THE GREY WIG

Stories and Novelettes

by

I. Zangwill

Author of "The Mantle of Elijah" "Children of the Ghetto" etc. , etc. 

1923

 TO MY MOTHER AND SISTERS THIS BOOK Mainly a Study of Woman IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED

PREFATORY NOTE

This Volume embraces my newest and oldest work, and includes--for thesake of uniformity of edition--a couple of shilling novelettes that areout of print. 

I. Z. 

Mentone, February, 1903. 

CONTENTS

 THE GREY WIG CHASSÉ-CROISÉ THE WOMAN BEATER THE ETERNAL FEMININE THE SILENT SISTERS THE BIG BOW MYSTERY MERELY MARY ANN THE SERIO-COMIC GOVERNESS

THE GREY WIG

I

They both styled themselves "Madame, " but only the younger of the oldladies had been married. Madame Valière was still a _demoiselle_, butas she drew towards sixty it had seemed more _convenable_ to possessa mature label. Certainly Madame Dépine had no visible matrimonialadvantages over her fellow-lodger at the Hôtel des Tourterelles, though in the symmetrical cemetery of Montparnasse (Section 22)wreaths of glass beads testified to a copious domesticity in the farpast, and a newspaper picture of a _chasseur d'Afrique_ pinned overher bed recalled--though only the uniform was the dead soldier's--theson she had contributed to France's colonial empire. Practically itwas two old maids--or two lone widows--whose boots turned pointed toestowards each other in the dark cranny of the rambling, fusty corridorof the sky-floor. Madame Dépine was round, and grew dumpier with age;"Madame" Valière was long, and grew slimmer. Otherwise their lives ranparallel. For the true madame of the establishment you had to turn toMadame la Propriétaire, with her buxom bookkeeper of a daughter andher tame baggage-bearing husband. This full-blooded, jovial creature, with her swart moustache, represented the only Parisian success ofthree provincial lives, and, in her good-nature, had permitted herdecayed townswomen--at as low a rent as was compatible withprudence--to shelter themselves under her roof and as near it aspossible. Her house being a profitable warren of Americanart-students, tempered by native journalists and decadent poets, shecould, moreover, afford to let the old ladies off coffee and candles. They were at liberty to prepare their own _déjeuner_ in winter or tobuy it outside in summer; they could burn their own candles or sit inthe dark, as the heart in them pleased; and thus they were as cheaplyniched as any one in the gay city. _Rentières_ after their meticulousfashion, they drew a ridiculous but regular amount from the mysteriouscoffers of the Crédit Lyonnais. 

But though they met continuously in the musty corridor, and evendined--when they did dine--at the same _crémerie_, they never spoke toeach other. Madame la Propriétaire was the channel through which theysucked each other's history, for though they had both known her intheir girlish days at Tonnerre, in the department of Yonne, they hadnot known each other. Madame Valière (Madame Dépine learnt, and itseemed to explain the frigidity of her neighbour's manner) stilltrailed clouds of glory from the service of a Princess a quarter of acentury before. Her refusal to wink at the Princess's goings-on, heraustere, if provincial, regard for the convenances, had cost herthe place, and from these purpureal heights she had fallen lower andlower, till she struck the attic of the Hôtel des Tourterelles. 

But even a haloed past does not give one a licence to annoy one'sneighbours. Madame Dépine felt resentfully, and she hated MadameValière as a haughty minion of royalty, who kept a cough, which barkedloudest in the silence of the night. 

"Why doesn't she go to the hospital, your Princess?" she complained toMadame la Propriétaire. 

"Since she is able to nurse herself at home, " the opulent-bosomedhostess replied with a shrug. 

"At the expense of other people, " Madame Dépine retorted bitterly. "Ishall die of her cough, I am sure of it. "

Madame showed her white teeth sweetly. "Then it is you who should goto the hospital. "

II

Time wrote wrinkles enough on the brows of the two old ladies, buthis frosty finger never touched their glossy brown hair, for both worewigs of nearly the same shade. These wigs were almost symbolic ofthe evenness of their existence, which had got beyond the reach ofhappenings. The Church calendar, so richly dyed with figures of saintsand martyrs, filled life with colour enough, and fast-days were almostas welcome as feast-days, for if the latter warmed the general air, the former cloaked economy with dignity. As for _Mardi Gras_, thatshook you up for weeks, even though you did not venture out of yourapartment; the gay serpentine streamers remained round one's soul asround the trees. 

