all, with the Woods millions at herdisposal. Why, Peter, Margaret Hugonin is the woman I have been lookingfor these last three years. She is, to a hair, the sort of woman I havealways intended to make unhappy. And I can't even get a sight of her!Here are you, laid up with the gout, and unable to help me; and yonderis the heiress, making a foolish pretence at mourning for the oldcurmudgeon who left her all that money, and declining to meet people. Oh, but she is a shiftless woman, Peter! At this very moment she mightbe getting better acquainted with me; at this very moment, Peter, Imight be explaining to her in what points she is utterly and entirelydifferent from all the other women I have ever known. And she prefers toimmure herself in Selwoode, with no better company than her father, thatungodly old retired colonel, and a she-cousin, somewhere on theundiscussable side of forty--when she might be engaging me in amorousdalliance! That Miss Hugonin is a shiftless woman, I tell you! AndFate--oh, but Fate, too, is a vixenish jade!" I cried, and shook my fistunder the nose of an imaginary Lachesis. 

"You appear, " said Peter, drily, "to be unusually well-informed as towhat is going on at Selwoode. "

"You flatter me, " I answered, as with proper modesty. "You must rememberthat there are maids at Selwoode. You must remember that my man Byam, is--and will be until that inevitable day when he will attempt toblackmail me, and I shall kill him in the most lingering fashion I canthink of, --that Byam is, I say, something of a diplomatist. "

Mr. Blagden regarded me with disapproval. 

"So you've been sending your nigger cousin over to Selwoode to spy foryou! You're a damn cad, you know, Bob, " he pensively observed. "Now mostpeople think that when you carry on like a lunatic you're simply actingon impulse. I don't. I believe you plan it out a week ahead. I sometimesthink you are the most adroit and unblushing looker-out for number one Iever knew; and I can't for the life of me understand why I don't turnyou out of doors. "

"I don't know where you picked up your manners, " said I, reflectively, "but it must have been in devilish low company. I would cut youracquaintance, Peter, if I could afford it. " Then I fell to pacing up anddown the floor. "I incline, as you have somewhat grossly suggested, to acertain favouritism among the digits. And why the deuce shouldn't I? Afortune is the only thing I need. I have good looks, you know, of asort; ah, I'm not vain, but both my glass and a number of women havebeen kind enough to reassure me on this particular point. And that Ihave a fair amount of wits my creditors will attest, who have livedpromise-crammed for the last year or two, feeding upon air likechameleons. Then I have birth, --not that good birth ensures anything butbad habits though, for you will observe that, by some curious freak ofnature, an old family-tree very seldom produces anything but wild oats. And, finally, I have position. I can introduce my wife into the bestsociety; ah, yes, you may depend upon it, Peter, she will have theprivilege of meeting the very worst and stupidest and silliest people inthe country on perfectly equal terms. You will perceive, then, that theone desirable thing I lack is wealth. And this I shall naturally expectmy wife to furnish. So, the point is settled, and you may give me acigarette. "

Peter handed me the case, with a snort. "You are a hopelessly conceitedass, " Mr. Blagden was pleased to observe, "for otherwise you would havelearned, by this, that you'll, most likely, never have the luck ofCharteris, and land a woman who will take it as a favour that you lether pay your bills. God knows you've angled for enough of 'em!"

"You are painfully coarse, Peter, " I pointed out, with a sigh. "Indeed, your general lack of refinement might easily lead one to think you owedyour millions to your own thrifty industry, or some equally unpleasantattribute, rather than to your uncle's very commendable and lucrativeinnovation in the line of--well, I remember it was something extremelyindigestible, but, for the moment, I forget whether it was steam-reapersor a new sort of pickle. Yes, in a great many respects, you arehopelessly parvenuish. This cigarette-case, for instance--studded withdiamonds and engraved with a monogram big enough for a coach-door! Why, Peter, it simply reeks with the ostentation of honestly acquiredwealth, --and with very good tobacco, too, by the way. I shall take it, for I am going for a walk, and I haven't any of my own. And some day Ishall pawn this jewelled abortion, Peter, --pawn it for much fine gold;and upon the proceeds I shall make merriment for myself and for myfriends. " And I pocketed the case. 

"That's all very well, " Peter growled, "but you needn't try to changethe subject. You know you _have_ angled after any number of rich womenwho have had sense enough, thank God, to refuse you. You didn't use tobe--but now you're quite notoriously good-for-nothing. "

"It is the one blemish, " said I, sweetly, "upon an otherwise perfectcharacter. And it is true, " I continued, after an interval ofmeditation, "that I have, in my time, encountered some very foolishwomen. There was, for instance, Elena Barry-Smith, who threw me over forWarwick Risby; and Celia Reindan, who had the bad taste to prefer TeddyAnstruther; and Rosalind Jemmett, who is, very inconsiderately, going tomarry Tom Gelwix, instead of me. These were staggeringly foolish women, Peter, but while their taste is bad, their dinners are good, so I haveremained upon the best of terms with them. They have trodden me undertheir feet, but I am the long worm that has no turning. Moreover, youare doubtless aware of the axiomatic equality between the fish in thesea and those out of it. I hope before long to better my position inlife. I hope--Ah, well, that would scarcely interest you. Good morning, Peter. And I trust, when I return, " I added, with chastening dignity, "that you will evince a somewhat more Christian spirit toward the worldin general, and that your language will be rather less reminiscent ofthe blood-stained buccaneer of historical fiction. "

"You're a grinning buffoon, " said Peter. "You're a fat Jack-pudding. You're an ass. Where are you going, anyway?"

"I am going, " said I, "to the extreme end of Gridlington. Afterward I amgoing to climb the wall that stands between Gridlington and Selwoode. "

"And after that?" said Peter. 

I gave a gesture. "Why, after that, " said I, "fortune will favour thebrave. And I, Peter, am very, very brave. "

Then I departed, whistling. In view of all my memories it had beenstrangely droll to worry Peter Blagden into an abuse of marrying formoney. For this was on the twenty-eighth of April, the anniversary ofthe day that Stella had died, you may remember. . . . 

 3

And a half-hour subsequently, true to my word, I was scaling a ten-footstone wall, thickly overgrown with ivy. At the top of it I paused, andsat down to take breath and to meditate, my legs meanwhile bedanglingover an as flourishing Italian garden as you would wish to see. 

"Now, I wonder, " I queried, of my soul, "what will be next? There is avery cheerful uncertainty about what will be next. It may be aspring-gun, and it may be a bull-dog, and it may be a susceptibleheiress. But it is apt to be--No, it isn't, " I amended, promptly; "it isgoing to be an angel. Or perhaps it is going to be a dream. She can't bereal, you know--I am probably just dreaming her. I would be quitecertain I was just dreaming her, if this wall were not so humpy anduncomfortable. For it stands to reason, I would not be fool enough todream of such unsympathetic iron spikes as I am sitting on. "

"Perhaps you are not aware, " hazarded a soprano voice, "that this isprivate property?"

"Why, no, " said I, very placidly; "on the contrary I was just thinkingit must be heaven. And I am tolerably certain, " I commented further, inmy soul, "that you are one of the more influential seraphim. "

The girl had lifted her brows. She sat upon a semi-circular stone bench, some twenty feet from the wall, and had apparently been reading, for abook lay open in her lap. She now inspected me, with a sort of languidwonder in her eyes, and I returned the scrutiny with unqualifiedapproval in mine. 

And in this I had reason. The heiress of Selwoode was eminently good tolook upon. 

24. 

_He Reconciles Sentiment and Reason_

So I regarded her for a rather lengthy interval, considering meanwhile, with an immeasurable content how utterly and entirely impossible itwould always be to describe her. 

Clearly, it would be out of the question to trust to words, howeverchoicely picked, for, upon inspection, there was a delightful ambiguityabout every one of this girl's features that defied such idioticmakeshifts. Her eyes, for example, I noted with a faint thrill ofsurprise, just escaped being brown by virtue of an amber glow they had;what colour, then, was I conscientiously to call them?

And her hair I found a bewildering, though pleasing, mesh of shadow andsunlight, all made up of multitudinous graduations of some anonymouscolour that seemed to vary with the light you chanced to see it in, through the whole gamut of bronze and chestnut and gold; and where, pray, in the bulkiest lexicon, in the very weightiest thesaurus, was Ito find the adjective which could, if but in desperation, be applied tohair like that without trenching on sacrilege? . . . For it was spring, you must remember, and I was twenty-five. 

So that in my appraisal, you may depend upon it, her lips were quicklypassed over as a dangerous topic, and were dismissed with the mentalstatement that they were red and not altogether unattractive. Whereasher cheeks baffled me for a time, --but always with a haunting sense offamiliarity--till I had, at last, discovered they reminded me of thoselittle tatters of cloud that sometimes float about the settingsun, --those irresolute wisps which cannot quite decide whether to bepink or white, and waver through their tiny lives between thetwo colours. 

 2

To this effect, then, I discoursed with my soul, what time I sat uponthe wall-top and smiled and kicked my heels to and fro among the ivy. Byand by, though, the girl sighed. 

"You are placing me in an extremely unpleasant position, " shecomplained, as if wearily. "Would you mind returning to your sanatoriumand allowing me to go on reading? For I am interested in my book, and Ican't possibly go on in any comfort so long as you elect to perch upthere like Humpty-Dumpty, and grin like seven dozen Cheshire cats. "

"Now, that, " I spoke, in absent wise, "is but another instance of thewidely prevalent desire to have me serve as scapegoat for the sins ofall humanity. I am being blamed now for sitting on top of this wall. Onewould think I wanted to sit here. One would actually think, " I cried, and raised my eyes to heaven, "that sitting on the very humpiest kind ofiron spikes was my favorite form of recreation! No, --in the interests ofjustice, " I continued, and fell into a milder tone, "I must ask you toplace the blame where it more rightfully belongs. The injuries which arewithin the moment being inflicted on my sensitive nature, and, incidentally, upon my not overstocked wardrobe, I am willing to passover. But the claims of justice are everywhere paramount. Miss Hugonin, and Miss Hugonin alone, is responsible for my present emulation ofMohammed's coffin, and upon that responsibility I am compelledto insist. "

"May one suggest, " she queried gently, "that you areprobably--mistaken?"

I sketched a bow. "Recognising your present point of view, " said I, gallantly, "I thank you for the kindly euphemism. But may one allowablydemonstrate the fallacy of this same point of view? I thank you: forsilence, I am told, is proverbially equal to assent. I am, then, oneRobert Townsend, by birth a gentleman, by courtesy an author, byinclination an idler, and by lucky chance a guest of Mr. Peter Blagden, whose flourishing estate extends indefinitely yonder to the rear of mycoat-tails. My hobby chances to be gardening. I am a connoisseur, anadmirer, a devotee of gardens. It is, indeed, hereditary among theTownsends; a love for gardens runs in our family just as a love for ginruns in less favoured races. It is with us an irresistible passion. Thevery founder of our family--one Adam, whom you may have heard of, --was agardener. Owing to the unfortunate loss of his position, the familysince then has sunken somewhat in the world; but time and poverty alikehave proven powerless against our horticultural tastes and botanicalinclinations. And then, " cried I, with a flourish, "and then, whatfollows logically?"

"Why, if you are not more careful, " she languidly made answer, "I amafraid that, owing to the laws of gravitation, a broken neck is whatfollows logically. "

"You are a rogue, " I commented, in my soul, "and I like you all thebetter for it. "

Aloud, I stated: "What follows is that we can no more keep away from acreditable sort of garden than a moth can from a lighted candle. Consider, then, my position. Here am I on one side of the wall, and withmy peach-tree, to be sure--but on the other side is one of the mostfamous masterpieces of formal gardening in the whole country. Am I toblame if I succumb to the temptation? Surely not, " I argued; "for surelyto any fair-minded person it will be at once apparent that I am broughtto my present very uncomfortable position upon the points of these veryhumpy iron spikes by a simple combination of atavism andinjustice, --atavism because hereditary inclination draws me irresistiblyto the top of the wall, and injustice because Miss Hugonin's perfectlyunreasonable refusal to admit visitors prevents my coming any farther. Surely, that is at once apparent?"

But now the girl yielded to my grave face, and broke into a clear, rippling carol of mirth. She laughed from the chest, this woman. Andperched in insecure discomfort on my wall, I found time to rejoice thatI had finally discovered that rarity of rarities, a woman who neithergiggles nor cackles, but has found the happy mean between these twoabominations, and knows how to laugh. 