At intervals, indeed, secular excitements broke the even tenor. Acountry cousin would call upon the important Parisian relative, andbe received, not in the little bedroom, but in state in the mustilymagnificent salon of the hotel--all gold mirrors and mouldiness--whichthe poor country mouse vaguely accepted as part of the glories ofParis and success. Madame Dépine would don her ponderous gold brooch, sole salvage of her bourgeois prosperity; while, if the visitor werefor Madame Valière, that _grande dame_ would hang from her yellow, shrivelled neck the long gold chain and the old-fashioned watch, whosehands still seemed to point to regal hours. 

Another break in the monotony was the day on which the lottery wasdrawn--the day of the pagan god of Luck. What delicious hopes ofwealth flamed in these withered breasts, only to turn grey and coldwhen the blank was theirs again, but not the less to soar up again, with each fresh investment, towards the heaven of the hundred thousandfrancs! But if ever Madame Dépine stumbled on Madame Valière buying asection of a _billet_ at the lottery agent's, she insisted on havingher own slice cut from another number. Fortune itself would be robbedof its sweet if the "Princess" should share it. Even their commonfailure to win a sou did not draw them from their freezing depthsof silence, from which every passing year made it more difficult toemerge. Some greater conjuncture was needed for that. 

It came when Madame la Propriétaire made her _début_ one fine morningin a grey wig. 

III

Hitherto that portly lady's hair had been black. But now, as suddenlyas darkness vanishes in a tropic dawn, it was become light. No gradualapproach of the grey, for the black had been equally artificial. Thewig is the region without twilight. Only in the swart moustachehad the grey crept on, so that perhaps the growing incongruity hadnecessitated the sudden surrender to age. 

To both Madame Dépine and Madame Valière the grey wig came like a blowon the heart. 

It was a grisly embodiment of their secret griefs, a tantalisingvision of the unattainable. To glide reputably into a grey wig hadbeen for years their dearest desire. As each saw herself getting olderand older, saw her complexion fade and the crow's-feet gather, and hereyes grow hollow, and her teeth fall out and her cheeks fall in, so did the impropriety of her brown wig strike more and morehumiliatingly to her soul. But how should a poor old woman everaccumulate enough for a new wig? One might as well cry for themoon--or a set of false teeth. Unless, indeed, the lottery--?

And so, when Madame Dépine received a sister-in-law from Tonnerre, orMadame Valière's nephew came up by the excursion train from that samequiet and incongruously christened townlet, the Parisian personagewould receive the visitor in the darkest corner of the salon, with herback to the light, and a big bonnet on her head--an imposing figurerepeated duskily in the gold mirrors. These visits, instead ofa relief, became a terror. Even a provincial knows it is not_convenable_ for an old woman to wear a brown wig. And Tonnerre keptstrict record of birthdays. 

Tears of shame and misery had wetted the old ladies' hired pillows, asunder the threat of a provincial visitation they had tossed sleeplessin similar solicitude, and their wigs, had they not been wigs, wouldhave turned grey of themselves. Their only consolation had been thatneither outdid the other, and so long as each saw the other's brownwig, they had refrained from facing the dread possibility of having tosell off their jewellery in a desperate effort of emulation. GraduallyMadame Dépine had grown to wear her wig with vindictive endurance, andMadame Valière to wear hers with gentle resignation. And now, herewas Madame la Propriétaire, a woman five years younger and ten yearsbetter preserved, putting them both to the public blush, drawing thehotel's attention to what the hotel might have overlooked, in its longhabituation to their surmounting brownness. 

More morbidly conscious than ever of a young head on old shoulders, the old ladies no longer paused at the bureau to exchange the newswith Madame or even with her black-haired bookkeeping daughter. Nomore lounging against the newel under the carved torch-bearer, whilethe journalist of the fourth floor spat at the Dreyfusites, and thepoet of the _entresol_ threw versified vitriol at perfidious Albion. For the first time, too--losing their channel of communication--theygrew out of touch with each other's microscopic affairs, and theirmutual detestation increased with their resentful ignorance. And so, shrinking and silent, and protected as far as possible by their bigbonnets, the squat Madame Dépine and the skinny Madame Valière toiledup and down the dark, fusty stairs of the Hôtel des Tourterelles, often brushing against each other, yet sundered by icy infinities. Andthe endurance on Madame Dépine's round face became more vindictive, and gentler grew the resignation on the angular visage of MadameValière. 

IV

"_Tiens!_ Madame Dépine, one never sees you now. " Madame laPropriétaire was blocking the threshold, preventing her exit. "I wasalmost thinking you had veritably died of Madame Valière's cough. "

"One has received my rent, the Monday, " the little old lady repliedfrigidly. 

"_Oh! là! là!_" Madame waved her plump hands. "And La Valière, too, makes herself invisible. What has then happened to both of you? Is itthat you are doing a penance together?"

"Hist!" said Madame Dépine, flushing. 

For at this moment Madame Valière appeared on the pavement outsidebearing a long French roll and a bag of figs, which made an excellentlunch at low water. Madame la Propriétaire, dominatingly bestridingher doorstep, was sandwiched between the two old ladies, her wigaggressively grey between the two browns. Madame Valière haltedawkwardly, a bronze blush mounting to match her wig. To be seenby Madame Dépine carrying in her meagre provisions was humiliationenough; to be juxtaposited with a grey wig was unbearable. 

"_Maman, maman_, the English monsieur will not pay two francs forhis dinner!" And the distressed bookkeeper, bill in hand, shatteredthe trio. 

"And why will he not pay?" Fire leapt into the black eyes. 

"He says you told him the night he came that by arrangement he couldhave his dinners for one franc fifty. "

Madame la Propriétaire made two strides towards the refractory Englishmonsieur. "_I_ told you one franc fifty? For _déjeuner_, yes, as manyluncheons as you can eat. But for dinner? You eat with us as one ofthe family, and _vin compris_ and _café_ likewise, and it shouldbe all for one franc fifty! _Mon Dieu!_ it is to ruin oneself. Comehere. " And she seized the surprised Anglo-Saxon by the wrist anddragged him towards a painted tablet of prices that hung in a darkniche of the hall. "I have kept this hotel for twenty years, I havegrown grey in the service of artists and students, and this is thefirst time one has demanded dinner for one franc fifty!"

"_She_ has grown grey!" contemptuously muttered Madame Valière. 

"Grey? She!" repeated Madame Dépine, with no less bitterness. "It isonly to give herself the air of a _grande dame_!"

Then both started, and coloured to the roots of their wigs. Simultaneously they realised that they had spoken to each other. 

V

As they went up the stairs together--for Madame Dépine had quiteforgotten she was going out--an immense relief enlarged their souls. Merely to mention the grey wig had been a vent for all this morbidbrooding; to abuse Madame la Propriétaire into the bargain was to passfrom the long isolation into a subtle sympathy. 

"I wonder if she did say one franc fifty, " observed Madame Valière, reflectively. 

"Without doubt, " Madame Dépine replied viciously. "And fifty centimesa day soon mount up to a grey wig. "

"Not so soon, " sighed Madame Valière. 

"But then it is not only one client that she cheats. "

"Ah! at that rate wigs fall from the skies, " admitted Madame Valière. 

"Especially if one has not to give dowries to one's nieces, " saidMadame Dépine, boldly. 

"And if one is mean on New Year's Day, " returned Madame Valière, witha shade less of mendacity. 

They inhaled the immemorial airlessness of the staircase as if theywere breathing the free air of the forests depicted on its dirty-brownwall-paper. It was the new atmosphere of self-respect that they werereally absorbing. Each had at last explained herself and her brown wig tothe other. An immaculate honesty (that would scorn to overcharge fiftycentimes even to _un Anglais_), complicated with unwedded nieces inone case, with a royal shower of New Year's gifts in the other, hadkept them from selfish, if seemly, hoary-headedness. 

"Ah! here is my floor, " panted Madame Valière at length, with an airof indicating it to a thorough stranger. "Will you not come into myroom and eat a fig? They are very healthy between meals. "

Madame Dépine accepted the invitation, and entering her own cornerof the corridor with a responsive air of foreign exploration, passedbehind the door through whose keyhole she had so often peered. Ah! nowonder she had detected nothing abnormal. The room was a facsimileof her own--the same bed with the same quilt over it and the samecrucifix above it, the same little table with the same books ofdevotion, the same washstand with the same tiny jug and basin, thesame rusted, fireless grate. The wardrobe, like her own, was merely apair of moth-eaten tartan curtains, concealing both pegs and garmentsfrom her curiosity. The only sense of difference came subtly from thefolding windows, below whose railed balcony showed another view of thequarter, with steam-trams--diminished to toy trains--puffing pastto the suburbs. But as Madame Dépine's eyes roved from these to themantel-piece, she caught sight of an oval miniature of an elegant youngwoman, who was jewelled in many places, and corresponded exactly withher idea of a Princess!

To disguise her access of respect, she said abruptly, "It must be verynoisy here from the steam-trams. "

"It is what I love, the bustle of life, " replied Madame Valière, simply. 

"Ah!" said Madame Dépine, impressed beyond masking-point, "I supposewhen one has had the habit of Courts--"

Madame Valière shuddered unexpectedly. "Let us not speak of it. Take afig. "

But Madame Dépine persisted--though she took the fig. "Ah! those werebrave days when we had still an Emperor and an Empress to drive to theBois with their equipages and outriders. Ah, how pretty it was!"