"I have heard of you, Mr. Townsend, " she said at last. "Oh, yes, I haveheard a deal of you. And I remember now that I never heard you weresuspected of sanity. "

"Common-sense, " I informed her, from my pedestal, "is confined to thatdecorous class of people who never lose either their tempers or theirumbrellas. Now, I haven't any temper to speak of--or not at least in thepresence of ladies, --and, so far, I have managed to avoid laying asideanything whatever for a rainy day; so that it stands to reason I mustpossess uncommon sense. "

"If that is the case, " said the girl "you will kindly come down fromthat wall and attempt to behave like a rational being. "

I was down--as the phrase runs, --in the twinkling of a bed-post. Onwhich side of the wall, I leave you to imagine. 

"--For I am sure, " the girl continued, "that I--that Margaret, I shouldsay, --would not object in the least to your seeing the gardens, sincethey interest you so tremendously. I'm Avis Beechinor, you know, --MissHugonin's cousin. So, if you like, we will consider that a properintroduction, Mr. Townsend, and I will show you the gardens, if--if youreally care to see them. "

My face, I must confess, had fallen slightly. Up to this moment, I hadnot a suspicion but that it was Miss Hugonin I was talking to: and I nowreconsidered, with celerity, the information Byam had brought mefrom Selwoode. 

"For, when I come to think of it, " I reflected, "he simply said she wasolder than Miss Hugonin. I embroidered the tale so glibly for Peter'sbenefit that I was deceived by my own ornamentations. I had looked forcorkscrew ringlets and false teeth a-gleam like a new bath-tub in MissHugonin's cousin, --not an absolutely, supremely, inexpressiblyunthinkable beauty like this!" I cried, in my soul. "Older! Why, goodLord, Miss Hugonin must be an infant in arms!"

But my audible discourse was prefaced with an eloquent gesture. "If I'dcare!" I said. "Haven't I already told you I was a connoisseur ingardens? Why, simply look, Miss Beechinor!" I exhorted her, and threwout my hands in a large pose of admiration. "Simply regard thoseyew-hedges, and parterres, and grassy amphitheatres, and palisades, andstatues, and cascades, and everything--_everything_ that goes to make aformal garden the most delectable sight in the world! Simply feast youreyes upon those orderly clipped trees and the fantastic patterns thoseflowers are laid out in! Why, upon my word, it looks as if all fourbooks of Euclid had suddenly burst into blossom! And you ask me if Iwould _care_! Ah, it is evident _you_ are not a connoisseur in gardens, Miss Beechinor!"

And I had started on my way into this one, when the girl stopped me. 

"This must be yours, " she said. "You must have spilled it coming overthe wall, Mr. Townsend. "

It was Peter's cigarette-case. 

"Why, dear me, yes!" I assented, affably. "Do you know, now, I wouldhave been tremendously sorry to lose that? It is a sort of present--anunbirthday present from a quite old friend. "

She turned it over in her hand. 

"It's very handsome, " she marvelled. "Such a pretty monogram! Does itstand for Poor Idiot Boy?"

"Eh?" said I. "P. I. B. , you mean? No, that stands for PerfectlyImmaculate Behaviour. My friend gave it to me because, he said, I was sogood. And--oh, well, he added a few things to that, --partial sort of afriend, you know, --and, really--Why, really, Miss Beechinor, it wouldembarrass me to tell you what he added, " I protested, and modestly wavedthe subject aside. 

"Now that, " my meditations ran, "is the absolute truth. Peter did tellme I was good. And it really would embarrass me to tell her he added'for-nothing. ' So, this far, I have been a model of veracity. "

Then I took the case, --gaining thereby the bliss of momentary contactwith a velvet-soft trifle that seemed, somehow, to set my own grosserhand a-tingle--and I cried: "Now, Miss Beechinor, you must show me thepergola. I am excessively partial to pergolas. "

And in my soul, I wondered what a pergola looked like, and why on earthI had been fool enough to waste the last three days in bedeviling Peter, and how under the broad canopy of heaven I could ever have suffered fromthe delusion that I had seen a really adorable woman before to-day. 

 3

But, "She is entirely too adorable, " I reasoned with myself, somethree-quarters of an hour later. "In fact, I regard it as positivelyinconsiderate in any impecunious young person to venture to upset me inthe way she has done. Why, my heart is pounding away inside me like atrip-hammer, and I am absolutely light-headed with good-will and charityand benevolent intentions toward the entire universe! Oh, Avis, Avis, you know you hadn't any right to put me in this insane state of mind!"

I was, at this moment, retracing my steps toward the spot where I hadclimbed the wall between Gridlington and Selwoode, but I paused now tooutline a reproachful gesture in the direction from which I came. 

"What do you mean by having such a name?" I queried, sadly. "Avis! Why, it is the very soul of music, clear, and sweet and as insistent as abird-call, an unforgettable lyric in four letters! It is just the sortof name a fellow cannot possibly forget. Why couldn't you have beennamed Polly or Lena or Margaret, or something commonplace like that, Avis--dear?"

And the juxtaposition of these words appealing to my sense of euphony, Irepeated it, again and again, each time with a more relishing gusto. "Avis dear! dear Avis! dear, _dear_ Avis!" I experimented. "Why, eachone is more hopelessly unforgettable than the other! Oh, Avis dear, whyare you so absolutely and entirely unforgettable all around? Why do youripple all your words together in that quaint fashion till it soundslike a brook discoursing? Why did you crinkle up your eyes when I toldyou that as yet unbotanised flower was a _Calycanthus arithmelicus_? Andwhy did you pout at me, Avis dear? A fellow finds it entirely too hardto forget things like that. And, oh, dear Avis, if you only knew whatnearly happened when you pouted!"

I had come to the wall by this, but again I paused to lament. 

"It is very inconsiderate of her, very thoughtless indeed. She might atleast have asked my permission, before upsetting my plans in life. I hadfirmly intended to marry a rich woman, and now I am forming all sorts ofpreposterous notions--"

Then, on the bench where I had first seen her, I perceived a book. Itwas the iron-gray book she had been reading when I interrupted her, andI now picked it up with a sort of reverence. I regarded it as anextremely lucky book. 

Subsequently, "Good Lord!" said I, aloud, "what luck!"

For between the pages of Justus Miles Forman's _Journey's End_--servingas a book-mark, according to a not infrequent shiftless femininefashion, --lay a handkerchief. It was a flimsy, inadequate trifle, fringed with a tiny scallopy black border; and in one corner the lettersM. E. A. H. , all askew, contorted themselves into any number offlourishes and irrelevant tendrils. 

"Now M. E. A. H. Does not stand by any stretch of the imagination forAvis Beechinor. Whereas it fits Margaret Elizabeth Anstruther Hugoninuncommonly well. I wonder now--?"

I wondered for a rather lengthy interval. 

"So Byam was right, after all. And Peter was right, too. Oh, RobertEtheridge Townsend, your reputation must truly be malodorous, when atyour approach timid heiresses seek shelter under an alias! 'I have hearda deal of you, Mr. Townsend'--ah, yes, she had heard. She thought Iwould make love to her out of hand, I suppose, because she waswealthy--"

I presently flung back my head and laughed. 

"Eh, well! I will let no sordid considerations stand in the way of mytrue interests. I will marry this Margaret Hugonin even though she isrich. You have begun the comedy, my lady, and I will play it to the end. Yes, I fell honestly in love with you when I thought you were nobody inparticular. So I am going to marry this Margaret Hugonin if she willhave me; and if she won't, I am going to commit suicide on herdoor-step, with a pathetic little note in my vest-pocket forgiving herin the most noble and wholesale manner for irrevocably blighting afuture so rich in promise. Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do ifshe does not appreciate her wonderful good fortune. And if she'll haveme--why, I wouldn't change places with the Pope of Rome or the Czar ofall the Russias! Ah, no, not I! for I prefer, upon the whole, to beimmeasurably, and insanely, and unreasonably, and unadulteratedly happy. Why, but just to think of an adorable girl like that having somuch money!"

All in all, my meditations were incoherent but very pleasurable. 

25. 

_He Advances in the Attack on Selwoode_

"Well?" said Peter. 

"Well?" said I. 

"What's the latest quotation on heiresses?" Mr. Blagden demanded. "Wasshe cruel, my boy, or was she kind? Did she set the dog on you or haveyou thrashed by her father? I fancy both, for your present hilarity issuggestive of a gentleman in the act of attendance on his own funeral. "And Peter laughed, unctuously, for his gout slumbered. 

"His attempts at wit, " I reflectively confided to my wine-glass, "whiledoubtless amiably intended, are, to his well-wishers, painful. Idaresay, though, he doesn't know it. We must, then, smile indulgentlyupon the elephantine gambols of what he is pleased to describe as hisintellect. "

"Now, that, " Peter pointed out, "is not what I would term a courteousmethod of discussing a man at his own table. You are damn disagreeablethis morning, Bob. So I know, of course, that you have come anothercropper in your fortune-hunting. "

"Peter, " said I, in admiration, "your sagacity at times is almost human!I have spent a most enjoyable day, though, " I continued, idly. "I havebeen communing with Nature, Peter. She is about her spring-cleaning inthe woods yonder, and everywhere I have seen traces of her gettingthings fixed for the summer. I have seen the sky, which was washedovernight, and the sun, which has evidently been freshly enamelled. Ihave seen the new leaves as they swayed and whispered over yourextensive domains, with the fret of spring alert in every sap cell. Ihave seen the little birds as they hopped among said leaves andcommented upon the scarcity of worms. I have seen the buxom flowers asthey curtsied and danced above your flower-beds like a miniaturecomic-opera chorus. And besides that--"

"Yes?" said Peter, with a grin, "and besides that?"

"And besides that, " said I, firmly, "I have seen nothing. "

And internally I appraised this bloated Peter Blagden, and reflectedthat this was the man whom Stella had loved; and I appraised myself, andremembered that this had been the boy who once loved Stella. For, as Ihave said, it was the twenty-eighth of April, the day that Stella haddied, two years ago. 

 2

The next morning I discoursed with my soul, what time I sat upon thewall-top and smiled and kicked my heels to and fro among the ivy. 

"For, in spite of appearances, " I debated with myself, "it is barelypossible that the handkerchief was not hers. She may have borrowed it orhave got it by mistake, somehow. In which case, it is only reasonable tosuppose that she will miss it, and ask me if I saw it; on the contrary, if the handkerchief is hers, she will naturally understand, when Ireturn the book without it, that I have feloniously detained this airygewgaw as a souvenir, as, so to speak, a _gage d'amour_. And, in thatevent, she ought to be very much pleased and a bit embarrassed; and shewill preserve upon the topic of handkerchiefs a maidenly silence. Do youknow, Robert Etheridge Townsend, there is about you the making of a veryfine logician?"

Then I consulted my watch, and subsequently grimaced. "It is also barelypossible, " said I, "that Margaret may not come at all. In whichcase--Margaret! Now, isn't that a sweet name? Isn't it the very sweetestname in the world? Now, really, you know, it is queer her being namedMargaret--extraordinarily queer, --because Margaret has always been myfavourite woman's name. I daresay, unbeknownst to myself, I am a bit ofa prophet. "

 3

But she did come. She was very much surprised to see me. 

"You!" she said, with a gesture which was practically tantamount todisbelief. "Why, how extraordinary!"

"You rogue!" I commented, internally: "you know it is the most naturalthing in the world. " Aloud I stated: "Why, yes, I happened to notice youforgot your book yesterday, so I dropped in--or, to be more accurate, climbed up, --to return it. "

She reached for it. Our hands touched, with the usual result to mypulses. Also, there were the customary manual tinglings. 

"You are very kind, " was her observation, "for I am wondering which oneof the two he will marry. "

"Forman tells me he has no notion, himself. "

"Oh, then you know Justus Miles Forman! How nice! I think his storiesare just splendid, especially the way his heroes talk to photographs andhandkerchiefs and dead flowers--"

Afterward she opened the book, and turned over its pages expectantly, and flushed a proper shade of pink, and said nothing. 

And then, and not till then, my heart consented to resume its normalfunctions. And then, also, "These iron spikes--" said its owner. 

"Yes?" she queried, innocently. 

"--so humpy, " I complained. 

"Are they?" said she. "Why, then, how silly of you to continue to sit onthem!"

The result of this comment was that we were both late for luncheon. 

 4

By a peculiar coincidence, at twelve o'clock the following day, Ihappened to be sitting on the same wall at the same spot. Peter said atluncheon it was a queer thing that some people never could manage to beon time for their meals. 

I fancy we can all form a tolerably accurate idea of what took placeduring the next day or so. 

It is scarcely necessary to retail our conversations. We gossiped ofsimple things. We talked very little; and, when we did talk, the mostambitiously preambled sentences were apt to result in nothing moreprodigious than a wave of the hand, and a pause, and, not infrequently, a heightened complexion. Altogether, then, it was not oppressively wiseor witty talk, but it was eminently satisfactory to its makers. 

As when, on the third morning, I wished to sit by Margaret on the bench, and she declined to invite me to descend from the wall. 

"On the whole, " said she, "I prefer you where you are; like allpicturesque ruins, you are most admirable at a little distance. "

"Ruins!"--and, indeed, I was not yet twenty-six, --"I am a comparativelyyoung man. "

As a concession, "In consideration of your past, you are tolerably wellpreserved. "

"--and I am not a new brand of marmalade, either. "

"No, for that comes in glass jars; whereas, Mr. Townsend, I have heard, is more apt to figure in family ones. "

"A pun, Miss Beechinor, is the base coinage of conversation tenderedonly by the mentally dishonest. "

"--Besides, one can never have enough of marmalade. "

"I trust they give you a sufficiency of it in the nursery?"

"Dear me, you have no idea how admirably that paternal tone sits uponyou! You would make an excellent father, Mr. Townsend. You really oughtto adopt someone. I wish you would adopt _me_, Mr. Townsend. "

I said I had other plans for her. Discreetly, she forbore to ask whatthey were. 

 5

"Avis--"

"You must not call me that. "

"Why not? It's your name, isn't it"

"Yes, --to my friends. "

"Aren't we friends--Avis?"

"We! We have not known each other long enough, Mr. Townsend. "

"Oh, what's the difference? We are going to be friends, aren'twe--Avis?"

"Why--why, I am sure I don't know. "

"Gracious gravy, what an admirable colour you have, Avis! Well, --I know. And I can inform you, quite confidentially, Avis, that we are not goingto be--. Friends. We are going to be--"

"We are going to be late for luncheon, " said she, in haste. "Good-morning, Mr. Townsend. "

 6

Yet, the very next day, paradoxically enough, she told me:

"I shall always think of you as a very, very dear friend. But it isquite impossible we should ever be anything else. "

"And why, Avis?"

"Because--"

"That"--after an interval--"strikes me as rather a poor reason. So, suppose we say this June?"

Another interval. 

"Well, Avis?"

"Dear me, aren't those roses pretty? I wish you would get me one, Mr. Townsend. "

"Avis, we are not discussing roses. "

"Well, they _are_ pretty. "

"Avis!"--reproachfully. 

Still another interval. 

"I--I hardly know. "

"Avis!"--with disappointment. 

"I--I believe--"

"Avis!"--very tenderly. 

"I--I almost think so, --and the horrid man looks as if he thought so, too!"

There was a fourth interval, during which the girl made a complete andcareful survey of her shoes. 

Then, all in a breath, "It could not possibly be June, of course, andyou must give me until to-morrow to think about November, " and a suddenflutter of skirts. 

I returned to Gridlington treading on air. 

 7

For I was, by this time, as thoroughly in love as Amadis of Gaul orAucassin of Beaucaire or any other hero of romance you may electto mention. 

Some two weeks earlier I would have scoffed at the notion of such athing coming to pass; and I could have demonstrated, logically enough, that it was impossible for Robert Etheridge Townsend, with his keenknowledge of the world and of the innumerable vanities and whims ofwomankind, ever again to go the way of all flesh. But the problem, likethe puzzle of the Eleatic philosophers, had solved itself. "Achillescannot catch the tortoise, " but he does. It was impossible for me tofall uncomfortably deep in love--but I had done so. 

And it pricked my conscience, too, that Margaret should not know I wasaware of her identity. But she had chosen to play the comedy to the end, and in common with the greater part of trousered humanity, I had, afterall, no insuperable objection to a rich wife; though, to do me justice, I rarely thought of her, now, as Margaret Hugonin the heiress, butconsidered her, in a more comprehensive fashion, as the one woman in theuniverse whose perfections triumphantly overpeered the skyiest heightsof preciosity. 

26. 

_He Assists in the Diversion of Birds_

We met, then, in the clear May morning, with what occult trepidations Icannot say. You may depend upon it, though, we had our emotions. 

And about us, spring was marshaling her pageant, and from divers nooks, the weather-stained nymphs and fauns regarded us in candid, ifpreoccupied, appraisement; and above us, the clipped ilex trees wereabout a knowing conference. As for the birds, they were discussing uswithout any reticence whatever, for, more favoured of chance thanimperial Solomon, they have been the confidants in any number of suchaffairs, and regard the way of a man with a maid as one of the mostmatter-of-fact occurrences in the world. 

"Here is he! here is she!" they shrilled. "See how they meet, see howthey greet! Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet, to meet in the spring!" And that wetwo would immediately set to nest-building, they considered a foregoneconclusion. 

 2

I had taken both her firm, warm hands in salutation, and held them, fora breathing-space, between my own. And my own hands seemed to me twovery gross, and hulking, and raw, and red monstrosities, in contrastwith their dimpled captives, and my hands appeared, also, to shakeunnecessarily. 

"Now, in a moment, " said I, "I am going to ask you something veryimportant. But, first, I have a confession to make. "

And her glad, shamed eyes bemocked me. "My lord of Burleigh!" she softlybreathed. "My liege Cophetua! _My_ king Cophetua! And did you think, then, I was blind?"

"Eh?" said I. 

"As if I hadn't known from the first!" the girl pouted; "as if I hadn'tknown from the very first day when you dropped your cigarette case! Ah, I had heard of you before, Peter!--of Peter, the misogynist, who wasashamed to go a-wooing in his proper guise! Was it because you wereafraid I'd marry you for your money, Peter?--poor, timid Peter! But, oh, Peter, Peter, what possessed you to take the name of that notoriousRobert Townsend?" she demanded, with uplifted forefinger. "Couldn't youthink of a better one, Peter?--of a more respectable one, Peter? Itreally is a great relief to call you Peter at last. I've had to try sohard to keep from doing it before, Peter. "

And in answer, I made an inarticulate sound. 

"But you were so grave about it, " the girl went on, happily, "that Ialmost thought you were telling the truth, Peter. Then my maid toldme--I mean, she happened to mention casually that Mr. Townsend's valethad described his master to her as an extraordinarily handsome man. So, then, of course, I knew you were Peter Blagden. "

"I perceive, " said I, reflectively, "that Byam has been somewhat toozealous. I begin to suspect, also, that kitchen-gossip is a mischancypetard, and rather more than apt to hoist the engineer who employs it. So, you thought I was Peter Blagden, --the rich Peter Blagden? Ah, yes!"

Now the birds were caroling on a wager. "Ah, sweet! what is sweeter?"they sang. "Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet, to meet in the spring. "

But the girl gave a wordless cry at sight of the change in my face. "Oh, how dear of you to care so much! I didn't mean that you were _ugly_, Peter. I just meant you are so big and--and so like the baby that theyprobably have on the talcum-powder boxes in Brobdingnag--"

"Because I happen to be really Robert Townsend--the notorious RobertEtheridge Townsend, " I continued, with a smile. "I am sorry you weredeceived by the cigarette-case. I remember now; I borrowed it fromPeter. What I meant to confess was that I have known all along you wereMargaret Hugonin. "

"But I'm not, " the girl said, in bewilderment. "Why--Why I _told_ you Iwas Avis Beechinor. "

"This handkerchief?" I queried, and took it from my pocket. I had beenabsurd enough to carry it next to my heart. 

"Oh--!" And now the tension broke, and her voice leapt to high, shrill, half-hysterical speaking. 

"I am Avis Beechinor. I am a poor relation, a penniless cousin, adependent, a hanger-on, do you understand? And you--Ah, how--how funny!Why, Margaret _always_ gives me her cast-off finery, the scraps, theremnants, the clothes she is tired of, the misfit things, --so that shewon't be ashamed of me, so that I may be fairly presentable. She gave meeight of those handkerchiefs. I meant to pick the monograms out with aneedle, you understand, because I haven't any money to buy suchhandkerchiefs for myself. I remember now, --she gave them to me on thatday--that first day, and I missed one of them a little later on. Ah, how--how funny!" she cried, again; "ah, how very, very funny! No, Mr. Townsend, I am not an heiress, --I'm a pauper, a poor relation. No, youhave failed again, just as you did with Mrs. Barry-Smith and with MissJemmett, Mr. Townsend. I--I wish you better luck the next time. "

I must have raised one hand as though in warding off a physical blow. "Don't!" I said. 

And all the woman in her leapt to defend me. "Ah no, ah no!" shepleaded, and her hands fell caressingly upon my shoulder; and she raiseda penitent, tear-stained face toward mine; "ah no, forgive me! I didn'tmean that altogether. It is different with a man. Of course, you mustmarry sensibly, --of course you must, Mr. Townsend. It is I who am toblame--why, of _course_ it's only I who am to blame. I have encouragedyou, I know--"

"You haven't! you haven't" I barked. 

"But, yes, --for I came back that second day because I thought you werethe rich Mr. Blagden. I was so tired of being poor, so tired of beingdependent, that it simply seemed to me I could not stand it for a momentlonger. Ah, I tell you, I was tired, tired, tired! I was tired and sickand worn out with it all!"

I did not interrupt her. I was nobly moved; but even then at the back ofmy mind some being that was not I was taking notes as to this girl, soyoung and desirable, and now so like a plaintive child who has beenpunished and does not understand exactly why. 

"Mr. Townsend, you don't know what it means to a girl to be poor!--youcan't ever know, because you are only a man. My mother--ah, you don'tknow the life I have led! You don't know how I have been hawked about, and set up for inspection by the men who could afford to pay my price, and made to show off my little accomplishments for them, and put throughmy paces before them like any horse in the market! For we are poor, Mr. Townsend, --we are bleakly, hopelessly poor. We are only hangers-on, yousee. And ever since I can remember, she has been telling me I must makea rich marriage--_must_ make a rich marriage--"

And the girl's voice trailed off into silence, and her eyes closed for amoment, and she swayed a little on her feet, so that I caught her byboth arms. 

But, presently, she opened her eyes, with a wearied sigh, and presentlythe two fortune-hunters stared each other in the face. 

"Ah, sweet! what is sweeter?" sang the birds. "Can you see, can you see, can you see? It is sweet, sweet, sweet!" They were extremely gay overit, were the birds. 

After a little, though, I opened my lips, and moistened them two orthree times before I spoke. "Yes, " said I, "I think I understand. Wehave both been hangers-on. But that seems, somehow, a long while ago. Yes, it was a knave who scaled that wall the first time, --one who neededand had earned a kicking from here to Aldebaran. But I think that Iloved you from the very moment I saw you. Will you marry me, Avis?"

And in her face there was a wonderful and tender change. "You care forme--just me?" she breathed. 

"Just you, " I answered, gravely. 

And I saw the start, and the merest ghost of a shiver which shook herbody, as she leaned toward me a little, almost in surrender; but, quickly, she laughed. 

"That was very gentlemanly in you, " she said; "but, of course, Iunderstand. Let us part friends, then, --Robert. Even if--if you reallycared, we couldn't marry. We are too poor. "

"Too poor!" I scoffed, --and my voice was joyous, for I knew now that itwas I she loved and not just Peter Blagden's money; "too _poor_, Avis! Iam to the contrary, an inordinately rich man, I tell you, for I haveyour love. Oh you needn't try to deny it. You are heels over head inlove with me. And we have made, no doubt, an unsavoury mess of the past;but the future remains to us. We are the earthen pots, you and I, whowanted to swim with the brazen ones. Well! they haven't quite smashedus, these big, stupid, brazen pots, but they have shown us that theyhave the power to do it. And so we are going back where we belong--tothe poor man's country, Avis, --or, in any event, to the country of thoseGod-fearing, sober and honest folk who earn their bread and, justoccasionally, a pat of butter to season it. "

The world was very beautiful. I knew that I was excellent throughout andunconquerable. So I moved more near to her. 

"For you will come with me, won't you, dear? Oh, you won't have quite somany gowns in this new country, Avis, and, may be, not even a horse andsurrey of your own; but you will have love, and you will have happiness, and, best of all, Avis, you will give a certain very undeserving man hischance--his one sole chance--to lead a real man's life. Are you goingto deny him that chance, Avis?"

Her gaze read me through and through; and I bore myself a bit proudlyunder it; and it seemed to me that my heart was filled with love of her, and that some sort of new-born manhood in Robert Etheridge Townsend wasenabling me to meet her big brown eyes unflinchingly. 

"It wouldn't be sensible, " she wavered. 

I laughed at that. "Sensible! If there is one thing more absurd thananother in this very absurd world, it is common-sense. Be sensible andyou will be miserable, Avis, not to mention being disliked. Sensible!Why, of course, it is not sensible. It is stark, rank, staring idiocyfor us two not to make a profitable investment of, we will say, ournatural endowments, when we come to marry. For what will Mrs. Grundy sayif we don't? Ah, what will she say, indeed? Avis, just between you andme, I do not care a double-blank domino what Mrs. Grundy says. You willobligingly remember that the car for the Hesperides is in the rear, andthat this is the third and last call. And in consequence--will youmarry me, Avis?"