"But the President has also"--a fit of coughing interrupted MadameValière--"has also outriders. "

"But he is so bourgeois--a mere man of the people, " said MadameDépine. 

"They are the most decent sort of folk. But do you not feel cold? Iwill light a fire. " She bent towards the wood-box. 

"No, no; do not trouble. I shall be going in a moment. I have a largefire blazing in my room. "

"Then suppose we go and sit there, " said poor Madame Valière. 

Poor Madame Dépine was seized with a cough, more protracted than anyof which she had complained. 

"Provided it has not gone out in my absence, " she stammered at last. "I will go first and see if it is in good trim. "

"No, no; it is not worth the trouble of moving. " And Madame Valièredrew her street-cloak closer round her slim form. "But I have lived solong in Russia, I forget people call this cold. "

"Ah! the Princess travelled far?" said Madame Dépine, eagerly. 

"Too far, " replied Madame Valière, with a flash of Gallic wit. "Butwho has told you of the Princess?"

"Madame la Propriétaire, naturally. "

"She talks too much--she and her wig!"

"If only she didn't imagine herself a powdered marquise in it! To seeher standing before the mirror in the salon!"

"The beautiful spectacle!" assented Madame Valière. 

"Ah! but I don't forget--if she does--that her mother wheeled afruit-barrow through the streets of Tonnerre!"

"Ah! yes, I knew you were from Tonnerre--dear Tonnerre!"

"How did you know?"

"Naturally, Madame la Propriétaire. "

"The old gossip!" cried Madame Dépine--"though not so old asshe feigns. But did she tell you of her mother, too, and thefruit-barrow?"

"I knew her mother--_une brave femme_. "

"I do not say not, " said Madame Dépine, a whit disconcerted. "Nevertheless, when one's mother is a merchant of the four seasons--"

"Provided she sold fruit as good as this! Take another fig, I beg ofyou. "

"Thank you. These are indeed excellent, " said Madame Dépine. "She owedall her good fortune to a _coup_ in the lottery. "

"Ah! the lottery!" Madame Valière sighed. Before the eyes of both rosethe vision of a lucky number and a grey wig. 

VI

The acquaintanceship ripened. It was not only their common grievancesagainst fate and Madame la Propriétaire: they were linked by the sheerphysical fact that each was the only person to whom the other couldtalk without the morbid consciousness of an eye scrutinising theunseemly brown wig. It became quite natural, therefore, for MadameDépine to stroll into her "Princess's" room, and they soon slid intodividing the cost of the fire. That was more than an economy, forneither could afford a fire alone. It was an easy transition to thediscovery that coffee could be made more cheaply for two, and thatthe same candle would light two persons, provided they sat in the sameroom. And if they did not fall out of the habit of companionship evenat the _crémerie_, though "two portions for one" were not served, their union at least kept the sexagenarians in countenance. Two brownwigs give each other a moral support, are on the way to a fashion. 

But there was more than wigs and cheese-parings in their_camaraderie_. Madame Dépine found a fathomless mine of edificationin Madame Valière's reminiscences, which she skilfully extracted fromher, finding the average ore rich with noble streaks, though the oldtirewoman had an obstinate way of harking back to her girlhood, whichmade some delvings result in mere earth. 

On the Day of the Dead Madame Dépine emerged into importance, takingher friend with her to the Cemetery Montparnasse to see the glassflowers blooming immortally over the graves of her husband andchildren. Madame Dépine paid the omnibus for both (inside places), andfelt, for once, superior to the poor "Princess, " who had never knownthe realities of love and death. 

VII

Two months passed. Another of Madame Valière's teeth fell out. MadameDépine's cheeks grew more pendulous. But their brown wigs remained asfadeless as the cemetery flowers. 

One day they passed the hairdresser's shop together. It was indeednext to the tobacconist's, so not easy to avoid, whenever one wanteda stamp or a postcard. In the window, amid pendent plaits of divershues, bloomed two wax busts of females--the one young and coquettishand golden-haired, the other aristocratic in a distinguished grey wig. Both wore diamond rosettes in their hair and ropes of pearls roundtheir necks. The old ladies' eyes met, then turned away. 

"If one demanded the price!" said Madame Dépine (who had already doneso twice). 

"It is an idea!" agreed Madame Valière. 

"The day will come when one's nieces will be married. "

"But scarcely when New Year's Day shall cease to be, " the "Princess"sighed. 

"Still, one might win in the lottery!"

"Ah! true. Let us enter, then. "

"One will be enough. You go. " Madame Dépine rather dreaded the_coiffeur_, whom intercourse with jocose students had made severe. 