She gave me her hand frankly, as a man might have done. "Yes, Robert, "said Miss Beechinor, "and God helping us, we will make something betterof the future than we have of the past. "

In the silence that fell, one might hear the birds. "Sweet, sweet, sweet!" they twittered. "Can you see, can you see, can you see? Theirlips meet. It is sweet, sweet, sweet!"

 3

But, by and by, she questioned me. "Are you sure--quite sure, " shequeried, wistfully, "that you wouldn't rather have me Margaret Hugonin, the heiress?"

I raised a deprecatory hand. "Avis!" I reproached her; "Avis, Avis, howlittle you know me! That was the solitary fly in the amber, --that Ithought I was to marry a woman named Margaret. For I am something of aconnoisseur in nomenclature, and Margaret has always--_always_--been mypet detestation in the way of names. "

"Oh, what a child you are!" she said. 

27. 

_He Calls, and Counsels, and Considers_

"I am now" said I, in my soul, "quite immeasurably, and insanely, andunreasonably, and unadulteratedly happy. Why, of course I am. "

This statement was advanced just two weeks later than the eventspreviously recorded. And the origin of it was the fact that I was nowengaged to Avis Beechinor though it was not as yet to be "announced";just this concession alone had Mrs. Beechinor wrested from an indignantand, latterly, a tearful interview. . . . For I had called at Selwoode, indue form; and after leaving Mrs. Beechinor had been pounced upon by anexcited and comely little person in black. 

"Don't you mind a word she said, " this lady had exhorted, "because sheis _the_ Gadarene swine, and Avis has told me everything! Of course youare to be married at once, and I only wish _I_ could find the only manin the world who can keep me interested for four hours on a stretch andsend my pulse up to a hundred and make me feel those thrilly thrillsI've always longed for. "

"But surely--" said I. 

"No, I'm beginning to be afraid not, beautiful, though of course I usedto be crazy about Billy Woods; and then once I was engaged to anotherman for a long time, and I was perfectly devoted to him, but he _never_made me feel a single thrilly thrill. And would you believe it, Mr. Townsend?--after a while he came back, precisely as though he had been abad penny or a cat. He had been in the Boer War and came home just anight before I left, wounded and promoted several times and completelycovered with glory and brass buttons. He came seven miles to see me, andI thoroughly enjoyed seeing him, for I had on my best dress and wasfeeling rather talkative. Well! at ten I was quite struck on him. Ateleven perfectly willing to part friends, and at twelve _crazy_ for himto go. He stayed till half-past, and I didn't want to think of him fordays. And, by the way, I am Miss Hugonin, and I hope you and Avis willbe very happy. _Good-bye!_"

"Good-bye!" said I. 

 2

And that, oddly enough, was the one private talk I ever had with theMargaret Hugonin whom, for some two weeks, I had believed myself to beupon the verge of marrying; for the next time I conversed with her aloneshe was Mrs. William Woods. 

"Oh, go away, Billy!" she then said, impatiently "How often will I haveto tell you it isn't decent to be always hanging around your wife? Oh, you dear little crooked-necktied darling!"--and she remedied the faulton tiptoe, --"_please_ run away and make love to somebody else, and besure to get her name right, so that I shan't assassinate the wrongperson, --because I want to tell this very attractive child all aboutAvis, and not be bothered. " And subsequently she did. 

But I must not forestall her confidences, lest I get my cart evenfurther in advance of my nominal Pegasus than the loosely-madeconveyance is at present lumbering. 

 3

And meanwhile Peter Blagden and I had called at Selwoode once or twicein unison and due estate. And Peter considered "Miss Beechinor a damnfine girl, and Miss Hugonin too, only--"

"Only, " I prompted, between puffs, "Miss Hugonin keeps everybody, as myold Mammy used to say, 'in a perpetual swivet. ' I never understood whatthe phrase meant, precisely, but I somehow always knew that it waseloquent. "

"Just so, " said Peter. "You prefer--ah--a certain amount oftranquillity. I haven't been abroad for a long while, " said Mr. Blagden;and then, after another meditative pause: "Now Stella--well, Stella wasa damn sight too good for me, of course--"

"She was, " I affably assented. 

"--and I'd be the very last man in the world to deny it. But still you_do_ prefer--" Then Peter broke off short and said: "My God, Bob! what'sthe matter?"

So I think I must have had the ill-taste to have laughed a little overMr. Blagden's magnanimity in regard to Stella's foibles. But I onlysaid: "Oh, nothing, Peter! I was just going to tell you that travelling_does_ broaden the mind, and that you will find an overcoatindispensable in Switzerland, and that during the voyage you ought tokeep in the open air as much as possible, and that you should give thesteward who waits on you at table at least ten shillings, --I was justgoing to tell you, in fine, that you would be a fool to squander anymoney on a guide-book, when I am here to give you all the necessarypointers. "

"But I didn't mean to go to Europe exactly, " said Mr. Blagden; "--I justmeant to go abroad in a general sense. Any place would be abroad, youknow, where people weren't always remembering how rich you were, andweren't scrambling to marry you out of hand, but really cared, you know, like she does. Oh, may be it _is_ bad form to mention it, but I couldn'thelp seeing how she looked at you, Bob. And it waked something--Oh, Idon't know what I mean, " said Peter--"it's just damn foolishness, I suppose. "

"It's very far from that, " I said; and I was honestly moved, just as Ialways am when pathos, preferably grotesque, has caught me unprepared. This millionaire was lonely, because of his millions, and Stella wasdead; and somehow I understood, and laid one hand upon his shoulder. 

"Oh, _you_ can't help it, I suppose, if all women love by ordinarybecause he is so like another person, where as men love because she isso different. My poor caliph, I would sincerely advise you to play thefool just as you plan to do, --oh, anywhere, --and without even a Mesrour. In fine go Bunburying at once. For very frankly, First Cousin of theMoon, it is the one thing worth while in life. "

"I half believe I will, " said Peter. . . . So he was packing in the interimduring which I pretended to be writing, and was in reality fretting tothink that, whilst Avis was in England by this, I could not decentlyleave America until those last five chapters were finished. So, in partas an excuse for not scrawling the dullest of nonsense and subsequentlytearing it up, I fell to considering the unquestionable fact that I wasin love with Avis, and upon the verge of marrying her, and was inconsequence, as a matter of plain logic, deliriously happy. 

"For when you are in love with a woman you, of course, want to marry hermore than you want anything else. In nature, it is a serious and--well, an almost irretrievable business. And I shall have to cultivate thedomestic virtues and smoke cheaper cigarettes and all that, but I shallbe glad to do every one of these things, for her sake--after a while. Ishall probably enjoy doing them. "

And I read Bettie Hamlyn's letter for the seventeenth time. . . . 

 4

For Bettie had answered the wild rhapsody which I wrote to tell her howmuch in love I was with Elena Barry-Smith. And in the nature of things Ihad not written Bettie again to tell her I was, and by a deal the more, in love with Avis Beechinor. The task was delicate, the reasons for mynot unnatural change were such as you must transmit in a personalinterview during which you are particularly boyish and talk very fast. 

Besides, I do not like writing letters; and moreover, there was no realneed to write. I was going to Gridlington; what more natural than toride over to Fairhaven some clear morning and tell Bettie everything? Ipictured her surprise and her delight at seeing me, and reflected itwould be unfair to her to render an inaccurate account of matters, suchas any letter must necessarily give. 

Only, first, there was the garden of Peter's aunt, --which sounds likean introductory French exercise, --and then Avis came. And, somehow, Ihad not, in consequence, traversed the scant nine miles that lay as yetbetween me and Bettie Hamlyn. I kept on meaning to do it the next day. 

And the next day after this I really did. 

"For I ought to tell Bettie about everything, " I reflected. "No matterif the engagement is a secret, I ought to tell Bettie about it. "

 5

When I had done so, Bettie shook her head. "Oh, Robin, Robin!" she said, "how did I ever come to raise a child that doesn't know his own mind foras much as two minutes? And how dared that Barry-Smith person to slapyou, I would like to know. "

"Now you're jealous, Bettie. You are thinking she infringed upon anentirely personal privilege, and you resent it. "

"Well, --but I've the right to, you see, and she hadn't. I consider herto be a bold-faced jig. And I don't approve of this Avis person either, you understand; but we poor mothers are always being annoyed by slushy, mushy Avises. I suppose there's a reason for it. She'll throw you over, you know, as soon as _her_ mother has had an inning or two. That's whyshe took her to Europe, " Bettie explained, with a fine confusion ofpersonalities. "Only she just wanted any quiet place where she couldtake aromatic spirits of ammonia and point out between doses that shehas given up her entire life to her child and has never made any demandson her and hasn't the strength to argue with her, because her heart issimply broken. We mothers always say that; and the funny part is that ifyou say it often enough it invariably works far better than any possibleargument. "

I told her she was talking nonsense, and she said, irrelevantly enough:"Setebos, and Setebos, and Setebos! I don't think very highly of Setebossometimes, because He muddles things so. Oh, well, I shan't cry Willow. Besides there _aren't_ any sycamore-trees in the garden. So let's gointo the garden, dear. That sounds as if I ate in the back pantry, doesn't it? Of course you aren't of any account any more, and you neverwill be, but at least you don't look at people as though they were a newsort of bug whenever they have just thought a sentence or two and thengone on, without bothering to say it. "

So we went into Bettie's garden. It had not changed. . . . 

 6

Nothing had changed. It was as though I had somehow managed, after all, to push back the hands of the clock. Fairhaven accepted me incuriously. I was only "an old student. " In addition, I was vaguely rumoured towrite "pieces" for the magazines. Probably I did; "old students" wereoften prone to vagaries after leaving King's College; for instance, theytold me, Ralph Means was a professional gambler, and Ox Selwyn hadlately gone to Shanghai and had settled there, --and Shanghai, in commonwith most other places, Fairhaven accorded the negative tribute of justnot absolutely disbelieving in its existence. 

Nothing had changed. The Finals were over; and with the noisy exodus ofthe college-boys, Fairhaven had sunk contentedly into an even deeperstupor, as Fairhaven always does in summer. And, for the rest, theunpaved sidewalks were just as dusty, the same deep ruts and the puddleswhich never dry, not even in mid-August, adorned Fairhaven's singlestreet; the comfortable moss upon Fairhaven's roofs had not varied by ashade; and George Washington or Benjamin Franklin might have stepped outof any one of those brass-knockered doorways without incongruity andwithout finding any noticeable innovation to marvel at. 

Nothing had changed. In the precise middle of the campus Lord Penniston, our Governor in Colonial days, still posed, in dingy marble; and thefracture of the finger I had inadvertently broken off, the night thatBilly Woods and I painted the statue all over, in six colours, was whiteand new-looking. Kathleen Eppes had married her Spaniard and had leftFairhaven; otherwise the same girls were already planning their toiletsfor the Y. M. C. A. Reception in October, which formally presents the "newstudents" to society at large; and presently these girls would be goingto the germans or the Opera House with the younger brother of the boywho used to take them thither. . . . 

Nothing had changed; not even I was changed. For I had soon discoveredthat Bettie Hamlyn did not care a pin for me in myself. She was simplyvery fond of me because, at times, I reminded her of a boy who had goneto King's College; and her reception of me, for the first two days, wasunmistakably provisional. 

"Very well!" I said. 

And I did it. For I knew how difficult it was to deceive Bettie, and inconsequence all my faculties rose to the challenge. I did not merelymimic my former self, I was compelled, almost, to believe I was indeedthat former self, because not otherwise could I get Bettie Hamlyn'stoleration. Had I paused even momentarily to reflect upon the excellenceof my acting, she would have known. So I resolutely believed I was beingperfectly candid; and with constant use those older tricks of speech andgesture and almost of thought, at first laborious mimicry, becamewell-nigh involuntary. 

In fine, we could not wipe away five years, but with practice we foundthat you would very often forget them, and for quite a while. . . . 

I had explained to Bettie's father I was going to board with them thatsummer. Had I not been so haphazard in the progress of this narrative, Iwould have earlier announced that Bettie's father was the Latinprofessor at King's College. He was very old and vague, and his generalattitude toward the universe was that of remote recollection of havingnoticed something of the sort before. Professor Hamlyn, therefore, toldme he was glad to hear of my intended stay beneath his roof; hazardedthe speculation that I had written a book which he meant to read uponthe very first opportunity; blinked once or twice; and forthwith lapsedinto consideration of some Pliocene occurrence which, if you were tojudge by the expression of his mild old countenance, he did not findentirely satisfactory. . . . 

So I spent three months in Fairhaven; and Bettie and I read all the oldbooks over again, and were perfectly happy. 

 7

And what I wrote in those last five chapters of my book was so good thatin common decency I was compelled to alter the preceding twenty-nine andbring them a bit nearer to Bettie's standard. For I was utilisingBettie's ideas. She did not have the knack of putting them on paper;that was my trivial part, as I now recognised with a sort of scaredreverence. 

"Of course, though, you had to meddle, " I would scold at her. "I hadmeant the infernal thing to be a salable book. To-day it is just astenographic report of how these people elected to behave. I haven'tanything to do with it. I wash my hands of it. I consider you, in fine, a cormorant, a conscienceless marauder, a meddlesome Mattie, _and_ aborn dramatist. "

"But, it's _much_ better than anything you've ever done, Robin--"

"That is what I'm grumbling about. I consider it very unfeeling of youto write better novels than I do, " I retorted. "But, oh, how good thatscene is!" I said, a little later. 

"Let's see--'For you, dear clean-souled girl, were born to be the wifeof a strong man, and the mother of his dirty children'--no, it's'sturdy', but then you hardly ever cross your T's. And where he goes onto tell her he can't marry her, because he is artistic, and she is toopractical for them to be real mates, and all that otherfeeble-mindedness? Dear me, did I forget to tell you we were going tocut that out?"

"But I particularly like that part--"

"Do you?" said Bettie, as her pen scrunched vicious lines through it. Then she said: "I only hope she had the civility and self-control not tolaugh until you had gone away. And 'We irrelevant folk that design alluseless and beautiful things, ' indeed! No, I couldn't have blamed her ifshe laughed right out. I wonder if you will never understand that whatyou take to be your love for beautiful things is really just a dislikeof ugly ones? Oh, I've no patience with you! And wanting to print it ina book, too, instead of being content to make yourself ridiculous intete-a-tetes with minxes that don't especially matter!"

"Well--! Anyhow, I agree with you that, thanks to your editing andcarping and general scurrility, this book is going to be, " I meeklystated, "a little better than _The Apostates_ and not just 'pretty muchlike any other book'. "

"Do you know that's just what I was thinking, " said Bettie, dolefully. She clasped both hands behind her crinkly small black head, and in thatqueer habitual pose appraised me, from between her elbows, in that waywhich always made me feel I had better be careful. "Damn you!" washer verdict. 

"Whence this unmaidenliness?" I queried, with due horror. 

"You are trying to prove to me that it has been worth while. This nastybook is coming alive, here in our own eight-cornered room, with a horridcrawly life of its own that it would never have had if you hadn't beenlearning things my boy knew nothing about. That's what you are crowingin my face, when you keep quiet and smirk. Oh, but I know you!"

"You do think, then, that, between you and me, it is really comingalive?"

"Yes, --if that greatly matters to the fat literary gent that I don'tcare for greatly. Yes, the infernal thing will be a Book, with quite asizable B. I am feeding its maw with more important things than a fewideas, though. The thing is a monster that isn't worth its keep. For myboy was worth more than a Book, " she said, forlornly, --"oh, oceans more!"

 8

All in all, we were a deal more than happy during these three very hotmonths. It was a sort of Lotus Eaters' existence, shared by just us two, with Josiah Clarriker intruding occasionally, and with echoes from theouter world, when heard at all, resounding very dimly and unimportantly. I began almost to assume, as Fairhaven tacitly assumed, that there wasreally no outer world, or none at least to be considered seriously. . . . 

For instance: Marian Winwood had come to Lichfield, and wrote me fromthere, "hoping that we would renew an acquaintance which she rememberedso pleasurably. " It did not seem worth while, of course, to answer theminx; I decided, at a pinch, to say that the Fairhaven mail-service wasabominable, and that her letter had never reached me. But the youngfellow who two years ago had wandered about the Green Chalybeate withher had become, now, as unreal as she. I glimpsed the couple, withimmeasurable aloofness, as phantoms flickering about the mirage of abrook, throwing ghostly bread crumbs to Lethean minnows. 

And then, too, when the police caught Ned Lethbury that summer, ithardly seemed worth while to wonder about his wife. For she was, inexplicably, with him, all through the trial at Chiswick, you mayremember, though you were probably more interested at the time by theHumbert trial in Paris. In any event, no rumor came to me in Fairhavento connect Amelia Lethbury with Nadine Neroni, but, instead, a deal ofjournalistic pity and sympathy for her, the faithful, much-enduringwife. Still quite a handsome woman, they said, for all her suffering andpoverty. . . . And when he went to the penitentiary, Amelia Lethburydisappeared, nobody knew whither, except that I suspected Anton vonAnspach knew. I could not explain the mystery. I did not greatly careto, for to me it did not seem important, now. . . . 

 9

Meantime, I meditated. 

"I am in love with Avis--oh, granted! I am not the least bit in lovewith--we will euphemistically say 'anyone else. ' But confound it! I amcoming to the conclusion that marrying a woman because you happen to bein love with her is about as logical a proceeding as throwing the catout of the window because the rhododendrons are in bloom. Why, if Imarry Avis I shall probably have to live with her the rest of my life!

"What if that obsolete notion of Schopenhauer's were true afterall, --that love is a blind instinct which looks no whit toward thewelfare of the man and woman it dominates, but only to the equipment achild born of them would inherit? What if, after all, love tends, without variation, to yoke the most incompatible in order that theaverage type of humanity may be preserved? Then the one passion weesteem as sacred would be simply the deranged condition of any otherbeast in rutting-time. Then we, with the pigs and sparrows, would bejust so many pieces on the chess-board, and our evolutions would be justa friendly trial of skill between what we call life and death. 

"I love Avis Beechinor. But I have loved, in all sincerity, many otherwomen, and I rejoice to-day, unfeignedly, that I never married any ofthem. For marriage means a life-long companionship, a long, long journeywherein must be adjusted, one by one, each tiniest discrepancy betweenthe fellow-wayfarers; and always a pebble if near enough to the eye willobscure a mountain. 

"Why, Avis cannot attempt a word of four syllables without coming atleast once to grief! It is a trifle of course, but in a life-longcompanionship there are exactly fourteen thousand trifles to one eventof importance. And deuce take it! the world is populated by men andwomen, not demi-gods; the poets are specious and abandoned rhetoricians;for it never was, and never will be, possible to love anybody 'to thelevel of every-day's Most quiet need by sun or candlelight. '

"Or not to me at least. 

"In a sentence, when it comes to a life-long companionship, I prefer notthe woman who would make me absolutely happy for a twelvemonth, butrather the woman with whom I could chat contentedly for twenty years, and who would keep me to the mark. I am rather tired of being futile;and not for any moral reason, but because it is not worthy of _me_. Infine, I do not want to die entirely. I want to leave behind some notinadequate expression of Robert Etheridge Townsend, and I do not care atall what people say of it, so that it is here when I am gone. Oh, Stellaunderstood! 'I want my life to count, I want to leave something in theworld that wasn't there before I came. '

"Now Bettie--"

I arose resolutely. "I had much better go for a long, and tedious, andjolting, and universally damnable walk. Bettie would make somethingvital of me--if I could afford her the material--"

And I grinned a little. "'Go, therefore, now, and work; for there shallno straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the tale of bricks. ' Yes, you would certainly have need of a miracle, dear Bettie--"

 10

I started for that walk I was to take. But Dr. Jeal and Colonel Snawleywere seated in armchairs in front of Clarriker's Emporium, just as theyhad been used to sit there in my college days, enjoying, as the Colonelmentioned, "the cool of the evening, " although to the casual observerthe real provider of their pleasure would have appeared to be anunlimited supply of chewing-tobacco. 

So I lingered here, and garnered, to an accompaniment of leisurelyexpectorations, much knowledge as to the fall crops and the carryings-onof the wife of a celebrated general, upon whose staff the Colonel hadserved during the War, --and there has never been in the world's historybut one war, so far as Fairhaven is concerned, --and how the Colonelwalked right in on them, and how it was hushed up. 

Then we discussed the illness of Pope Leo and what everybody knew aboutthose derned cardinals, and the riots in Evansville, and the PanamaCanal business, and the squally look of things at Port Arthur, andattributed all these imbroglios, I think, to the Republicanadministration. Even at our bitterest, though, we conceded that"Teddy's" mother was a Bulloch, and that his uncle fired the last shotbefore the Alabama went down. And that inclined us to forgive himeverything, except of course, the Booker Washington luncheon. 

Then half a block farther on, Mrs. Rabbet wanted to know if I had everseen such weather, and to tell me exactly what Adrian, Junior--no longerlittle Adey, no indeed, sir, but ready to start right in at the Collegesession after next, and as she often said to Mr. Rabbet you could hardlybelieve it, --had observed the other day, and quick as a flash too, because it would make such a funny story. Only she could never quitedecide whether it happened on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, so that, afterprecisely seven digressions on this delicate point, the denouement ofthe tale, I must confess, fell rather flat. 

And then Mab Spessifer demanded that I come up on the porch and drawsome pictures for her. The child was waiting with three sheets of paperand a chewed pencil all ready, just on the chance that I might pass; andyou cannot very well refuse a cripple who adores you and is not able toplay with the other brats. You get instead into a kind of habit ofcalling every day and trying to make her laugh, because she is such ahelpless little nuisance. 

And tousled mothers weep over you in passageways and tell you how goodyou are, and altogether the entire affair is tedious; but having startedit, you keep it up, somehow. 

 11

In fine, it is a symbol that I never took the walk which was to dust thecobwebs from my brain and make me just like all the other persons, thickabout me, who grow up, and mate, and beget, and die, in the incuriousfashion of oxen, without ever wondering if there is any plausible reasonfor doing it; and my brief progress was upon the surface very like thatof the bedeviled fellow in _Les Facheux_. Yet I enjoyed it somehow. Never to be hurried, and always to stop and talk with every person whomyou meet, upon topics in which no conceivable human being could possiblybe interested, may not sound attractive, but in Fairhaven it is therule; and, oddly enough, it breeds, in practice, a sort of familyfeeling, --if only by entitling everybody to the condoned andmatter-of-course stupidity of aunts and uncles, --which is not really allunpleasant. 

So I went home at half-past seven, to supper and to Bettie, in a quitecontented frame of mind. It did not seem conceivable that any world sobeautiful and stupid and well-meaning could have either the heart or thewit to thwart my getting anything I really wanted; and the thoughtelated me. 

Only I did not know, precisely, what I wanted. 

28. 

_He Participates in Sundry Confidences_

I was in the act of writing to Avis when the letter came; and I put itaside unopened, until after supper, for I had never found the letters ofAvis particularly interesting reading. 

"It will be what they call a newsy letter, of course. I do wish thatAvis would not write to me as if she were under oath to tell the entiretruth. She communicates so many things which actually happened that itreads like a 'special correspondent' in some country town writing for aSunday morning's paper, --and with, to a moral certainty, the word'separate' lurking somewhere spelt with three E's, and an 'always' withtwo L's, and at least one 'alright. ' No, my dear, I am at present toobusy expressing my adoration for you to be exposed to suchinharmonious jars. "

Then I wrote my dithyrambs and sealed them. Subsequently I poised theunopened letter between my fingers. 

"But remember that if she were here to _say_ all this to you, yourpulses would be pounding like the pistons of an excited locomotive!Nature, you are a jade! I console myself with the reflection that it isfrequently the gift of facile writing which makes the co-respondent, --but I _do_ wish you were not such a hazardous matchmaker. Oh, well!there was no pleasant way of getting out of it, and that particularRubicon is miles behind. "

I slit the envelope. 

I read the letter through again, with redoubling interest, and presentlybegan to laugh. "So she begins to fear we have been somewhat hasty, asksa little time for reconsideration of her precise sentiment toward me, and feels meanwhile in honour bound to release me from our engagement!Yet if upon mature deliberation--eh, oh, yes! twaddle! _and_commonplace! and dashed, of course, with a jigger of Scripturalquotation!"

I paused to whistle. "There is strange milk in this cocoanut, could Ibut discern its nature. "

I did, some four weeks later, when with a deal of mail I received thelast letter I was ever to receive from Avis Beechinor. 

Wrote Avis:

DEAR ROBERT:

Thank you very much for returning my letters and for the beautifulletter you wrote me. No I believe it better you should not come on tosee me now and talk the matter over as you suggest because it wouldprobably only make you unhappy. And then too I am sure some day you willbe friends with me and a very good and true one. I return the lastletter you sent me in a seperate envelope, and I hope it will reach youalright, but as I destroy all my mail as soon as I have read it I cannotsend you the others. I have promised to marry Mr. Blagden and we aregoing to be married on the fifteenth of this month very quietly with nooutsiders. So good bye Robert. I wish you every success and happinessthat you may desire and with all my heart I pray you to be true to yourbetter self. God bless you allways. Your sincere friend, AVIS M. BEECHINOR

I indulged in a low and melodious whistle. "The little slut!"