But Madame Valière shrank back shyly. "No, let us both go. " She added, with a smile to cover her timidity, "Two heads are better than one. "

"You are right. He will name a lower price in the hope of two orders. "And, pushing the "Princess" before her like a turret of defence, Madame Dépine wheeled her into the ladies' department. 

The _coiffeur_, who was washing the head of an American girl, lookedup ungraciously. As he perceived the outer circumference of MadameDépine projecting on either side of her turret, he emitted a glacial"_Bon jour, mesdames. _"

"Those grey wigs--" faltered Madame Valière

"I have already told your friend. " He rubbed the American headviciously. 

Madame Dépine coloured. "But--but we are two. Is there no reduction ontaking a quantity?"

"And why then? A wig is a wig. Twice a hundred francs are two hundredfrancs. "

"One hundred francs for a wig!" said Madame Valière, paling. "I didnot pay that for the one I wear. "

"I well believe it, madame. A grey wig is not a brown wig. "

"But you just said a wig is a wig. "

The _coiffeur_ gave angry rubs at the head, in time with his explosivephrases. "You want real hair, I presume--and to your measure--and tolook natural--and _convenable_!" (Both old ladies shuddered at theword. ) "Of course, if you want it merely for private theatricals--"

"Private theatricals!" repeated Madame Dépine, aghast. 

"A _comédienne's_ wig I can sell you for a bagatelle. That passes at adistance. "

Madame Valière ignored the suggestion. "But why should a grey wig costmore than any other?"

The _coiffeur_ shrugged his shoulders. "Since there are less greyhairs in the world--"

"_Comment!_" repeated Madame Valière, in amazement. 

"It stands to reason, " said the _coiffeur_. "Since most persons donot live to be old--or only live to be bald. " He grew animated, professorial almost, seeing the weight his words carried to unthinkingbosoms. "And since one must provide a fine hair-net for a groundwork, to imitate the flesh-tint of the scalp, and since each hair of theparting must be treated separately, and since the natural wave of thehair must be reproduced, and since you will also need a block for itto stand on at nights to guard its shape--"

"But since one has already blocks, " interposed Madame Dépine. 

"But since a conscientious artist cannot trust another's block!Represent to yourself also that the shape of the head does not remainas fixed as the dome of the Invalides, and that--"

"_Eh bien_, we will think, " interrupted Madame Valière, with dignity. 

VIII

They walked slowly towards the Hôtel des Tourterelles. 

"If one could share a wig!" Madame Dépine exclaimed suddenly. 

"It is an idea, " replied Madame Valière. And then each staredinvoluntarily at the other's head. They had shared so many thingsthat this new possibility sounded like a discovery. Pleasing picturesflitted before their eyes--the country cousin received (on a Boxand Cox basis) by a Parisian old gentlewoman _sans peur_ and _sansreproche_; a day of seclusion for each alternating with a day ofostentatious publicity. 

But the light died out of their eyes, as Madame Dépine recognisedthat the "Princess's" skull was hopelessly long, and Madame Valièrerecognised that Madame Dépine's cranium was hopelessly round. Decidedly either head would be a bad block for the other's wig torepose on. 

"It would be more sensible to acquire a wig together, and draw lotsfor it, " said Madame Dépine. 

The "Princess's" eyes rekindled. "Yes, and then save up again to buythe loser a wig. "

"_Parfaitement_" said Madame Dépine. They had slid out of pretendingthat they had large sums immediately available. Certain sums stillexisted in vague stockings for dowries or presents, but these, ofcourse, could not be touched. For practical purposes it was understoodthat neither had the advantage of the other, and that the few francsa month by which Madame Dépine's income exceeded Madame Valière's wereneutralised by the superior rent she paid for her comparative immunityfrom steam-trams. The accumulation of fifty francs apiece was thus alimitless perspective. 

They discussed their budget. It was really almost impossible to cutdown anything. By incredible economies they saw their way to savinga franc a week each. But fifty weeks! A whole year, allowing forsickness and other breakdowns! Who can do penance for a whole year?They thought of moving to an even cheaper hotel; but then in thecourse of years Madame Valière had fallen three weeks behind with therent, and Madame Dépine a fortnight, and these arrears would have tobe paid up. The first council ended in despair. But in the silence ofthe night Madame Dépine had another inspiration. If one suppressed thelottery for a season!

On the average each speculated a full franc a week, with scarcelya gleam of encouragement. Two francs a week each--already the yearbecomes six months! For six months one can hold out. Hardships sharedare halved, too. It will seem scarce three months. Ah, how good arethe blessed saints!

But over the morning coffee Madame Valière objected that they mightwin the whole hundred francs in a week!

It was true; it was heartbreaking. 