Then I said: "Peter Blagden again! I _do_ wish that life would try to bea trifle more plausible. Why, but, of course! Peter meant to go chasingafter her the minute my back was turned, and that was why he salved hisconscience by presenting me with that thousand 'to get married on, ' Evenat the time it seemed peculiarly un-Petrine. Well, anyhow, in simpledecency, he cannot combine the part of Shylock with that of Judas, andexpect to have back his sordid lucre, so I am that much to the good, apart from everything else. Yes, I can see how it all happened, --and Ican foresee what is going to happen, too, thank heaven!"

For, as drowning men are said to recollect the unrecallable, I hadvividly seen in that instant the two months' action just overpast, andits three participants, --the thin-lipped mother, the besottedmillionaire, and the girl shakily hesitant between ideals and the habitsof a life-time. 

"But I might have known the mother would win, " I reflected: "Why, didn'tBettie say she would?"

I refolded the letter I had just read, to keep it as a salutary relic;and then:

"Dear Avis!" said I; "now heaven bless your common-sense! and I don'tespecially mind if heaven blesses your horrific painted hag of a mother, also, if they've a divine favor or two to spare. "

And I saw there was a letter from Peter Blagden, too. It said, in part:

I am everything that you think me, Bob. My one defence is that I couldnot help it. I loved her from the moment I saw her . . . You did notappreciate her, you know. You take, if you will forgive my saying it, too light a view of life to value the love of a good woman properly, andAvis noticed it of course. Now I do understand what the unselfish loveof woman means, because my first wife was an angel, as you know . . . Itis a comfort to think that my dear saint in heaven knows I am not quiteso lonely now, and is gladdened by that knowledge. I know she would havewished it--

I read no further. "Oh, Stella! they have all forgotten. They all insistto-day that you were an angel, and they have come almost to believe thatyou habitually flew about the world in a night-gown, with an Easter lilyin your hand--But I remember, dear. I know you'd scratch her eyes out. Iknow you'd do it now, if only you were able, because you loved thisPeter Blagden. "

Thereafter I must have wasted a full quarter of an hour in recalling allsorts of bygone unimportant happenings, and I was not bothering one wayor the other about Avis . . . 

 3

In the moonlighted garden I found Bettie. But with her was JosiahClarriker, Fairhaven's leading business-man. He shook hands, andwhatever delight he may have felt at seeing me was admirably controlled. 

"Now don't let me interfere with your eloquence, " I urged, "but go righton with the declamation. "

"I make no pretension to eloquence, Mr. Townsend. I was merely recallingto Miss Hamlyn's attention the beautiful lines of our immortal poet, Owen Meredith, which run, as I remember them:

 "'I thought of the dress she wore that time That we stood under the cypress-tree together, In that land, in that clime, And I turned and looked, and she was sitting there In the box next to the stage, and dressed In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair And that jessamine blossom at her breast. '"

"But I am not permitted to wear flowers when Mr. Townsend is about, "said Bettie. "Did you know, Jo, that he is crazy about that too?"

"Well--! Anyhow, Meredith is full of very beautiful sentiments, " saidMr. Clarriker, "and I have always been particularly fond of that piece. It is called _'Ox Italians. '_"

"Yes, I have been previously affected by it, " said I, "and very deeplymoved. "

"And so--as I was about to observe, Miss Hamlyn, --you will notice thatthe poet Meredith gowned one of the most beautiful characters he evercreated in white, and laid great stress upon the fact that her beautywas immeasurably enhanced by the dainty simplicity of her muslin dress. This fabric, indeed, suits all types of faces and figures, and isEconomical too, especially the present popular mercerised waistings andvestings that are fast invading the realm of silks. We show at ourEmporium an immense quantity of these beautiful goods, in more than ahundred styles, elaborate enough for the most formal occasions, at fiftyand seventy-five cents a yard; and--as I was about to observe, MissHamlyn, --I would indeed esteem it a favour should you permit me to sendup a few samples to-morrow, from which to make a selection at, I neednot add, my personal expense. 

"You see, Mr. Townsend, " he continued, more inclusively, "we have noflorists in Fairhaven, and I have heard that candy--" He talked on, hygienically now. . . . 

 4

"And that, " said I, when Mr. Clarriker had gone, "is what you areactually considering! I have always believed Dickens invented that manto go into one of the latter chapters of _Edwin Drood_. It is thesolitary way of explaining certain people, --that they were invented bysome fagged novelist who unfortunately died before he finished the bookthey were to be locked up in. As it was, they got loose, to annoy you bytheir incredibility. No actual human being, you know, would suggest awhite shirtwaist as a substitute for a box of candy. "

"Oh, I have seen worse, " said Bettie, as in meditation. "It's just Jo'sway of expressing the fact that I am stupendously beautiful in white. Poor dear, my loveliness went to his head, I suppose, and got tangledwith next week's advertisement for the _Gazette_. Anyhow, he is a dealmore considerate than you. For instance, I was crazy to go to the showon Tuesday night, and Josiah Clarriker was the only person who thoughtto ask me, even though he is one of those little fireside companions whoalways get so syrupy whenever they take you anywhere that you simplycan't stand it. The combination both prevented my acceptance andaccentuated his devotion; and quite frankly, Robin, I am thinking ofhim, for at bottom Jo is a dear. "

I laid one hand on each of Bettie's shoulders; and it was in my mind atthe time that this was the gesture of a comrade, and had not any sexualtinge at all. I wished that Bettie had better teeth, of course, but thatcould not be helped. 

"You are to marry me as soon as may be possible, " said I, "andpreferably to-morrow afternoon. Avis has thrown me over, God bless her, and I am free, --until of course you take charge of me. There was aclever woman once who told me I was not fit to be the captain of mysoul, though I would make an admirable lieutenant. She was right. It isunderstood you are to henpeck me to your heart's content and to myultimate salvation. "

"I shall assuredly not marry you, " observed Miss Hamlyn, "until you haveat least asked me to do so. And besides, how dared she throwyou over--!"

"But I don't intend to ask you, for I have not a single bribe to offer. I merely intend to marry you. I am a ne'er-do-well, a debauchee, atippler, a compendium of all the vices you care to mention. I am not abit in love with you, and as any woman will forewarn you, I am sure tomake you a vile husband. Your solitary chance is to bully me intotemperance and propriety and common-sense, with precisely seven millionprobabilities against you, because I am a seasoned and accomplishedliar. Can you do that bullying, Bettie, --and keep it up, I mean?"

And she was silent for a while. "Robin, " she said, at last, "you'llnever understand why women like you. You will always think it is becausethey admire you for some quality or another. It is really because theypity you. You are such a baby, riding for a fall--No, I don't mean theboyishness you trade upon. I have known for a long while all that wasjust put on. And, oh, how hard you've tried to be a boy of late!"

"And I thought I had fooled you, Bettie! Well, I never could. I amsorry, though, if I have been annoyingly clumsy--"

"But you were doing it for me, " she said. "You were doing it because youthought I'd like it. Oh, can't you understand that I _know_ you areworthless, and that you have never loved any human being in all yourlife except that flibbertigibbet Stella Blagden, and that I know, too, you have so rarely failed me! If you were an admirable person, or aperson with commendable instincts, or an unselfish person, or if youwere even in love with me, it wouldn't count of course. It is becauseyou are none of these things that it counts for so much to see youhonest with me--sometimes, --and even to see you scheming andplay-acting--and so transparently!--just to bring about a littlepleasure for me. Oh, Robin, I am afraid that nowadays I love you_because_ of your vices!"

"And I you because of your virtues, " said I; "so that there is nopossible apprehension of either affection ever going into bankruptcy. Therefore the affair is settled; and we will be married in November. "

"Well, " Bettie said, "I suppose that somebody has to break you of thishabit of getting married next November--"

Then, and only then, my hands were lifted from her shoulders. And webegan to talk composedly of more impersonal matters. 

 5

It was two days later that John Charteris came to Fairhaven; and I methim the same afternoon upon Cambridge street. The little man stoppedshort and in full view of the public achieved what, had he been a child, were most properly describable as making a face at me. 

"That, " he explained, "expresses the involuntary confusion of Belial onre-encountering the anchorite who escaped his diabolical machinations. But, oh, dear me! haven't you been translated yet? Why, I thought thecarriage would have called long ago, just as it did for Elijah. "

"Now, don't be an ass, John. I _was_ rather idiotic, I suppose--"

"Of course you were, " he said, as we shook hands. "It is your unfailingcharm. You silly boy, I came from the pleasantest sort of house-party atMatocton because I heard you were here, and I have been foolish enoughto miss you. Anne and the others don't arrive until October. Oh, youadorable child, I have read the last book, and every one of the shortstories as well, and I want to tell you that in their own peculiar linethe two volumes are masterpieces. Anne wept and chuckled over them, andso did I, with an equal lack of restraint; only it was over the nobleand self-sacrificing portions that Anne wept, and she laughed at theplaces where you were droll intentionally. Whereas I--!! Well, we willlet the aposiopesis stand. "

"Of course, " I sulkily observed, "if you have simply come to Fairhavento make fun of me, I can only pity your limitations. "

He spoke in quite another voice. "You silly boy, it was not at all forthat. I think you must know I have read what you have published thus farwith something more than interest; but I wanted to tell you this in somany words. _Afield_ is not perhaps an impeccable masterwork, if one maybe thus brutally frank; but the woman--modeled after discretion will notinquire whom, --is distinctly good. And what, with you only twenty-five, does _A field_ not promise! Child, you have found your metier. Now Ishall look forward to the accomplishment of what I have always felt surethat you could do. I am very, very glad. More so than I can say. And Ihad thought you must know this without my saying it. "

The man was sincere. And I was very much pleased, and remembered whatinvaluable help he could give me on my unfinished book, and what fun itwould be to go over the manuscript with him. And, in fine, we becameagain, upon the spot as it were, the very best of friends. 

 6

It was excellent to have Charteris to talk against. The little man hadmany tales to tell me of those dissolute gay people we had known andfrolicked with; indeed, I think that he was trying to allure me back tothe old circles, for he preoccupied his life by scheming to bring aboutby underhand methods some perfectly unimportant consummation, which veryoften a plain word would have secured at once. But now he swore he wasnot "making tea. "

That had always been a byword between us, by the way, since I applied tohim the phrase first used of Alexander Pope--"that he could not make teawithout a conspiracy. " And it may be that in this case Charteris spokethe truth, and had come to Fairhaven just for the pleasure of seeing me, for certainly he must have had some reason for leaving the Musgraves'house-party so abruptly. 

"You are very well rid of the Hardresses, " he adjudged. "Did I tell youof the male one's exhibition of jealousy last year! I can assure youthat the fellow now entertains for me precisely the same affection Ihave always borne toward cold lamb. It is the real tragedy of my lifethat Anne is ethically incapable of letting a week pass withoutpartaking of a leg of mutton. She is not particularly fond of it, andindeed I never encountered anybody who was; she has simply been rearedwith the notion that 'people' always have mutton once a week. What, haveyou never noticed that with 'people, ' to eat mutton once a week is asort of guarantee of respectability? I do not refer to chops of course, which are not wholly inconsistent with depravity. But the ability to eatmutton in its roasted form, by some odd law of nature, connotes thehabit of paying your pew-rent regularly and of changing your flannels onthe proper date. However, I was telling you about Jasper Hardress--" AndCharteris repeated the story of their imbroglio in such a fashion thatit sounded farcical. 

"But, after all, John, you _did_ make love to her. "

"I have forgotten what was exactly the last observation of the lamentedJulius Caesar, " Mr. Charteris leisurely observed, --"though I rememberthat at the time it impressed me as being uncommonly appropriate--But toget back: do you not see that this clause ought to come here, at the endof the sentence? And, child, on all my ancient bended knees, I imploreyou to remember that 'genuine' does not mean the same thing as'real'. . . . "

 7

Meanwhile he and Bettie got on together a deal better than I had everanticipated. 

Charteris, though, received my confidence far too lightly. "You aregoing to marry her! Why, naturally! Ever since I encountered you, youhave been 'going to marry' somebody or other. It is odd I should havewritten about the Foolish Prince so long before I knew you. But then, _I_ helped to mould you--a little--"

And resolutely Bettie said the most complimentary things about him. ButI trapped her once. 

"Still, " I observed, when he had gone, and she had finished telling mehow delightful Mr. Charteris was, "still he shan't ever come to _our_house, shall he?"