Madame Dépine made a reckless reference to her brooch, but thePrincess had a gesture of horror. "And wear your heart on your shawlwhen your friends come?" she exclaimed poetically. "Sooner my watchshall go, since that at least is hidden in my bosom!"

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Madame Dépine. "But if you sold the otherthings hidden in your bosom!"

"How do you mean?"

"The Royal Secrets. "

The "Princess" blushed. "What are you thinking of?"

"The journalist below us tells me that gossip about the great sellslike Easter buns. "

"He is truly below us, " said Madame Valière, witheringly. "What! sellone's memories! No, no; it would not be _convenable_. There are evenpeople living--"

"But nobody would know, " urged Madame Dépine. 

"One must carry the head high, even if it is not grey. "

It was almost a quarrel. Far below the steam-tram was puffing past. At the window across the street a woman was beating her carpet withswift, spasmodic thwacks, as one who knew the legal time was nearlyup. In the tragic silence which followed Madame Valière's rebuke, these sounds acquired a curious intensity. 

"I prefer to sacrifice the lottery rather than honour, " she added, inmore conciliatory accents. 

IX

The long quasi-Lenten weeks went by, and unflinchingly the two oldladies pursued their pious quest of the grey wig. Butter had vanishedfrom their bread, and beans from their coffee. Their morning brewwas confected of charred crusts, and as they sipped it solemnly theyexchanged the reflection that it was quite equal to the coffee at the_crémerie_. Positively one was safer drinking one's own messes. Figs, no longer posing as a pastime of the palate, were accepted seriouslyas _pièces de résistance_. The Spring was still cold, yet fires couldbe left to die after breakfast. The chill had been taken off, and bymid-day the sun was in its full power. Each sustained the other bya desperate cheerfulness. When they took their morning walk in theLuxembourg Gardens--what time the blue-aproned Jacques was polishingtheir waxed floors with his legs for broom-handles--they went intoecstasies over everything, drawing each other's attention to thesky, the trees, the water. And, indeed, of a sunshiny morning it washeartening to sit by the pond and watch the wavering sheet of beatengold water, reflecting all shades of green in a restless shimmeragainst the shadowed grass around. Madame Valière always had a bitof dry bread to feed the pigeons withal--it gave a cheerful sense ofsuperfluity, and her manner of sprinkling the crumbs revived MadameDépine's faded images of a Princess scattering New Year largess. 

But beneath all these pretences of content lay a hollow sense ofdesolation. It was not the want of butter nor the diminished meat; itwas the total removal from life of that intangible splendour of hopeproduced by the lottery ticket. Ah! every day was drawn blank now. This gloom, this gnawing emptiness at the heart, was worse than eitherhad foreseen or now confessed. Malicious Fate, too, they felt, wouldeven crown with the _grand prix_ the number they would have chosen. But for the prospective draw for the Wig--which reintroduced thealeatory--life would scarcely have been bearable. 

Madame Dépine's sister-in-law's visit by the June excursion train wasa not unexpected catastrophe. It only lasted a day, but it put backthe Grey Wig by a week, for Madame Choucrou had to be fed at Duval's, and Madame Valière magnanimously insisted on being of the party:whether to run parallel with her friend, or to carry off thebrown wig, she alone knew. Fortunately, Madame Choucrou was bothshort-sighted and colour-blind. On the other hand, she liked a _petitverre_ with her coffee, and both at a separate restaurant. But neverhad Madame Valière appeared to Madame Dépine's eyes more like the"Princess, " more gay and polished and debonair, than at this littleround table on the sunlit Boulevard. Little trills of laughter camefrom the half-toothless gums; long gloved fingers toyed with theliqueur glass or drew out the old-fashioned watch to see that MadameChoucrou did not miss her train; she spent her sou royally on a hawkedjournal. When they had seen Madame Choucrou off, she proposed to dockmeat entirely for a fortnight so as to regain the week. Madame Dépineaccepted in the same heroic spirit, and even suggested the eliminationof the figs: one could lunch quite well on bread and milk, now thesunshine was here. But Madame Valière only agreed to a week's trial ofthis, for she had a sweet tooth among the few in her gums. 

The very next morning, as they walked in the Luxembourg Gardens, Madame Dépine's foot kicked against something. She stooped and saw ashining glory--a five-franc piece!

"What is it?" said Madame Valière. 

"Nothing, " said Madame Dépine, covering the coin with her foot. "Mybootlace. " And she bent down--to pick up the coin, to fumble at herbootlace, and to cover her furious blush. It was not that she wishedto keep the godsend to herself, --one saw on the instant that _le bonDieu_ was paying for Madame Choucrou, --it was an instantaneous dreadof the "Princess's" quixotic code of honour. La Valière was capable offlying in the face of Providence, of taking the windfall to a _bureaude police_. As if the inspector wouldn't stick to it himself! Apurse--yes. But a five-franc piece, one of a flock of sheep!