"Why, of course not!" said Bettie, who was meditating upon some cosmicquestion which required immediate attention. And then she grew veryangry and said, "Oh, you _dog!_" and threw a sofa-cushion at me. 

"I hate that wizened man, " she presently volunteered, "more bitterlythan I do any person on earth. For it was he who taught you to adoptinfancy as a profession. He robbed me. And Setebos permitted it. And nowyou are just a man I am going to marry--Oh, well!" said Bettie, moresprightlily, "I was getting on, and you are rather a dear even in thatcapacity. Only I wonder what _becomes_ of all the first choices?"

"They must keep them for us somewhere, Bettie dear. And that is probablythe explanation of everything. "

And a hand had snuggled into mine. "You do understand without having tohave it all spelt out for you. And that's a comfort, too. But, oh, " saidBettie, "what a wasteful Setebos it is!"

29. 

_He Allows the Merits of Imperfection_

I was quite contented now and assured as to the future. I foreknew thefuture would be tranquil and lacking in any particular excitement, and Ihad already ceded, in anticipation, the last tittle of mastery over myown actions; but Bettie would keep me to the mark, would wring--notpainlessly perhaps--from Robert Townsend the very best there was in him;and it would be this best which, unalloyed, would endure, in what Iwrote. I had never imagined that, for the ore, smelting was an agreeableprocess; so I shrugged, and faced my future contentedly. 

One day I said, "To-morrow I must have holiday. There are certain thingsthat need burying, Bettie dear, and--it is just the funeral of my youthI want to go to. "

"So it is to-morrow that we go for an admiring walk around ouremotions!" Bettie said. She knew well enough of what event to-morrow wasthe anniversary, and it is to her credit she added: "Well, for thisonce--!" For of all the women whom I had loved, there was but one thatBettie Hamlyn had ever bothered about. And to-morrow was Stella'sbirthday, as I had very unconcernedly mentioned a few moments earlier, when I was looking for the Austin Dobson book, and had my back turnedto Bettie. 

 2

Next day, in Cedarwood, a woman in mourning--in mourning fluffed andjetted and furbelowed in such pleasing fashion that it seemedflamboyantly to demand immediate consolation of all marriageablemales, --viewed me with a roving eye as I heaped daffodils on Stella'sgrave. They had cost me a pretty penny, too, for this was in September. But then I must have daffodils, much as I loathe the wet, limp feel o. Them, because she would have chosen daffodils. . . . Well! I fancied thiswoman thought me sanctioned by both church and law in what I did, --andviewed me in my supposedly recent bereavement and gauged mypotentialities, --viewed me, in short, with the glance of adventurouswidowhood. 

My faith (I meditated) if she knew!--if I could but speak my thought toher!

"Madam, "--let us imagine me, my hat raised, my voice grave, --"the womanwho lies here was a stranger to me. I did not know her. I knew that hereyes were blue, that her hair was sunlight, that her voice had pleasingmodulations; but I did not know the woman. And she cared nothing for me. That is why my voice shakes as I tell you of it. And I have brought herdaffodils, because of all flowers she loved them chiefly, and becausethere is no one else who remembers this. It is the flower of spring, andStella--for that was her name, madam, --died in the spring of the year, in the spring of her life; and Stella would have been just twenty-sixto-day. Oh, and daffodils, madam, are all white and gold, even as thathandful of dust beneath us was all white and gold when we buried it witha flourish of crepe and lamentation, some two years and five months ago. Yet the dust there was tender flesh at one time, and it clad a braveheart; but we thought of it--and I among the rest, --as a plaything withwhich some lucky man might while away his leisure hours. I believe nowthat it was something more. I believe--ah, well, my _credo_ is of littleconsequence. But whatever this woman may have been, I did not know her. And she cared nothing for me. "

I reflected I would like to do it. I could imagine the stare, thesquawk, the rustling furbelows, as madam fled from this grave madman. She would probably have me arrested. 

You see I had come to think differently of Stella. At times I rememberedher childish vanity, her childish, morbid views, her childish gusts ofpetulance and anger and mirth; and I smiled, --oh, very tenderly, yetI smiled. 

Then would awake the memory of Stella and myself in that ancientmoonlight and of our first talk of death--two infants peering intoinfinity, somewhat afraid, and puzzled; of Stella making tea in thefirelight, and prattling of her heart's secrets, half-seriously, half infun; and of Stella striving to lift a very worthless man to a higherlevel and succeeding--yes, for the time, succeeding; and of Stella dyingwith a light heart, elate with dreams of Peter Blagden's future and of"a life that counted"; and of what she told me at the very last. And, irrationally perhaps, there would seem to be a sequence in it all, and Icould not smile over it, not even tenderly. 

And I would depicture her, a foiled and wistful little wraith, verylonely in eternity, and a bit regretful of the world she loved and ofits blundering men, and unhappy, --for she could never be entirely happywithout Peter, --and I feared, indignant. For Stella desired veryheartily to be remembered--she was vain, you know, --and they have allforgotten. Yes, I am sure that even as a wraith, Stella would beindignant, for she had a fine sense of her own merits. 

"But I am just a little butterfly-woman, " she would say, sadly; then, with a quick smile, "Aren't I?" And her eyes would be like stars--likebig, blue stars, --and afterward her teeth would glint of a sudden, andinnumerable dimples would come into being, and I would know she wasnever meant to be taken seriously. . . . 

But we must avoid all sickly sentiment. 

You see the world had advanced since Stella died, --twice around the sun, from solstice to solstice, from spring to winter and back again, travelling through I forget how many millions of miles; and there hadbeen wars and scandals and a host of debutantes and any number ofdinners; and, after all, the world is for the living. 

So we of Lichfield agreed unanimously that it was very sad, and spoke ofher for a while, punctiliously, as "poor dear Stella"; and the next weekEmily Van Orden ran away with Tom Whately; and a few days later AliciaWade's husband died, and we debated whether Teddy Anstrother would dothe proper thing or sensibly marry Celia Reindan: and so, a little by alittle, we forgot our poor, dear Stella in precisely the decorousgraduations of regret with which our poor dear Stella would haveforgotten any one of us. 

Yes, even those who loved her most deeply have forgotten Stella. Theyremember only an imaginary being who was entirely perfect, and of whomthey were not worthy. It is this fictitious woman who has usurped thereal Stella's place in the heart of the real Stella's own mother, andwhom even Lizzie d'Arlanges believes to have been once her sister, andover whom Peter Blagden is always ready to grow maudlin; and it is thisimmaculate woman--who never existed, --that will be until the end ofAvis' matrimonial existence the standard by which Avis is measured andfound wanting. And thus again the whirligig of time, by an odd turn, brings in his revenges. 

And I? Well, I was very fond of Stella. And the woman they speak ofto-day, in that hushed, hateful, sanctimonious voice, I must confess Inever knew. And of all persons I chiefly rage against that faultlessangel, that "poor dear Stella, " who has pilfered even the paltry tributeof being remembered from the Stella that to-day is mine alone. For it isto this fictitious person that the people whom my Stella loved, as shedid not love me, now bring their flowers; and it was to this person theyerected their pompous monument, --nay, more, it was for this atrociouswoman they ordered the very coffin in which my Stella lay when I lastsaw her. And it is not fair. 

And I? Well, I was very fond of Stella. It would be good to have herback, --to have her back to jeer at me, to make me feel red anduncomfortable and ridiculous, to say rude things about my waist, andindeed to fluster me just by being there. Yes, it would be good. But, upon the whole, I am not sorry that Stella is gone. 

For there is Peter Blagden to be considered. We can all agree to-daythat Peter is a good fellow, that he is making the most of his UncleLarry's money, and that he is nobody's enemy but his own; and we havesmugly forgotten the time when we expected him to become a great lawyer. We do not expect that of Peter now; instead, we are contentenough--particularly since Peter has so admirably dressed his part bytaking to longish hair and gruffness and a cane, --to point him out tostrangers in Lichfield as "one of our wealthiest men, " and to elect himto all civic committees, and to discuss his semi-annual sprees and hismonetary relations with various women whom one does not "know. " And thepresent Mrs. Blagden, too, appears content enough. 

And as Stella loved him--

Well, as it was, Peter was then off on his honeymoon, and there was onlyI to bring the daffodils to Stella. She was always vain, was Stella; itwould have grieved her had no one remembered. 

 3

Then I caught the afternoon train for Fairhaven, and went back to mycapable fiancee. 

But I walked over to Willoughby Hall that night and found Charterisalone in his queer library, among the serried queer books and theportraits of his "literary creditors. " When I came into the apartment hewas mending a broken tea-cup, for he peculiarly delighted in suchinfinitesimal task-work; but the vexed countenance at once took on thefond young look my coming would invariably provoke, and he shoved asidethe fragments. . . . 

We talked of trifles; apropos of nothing, Charteris said, "Yes, --but, then, I devoted the morning to drawing up my will. " And I laughed oversuch forethought. 

The man rose and with clenched fist struck upon the littered table. "Itis in the air. I swear to you that, somehow, _I_ have been warned. Butalways I have been favoured--Why, man, I protest that never in my lifehave I encountered any person in associating with whom I did notcondescend, with reason to back me! Yet today Death stands within arm'sreach, and I have accomplished--some three or four little books! Andyet--why, _Ashtaroth's Lackey_, now--Yes, by God! it is perfected speechsuch as few other men have ever written. I know it, and I do not care atall even though you piteous dullards should always lack the wit torecognise and revere perfected speech when it confronts you. Butpresently I die! and there is nothing left of me save the inefficienttestimony of those three or four little books!"

I patted his shoulder and protested he had over-worked himself. 

"Eh, well, " he said, and with that easy laugh I knew of old; "in anyevent, I have been thinking for a whole two hours of my wife, and of howfrom the very beginning I have utilised her, and of how good andcredulous she is, and of how happy I have made her--! For I have madeher happy. That is the preposterous part of it--"

"Why, yes; Anne loves you very dearly. Oh, I think that everybody isirrationally fond of you, John. No, that is not a compliment, it israther the reverse. It is simply an instance of what I have beenbrooding over all this afternoon, --that we like people on account oftheir good qualities and love them on account of their defects. Ihonestly believe that the cornerstone of affection is the agreeableperception of our superiority in some one point, at least, to thebeloved. And that is why so many people are fond of you, I think. "

He laughed a little. "And _de te fabula_--Yet I would distinguish. Youthink me a futile person and not, as we will put it, a disastrouslytruthful person, and so on through the entire list of all thoseso-called vices which are really just a habit of not doing this or thatparticular thing. Well! it is no longer _a la mode_ to talk aboutGod, --yet I must confess to an old-fashioned faith in our Author'sexistence and even in His amiability. I believe He placed me in thiscolourful world, and that He is not displeased because I have spenttherein some forty-odd years pleasurably. Then too I have not wastedthat pleasure, I have philanthropically passed it on. I have bequeathedposterity the chance to spend an enjoyable half-hour or so over one ortwo little books. That is not much to claim, but it is something. "

John Charteris was talking to himself now. 

"Had I instead the daily prayers of seven orphans, or the proudconsciousness of having always been afraid to do what I wantedto, --which I take to be the universally accredited insurance of ablissful eternity, --or even a whole half-column with portrait in the NewYork papers to indicate what a loss my premature demise had been toAmerica, --or actually all three together, say, to exhibit as theincrement of this period, I honestly cannot imagine any of the moreintelligent archangels lining up to cheer my entry into Paradise. Ibelieve, however, that to be contented, to partake of the world'samenities with moderation as a sauce, and to aggrieve no fellow-being, except in self-protection, and to make other people happy as often asyou find it possible, is a recipe for living that will pass muster evenin heaven. There you have my creed; and it may not be impeccable, but Ibelieve in it. "

"You have forgotten something, " I said, with a grin. "'One must notthink too despondently nor too often of the grim Sheriff who arrivesanon to dispossess you, no less than all the others, nor of anysubsequent and unpredictable legal adjustments. ' See, here it is, yourown words printed in the book. "

"Dear me, did I say that? How nicely phrased it is! Well! you and I havedefiantly preserved the gallant attitude in an era not very favorablethereto. And we seem to prosper--as yet--"

"But certainly! We are the highly exceptional round pegs that flourishlike green bay-trees in a square hole, " I summed it up. "Presently ofcourse our place knoweth us not. But in the mean while--well, as ithappens, I was recalling to-day how adroitly I scaled the summit ofhuman wisdom when I was only fourteen. For I said then, 'You can have aright good time first, any way, if you keep away from ugly things andfussy people. ' And at twenty-five I stick to it. "

"I wonder now if it is not at a price?" said Charteris, rathermirthlessly. "Either way, you have as yet the courage of theunconvicted. And you have managed, out of it all, to get together themakings of an honest book. I do not generally believe in heapingflattery upon young authors, but if I had written that last book ofyours it would not grieve me. Even so, I wonder--? But it is drearyhere, in this old house, with all my wife's high-minded ancestorschilling the air. Come, let us concoct some curious sort of drink. "

I looked at him compassionately. "And have Bettie staying up to let mein and smelling it on me! You must be out of your head. "

And then Charteris laughed and derided me, and afterward we chatted fora good two hours, --quite at random, and disposing of the most importantsubjects, as was our usage when in argument, in a half-sentence. 