The treasure-trove was added to the heap of which her stocking wasguardian, and thus honestly divided. The trouble, however, was that, as she dared not inform the "Princess, " she could not decently backout of the meatless fortnight. Providence, as it turned out, wasmaking them gain a week. As to the figs, however, she confessed on thethird day that she hungered sore for them, and Madame Valière readilyagreed to make this concession to her weakness. 

X

This little episode coloured for Madame Dépine the whole dreary periodthat remained. Life was never again so depressingly definite; thoughcuriously enough the "Princess" mistook for gloom her steady earthwardglance, as they sauntered about the sweltering city. With anxioussolicitude Madame Valière would direct her attention to sunsets, toclouds, to the rising moon; but heaven had ceased to have attraction, except as a place from which five-francs fell, and as soon as the"Princess's" eye was off her, her own sought the ground again. Butthis imaginary need of cheering up Madame Dépine kept Madame Valièreherself from collapsing. At last, when the first red leaves beganto litter the Gardens and cover up possible coins, the francs in thestocking approached their century. 

What a happy time was that! The privations were become second nature;the weather was still fine. The morning Gardens were a glow of pinkand purple and dripping diamonds, and on some of the trees was thedelicate green of a second blossoming, like hope in the heart of age. They could scarcely refrain from betraying their exultation tothe Hôtel des Tourterelles, from which they had concealed theirsufferings. But the polyglot population seething round its malodorousstairs and tortuous corridors remained ignorant that anything waspassing in the life of these faded old creatures, and even on theday of drawing lots for the Wig the exuberant hotel retained itsimperturbable activity. 

Not that they really drew lots. That was a figure of speech, difficultto translate into facts. They preferred to spin a coin. Madame Dépinewas to toss, the "Princess" to cry _pile ou face_. From the stockingMadame Dépine drew, naturally enough, the solitary five-franc piece. It whirled in the air; the "Princess" cried _face_. The puff-puff ofthe steam-tram sounded like the panting of anxious Fate. The greatcoin fell, rolled, balanced itself between two destinies, thensubsided, _pile_ upwards. The poor "Princess's" face grew even longer;but for the life of her Madame Dépine could not make her own faceother than a round red glow, like the sun in a fog. In fact, shelooked so young at this supreme moment that the brown wig quite becameher. 

"I congratulate you, " said Madame Valière, after the steam-tram hadbecome a far-away rumble. 

"Before next summer we shall have yours too, " the winner reminded herconsolingly. 

XI

They had not waited till the hundred francs were actually in thestocking. The last few would accumulate while the wig was making. Asthey sat at their joyous breakfast the next morning, ere starting forthe hairdresser's, the casement open to the October sunshine, Jacquesbrought up a letter for Madame Valière--an infrequent incident. Both old women paled with instinctive distrust of life. And as the"Princess" read her letter, all the sympathetic happiness died out ofher face. 

"What is the matter, then?" breathed Madame Dépine. 

The "Princess" recovered herself. "Nothing, nothing. Only my nephewwho is marrying. "

"Soon?"

"The middle of next month. "

"Then you will need to give presents!"

"One gives a watch, a bagatelle, and then--there is time. It isnothing. How good the coffee is this morning!"

They had not changed the name of the brew: it is not only in religiousevolutions that old names are a comfort. 

They walked to the hairdresser's in silence. The triumphal processionhad become almost a dead march. Only once was the silence broken. 

"I suppose they have invited you down for the wedding?" said MadameDépine. 

"Yes, " said Madame Valière. 

They walked on. 

The _coiffeur_ was at his door, sunning his aproned stomach, andtwisting his moustache as if it were a customer's. Emotion overcameMadame Dépine at the sight of him. She pushed Madame Valière into thetobacconist's instead. 

"I have need of a stamp, " she explained, and demanded one for fivecentimes. She leaned over the counter babbling aimlessly to theproprietor, postponing the great moment. Madame Valière lost the clueto her movements, felt her suddenly as a stranger. But finally MadameDépine drew herself together and led the way into the _coiffeurs_. Theproprietor, who had reëntered his parlour, reëmerged gloomily. 

Madame Valière took the word. "We are thinking of ordering a wig. "

"Cash in advance, of course, " said the _coiffeur_. 

"_Comment!_" cried Madame Valière, indignantly. "You do not trust myfriend!"

"Madame Valière has moved in the best society, " added Madame Dépine. 

"But you cannot expect me to do two hundred francs of work and then beleft planted with the wigs!"