It was excellent to have Charteris to talk against, and I enjoyed it. Taking him by and large, I loved the little fellow as I have loved noother man. 

30. 

_He Gilds the Weather-Vane_

But I would not go along with Charteris the next morning when he came bythe Hamlyns' on his way to King's College. I could not, because I waslabouring over a batch of proof-sheets; and as I laboured my admirationfor the very clever young man who had concocted this new book augmentedcomfortably; so that I told Charteris he was a public nuisance, andplease to go to Tillietudlem. 

He had procured the key to the Library, --for the College had not openedas yet, --and meant to borrow an odd volume or so of Lucian. Charterishad evolved the fantastic notion of treating Lucian's Zeus as a tragicfigure. He sketched a sympathetic picture of the fallen despot, and ofthe smokeless altars, girdled by a jeering rabble of so-calledphilosophers, and of how irritating it must be to anybody to have youractual existence denied. Did I not see the pathos of poor Zeus'ssituation with the god business practically "cornered, " and the Jewsgetting all the trade?

I informed him that the only pathos in life just at present was myinability to disprove, in default of abolishing, the existence of peoplewho bothered me when I was busy. So Charteris went away, just as Byambrought the mail from the post-office. 

 2

There were two cheques from magazines. Life was very pleasant, in aquiet uneventful world. The _Fairhaven Gazette_ for the week had come, too, to indicate that, as usual, nothing of grave import was happeningin an agreeably monotonous world. True, the Bulgarians were issuing anappeal to civilization on the ground that they objected to beingmassacred, and cyclones were wrecking towns and killing quite a numberof persons in Florida, and the strikes in Colorado were leading todivers homicides; but in Fairhaven these things did not seem to matter. And so the front page of the _Gazette_ was, rightfully, reserved forPlans of the College for the Session of 1903-4. . . . 

I looked again. The President was explaining that he had intended nodiscourtesy to Sir Thomas Lipton by declining to attend theSeawanhaka-Corinthian Yacht Club dinner; Major Delmar had failed to beatLou Dillon's time, on the same track; the National Dressmakers'Association had declared that the kangaroo walk and Gibson shoulderswould shortly be eschewed by all really fashionable women; and thesematters were more interesting, of course, but certainly no cause forexcitement. Well, I reflected, no news was good news proverbially; and Iwas content to let the axiom pass. 

In fine, there was nothing to worry over anywhere. And the book wasgoing to be good, quite astonishingly good. . . . 

And yonder Bettie waited for me, and I could hear the piano thatproclaimed she was not idle. I was ineffably content; and at ease withina rather kindly universe, taking it by and large. . . . 

"Quite a nice Setebos, after all! a big, fine generous-hearted fellow, who doesn't bother to keep accounts to the last penny. I heartilyapprove of Setebos, and Bettie ought not to rag Him so. She would thinkit tremendously nice and boyish of me if I were to go impulsively andtell her something like that--"

So I decided I had worked quite long enough. 

 3

But as I reached out toward the portieres, a man came into the room, entering from the hall-way. And I gave a little whistling sound ofastonishment and hastened to him with extended hand. 

"My dear fellow, " I began; "why, have you dropped from the moon?"

"They--they told me you were here, " said Jasper Hardress, and paused tomoisten his lips. "My wife died, yonder in Montana, ten days ago lastThursday, --yes, it was on a Tuesday she died, I think. "

And I was silent for a breathing-space. "Yes?" I said, at last; for Ihad seen the shining thing in Jasper Hardress's hand, and I waswondering now why he had pocketed the toy, and for how long. 

"It was of a fever she died. She was delirious, --oh, quite three days. And she talked in her delirium. "

I began to smile; it was like witnessing a play. "Yonder is Bettie andmy one chance of manhood; and blind chance, just the machination of atiny microbe, entraps me as I tread toward all this. I was wrong aboutSetebos. Heine was right; there is an Aristophanes in heaven. "

I said, aloud: "Well, Hardress, you wouldn't have me dispute theveracity of a lady?"

But the man did not appear to hear me. "Oh, it was very horrible, " hesaid. "Oh, I would like you, first of all, to comprehend how horrible itwas. She was always calling--no, not calling exactly, but just moaningone name, and over and over again. He had been so cruel, she said. Hedidn't really care for anything, she said, except to write his hatefulbooks. And I had loved her, you understand. And for three whole days Imust sit there and hear her tell of what another man had meant to her! Ihave not been wholly sane, I think, since then, for I had loved her fora long time. And her throat was so little that I often thought how easyit would be to stop the moaning and talking, but somehow I did not liketo do it. And it isn't my honour that I mean to avenge. It is Gillianthat I must avenge, --Gillian who died because a coward had robbed her ofthe will to live. For it was that in chief. Why, even you mustunderstand that, " he said, as though he pleaded with me. 

And yonder Bettie played, --with lithe fingers which caressed the keysrather than struck them, I remembered. And always at the back of my mindsome being that was not I was taking notes as to how unruffled the manwas; and I smiled a little, in recognition of the air, as Bettie began_The Funeral March of a Marionette_. . . . 

"Yes, " I said; "I think I understand. There is something to be advancedupon the other side perhaps; but that scarcely matters. You act withinyour rights; and, besides, you have a pistol, and I haven't. I amgetting afraid, though, Jasper. I can't stand this much longer. So forGod's sake, make an end of this!"

Jasper Hardress said: "I mean to. But they told me he was here? Yes, Iam sure that someone told me he was here. "

I think I must have reeled a little. I know my brain was workingautomatically. Gillian Hardress had always called me Jack; and JasperHardress was past reason; and yonder was Bettie, who had made life toofine and dear a thing to be relinquished. . . . 

"Jasper, " someone was saying, and that someone seemed to laugh, "wearen't living in the Middle Ages, remember. No, just as I said, I cannotstand this nonsense any longer, and you must make an end of thisfoolishness. Just on a bare suspicion--just on the ravings of adelirious woman--! Why, she used to call _me_ Jack, --and I writebooks--Why, you might just as logically murder _me_!"

"I thought at first it was you. Oh, only for a moment, boy. I was notquite sane, I think, for at first I suspected you of such treachery asin my sober senses I know you never dreamed of. And I had forgotten youwere just a child--But she was conscious at the end, " said JasperHardress, "and when I--talked with her about what she had said indelirium, she told me it was Charteris whose son we christened JasperHardress some two years ago--"

I said: "I never knew there was a child. " But I was thinking of ahitherto unaccounted-for photograph. 

"He only lived three months. I had always wanted a son. You cannot fancyhow proud I was of him. " Hardress laughed here. 

"And she told you it was Charteris! in the moment of death when--whenyou were threatening me, she told you it was Charteris!"

"It is different when you are dying. You see--Gillian knew that eternitydepended on what she said to me then--" He spoke as with difficulty, andhe kept licking at restless lips. 

"Yes, --she did believe that. And she told you--!" I comprehended howGillian Hardress had loved me, and my shame was such that now it was themere brute will to live which held me. But it held me, none the less. Besides, I saw the least unpleasant solution. 

"I suppose I can't blame you, " I said, --"for if she told you, why, ofcourse--" Then I barked out: "He was here a moment ago. You must havecome around one corner, in fact, just as he turned the other. You willfind him at Willoughby Hall, I suppose. He said he was goingstraight home. "

For I knew that Charteris was at King's College, a mile away fromWilloughby Hall; and, I assured myself, there would be ample time towarn him. Only how much must now depend upon the diverting qualities ofLucian! For should the Samosatan flag in interest, John would be leavingthe College presently; and there is but one street in Fairhaven. 

 4

I had my hand upon the garden-gate, and Hardress had just turned thecorner below, going toward Cambridge Street, when Bettie came uponthe porch. 

"Well, " she said, "and who's your fat friend, Mr. Sheridan?"

"I can't stop now, dear. I forgot to tell John about something which israther important--"

"Gracious!" Bettie Hamlyn said; "that sounds like shooting. Why, it isshooting, isn't it?"

"Yes, " said I. 

"--Quite as though the Monnachins and the Massawomeks and all the otherjaw-breakers were attacking Fairhaven as they used to do on alternateThursdays, and affording both of us an excellent opportunity to getnicely scalped in time for dinner. So I don't mind confessing that itwas against precisely such an emergency I declined to turn out anelaborate suite of hair; and now I expect the world at large toacknowledge that I acted very sensibly. "

"It is much more likely to be some drunken country-man on his monthlyspree--" I was reflecting while Bettie talked nonsense that there hadbeen no less than four shots. I was wondering whom the last was for. Itwould be much pleasanter, all around, if Hardress had sent it into hisown disordered brain. Yes, certainly, three bullets ought amply toaccount for an unprepared and unarmed and puny Charteris. . . . 

So I said: "Well, I suppose my business with John must wait for a while. Besides, Bettie, you are such a dear in that get-up. And if you willcome down into the garden at once, I will explain a few of my reasonsfor advancing the assertion. "

Standing upon the porch, she patted me ever so lightly upon the head. "What a child it is!" she said. "I don't think that, after all, I shallput twenty-six candles on your cake next week. The fat and lazy literarygent is not really old enough, not really more than ten. "

"--And besides, apart from the proposed discussion of your physicalcharms, I have something else quite equally important to tellyou about. "

"Oh, drat the pertinacious infant, then I'll come for half an hour. Justwait until I get a hat. Still, what a worthless child it is! to bequitting work before noon. "

And she would have gone, but I detained her. "Yes, what a worthlesschild it is, --or rather, what an unproverbial sort of busy bee it hasbeen, Bettie dear. For his has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and the flowers; and gentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyeshave been upon him. Now it is autumn. And he has let others eat hishoney-which I take to include all that he actually made, all that wasn'tin the world before he came, as Stella used to say, --so that he mighthave his morsel and his song. And sometimes it has been Sardinian honey, very bitter in the mouth, --and even then he has let others eat it--"

"You are a most irrelevant infant, " said Miss Hamlyn, "with theseinsectean divagations--Dear me, what lovely words! And of course if youreally want to drag me into that baking-hot garden, and have the onlyfiancee you just at present possess laid up by a sunstroke--"

_The Epilogue: Which Suggests that Second Thoughts--_

So I waited there alone. Whatever the four shots implied, I must tellBettie everything, because she was Bettie, and it was not fair I shouldhave any secrets from her. "Oh, just be honest with me, " she had said, in this same garden, "and I don't care what you do!" And I had neverlied to Bettie: at worst, I simply had not told her anything concerningmatters about which I was glad she had not happened to ask anyquestions. But this was different. . . . 

Dimly I knew that everything must pivot on my telling Bettie. John wasdone for, the Hardress woman was done for, and whether or no Jasper haddone for himself, there was no danger, now, that anyone would ever knowhow that infernal Gillian had badgered me into, probably, threehomicides. There might be some sort of supernal bookkeeping, somewhere, but very certainly it was not conformable to any human mathematics. . . . And therefore I must tell Bettie. 

I must tell Bettie, and abide what followed. She had pardoned much. Itmight be she would pardon even this, "because I had been honest with herwhen I didn't want to be. " And in any event--even in her loathing, --Bettie would understand, and know I had at least kept faith with her. . . . 

I must tell Bettie, and abide what followed. For living seemed somehowto have raised barriers about me a little by a little, so that I mustview and talk with all my fellows more and more remotely, and could not, as it were, quite touch anybody save Bettie. At all other persons I wasbut grimacing falsely across an impalpable barrier. And now just such abarrier was arising between Bettie and me, as I perceived in a sort ofpanic. Yes, it was rising resistlessly, like an augmenting mist not everto be put aside, except by plunging forthwith into hours, or days, oreven into months perhaps, of ugliness and discomfort. . . . 

It was the season of harvest. The leaves were not yet turned, and uponmy face the heatless, sun-steeped air was like a caress. The whole worldwas at full-tide, ineffably sweet and just a little languorous: and beeswere audible, as in a humorous pretence of vexation. . . . 

The world was very beautiful. I must tell Bettie presently, of course;only the world was such a comfortable place precisely as it was; and Ibegan to wonder if I need tell Bettie after all?

For, after all, to tell the truth could resurrect nobody; and to knowthe truth would certainly make Bettie very unhappy; and never in my lifehave I been able to endure the contact of unhappiness.