"But who said two hundred francs?" cried Madame Dépine. "It is onlyone wig that we demand--to-day at least. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred francs, then. "

"And why should we trust you with one hundred francs?" asked MadameDépine. "You might botch the work. "

"Or fly to Italy, " added the "Princess. "

In the end it was agreed he should have fifty down and fifty ondelivery. 

"Measure us, while we are here, " said Madame Dépine. "I will bring youthe fifty francs immediately. "

"Very well, " he murmured. "Which of you?"

But Madame Valière was already affectionately untying Madame Dépine'sbonnet-strings. "It is for my friend, " she cried. "And let it be as_chic_ and _convenable_ as possible!"

He bowed. "An artist remains always an artist. "

Madame Dépine removed her wig and exposed her poor old scalp, withits thin, forlorn wisps and patches of grey hair, grotesque, almostindecent, in its nudity. But the _coiffeur_ measured it in sublimeseriousness, putting his tape this way and that way, while MadameValière's eyes danced in sympathetic excitement. 

"You may as well measure my friend too, " remarked Madame Dépine, asshe reassumed her glossy brown wig (which seemed propriety itselfcompared with the bald cranium). 

"What an idea!" ejaculated Madame Valière. "To what end?"

"Since you are here, " returned Madame Dépine, indifferently. "You mayas well leave your measurements. Then when you decide yourself--Is itnot so, monsieur?"

The _coiffeur_, like a good man of business, eagerly endorsed thesuggestion. "Perfectly, madame. "

"But if one's head should change!" said Madame Valière, trembling withexcitement at the vivid imminence of the visioned wig. 

"_Souvent femme varie_, madame, " said the _coiffeur_. "But it is theinside, not the outside of the head. "

"But you said one is not the dome of the Invalides, " Madame Valièrereminded him. 

"He spoke of our old blocks, " Madame Dépine intervened hastily. "Atour age one changes no more. "

Thus persuaded, the "Princess" in her turn denuded herself of herwealth of wig, and Madame Dépine watched with unsmiling satisfactionthe stretchings of tape across the ungainly cranium. 

"_C'est bien_, " she said. "I return with your fifty francs on theinstant. "

And having seen her "Princess" safely ensconced in the attic, sherifled the stocking, and returned to the _coiffeur_. 

When she emerged from the shop, the vindictive endurance had vanishedfrom her face, and in its place reigned an angelic exaltation. 

XII

Eleven days later Madame Valière and Madame Dépine set out onthe great expedition to the hairdresser's to try on the Wig. The"Princess's" excitement was no less tense than the fortunate winner's. Neither had slept a wink the night before, but the November morningwas keen and bright, and supplied an excellent tonic. They conversedwith animation on the English in Egypt, and Madame Dépine recalled thegallant death of her son, the _chasseur_. 

The _coiffeur_ saluted them amiably. Yes, mesdames, it was a beautifulmorning. The wig was quite ready. Behold it there--on its block. 

Madame Valière's eyes turned thither, then grew clouded, and returnedto Madame Dépine's head and thence back to the Grey Wig. 

"It is not this one?" she said dubiously. 

"_Mais, oui_. " Madame Dépine was nodding, a great smiletransfiguring the emaciated orb of her face. The artist's eyestwinkled. 

"But this will not fit you, " Madame Valière gasped. 

"It is a little error, I know, " replied Madame Dépine. 

"But it is a great error, " cried Madame Valière, aghast. And her angrygaze transfixed the _coiffeur_. 

"It is not his fault--I ought not to have let him measure you. "

"Ha! Did I not tell you so?" Triumph softened her anger. "He has mixedup the two measurements!"

"Yes. I suspected as much when I went in to inquire the other day; butI was afraid to tell you, lest it shouldn't even fit _you_. "

"Fit _me_!" breathed Madame Valière. 

"But whom else?" replied Madame Dépine, impatiently, as she whippedoff the "Princess's" wig. "If only it fits you, one can pardon him. Let us see. Stand still, _ma chère_, " and with shaking hands sheseized the grey wig. 

"But--but--" The "Princess" was gasping, coughing, her ridiculousscalp bare. 

"But stand still, then! What is the matter? Are you a little infant?Ah! that is better. Look at yourself, then, in the mirror. But it isperfect!" "A true Princess, " she muttered beatifically to herself. "Ah, how she will show up the fruit-vendor's daughter!"

As the "Princess" gazed at the majestic figure in the mirror, crownedwith the dignity of age, two great tears trickled down her pendulouscheeks. 

"I shall be able to go to the wedding, " she murmured chokingly. 

"The wedding!" Madame Dépine opened her eyes. "What wedding?"

"My nephew's, of course!"

"Your nephew is marrying? I congratulate you. But why did you not tellme?"

"I did mention it. That day I had a letter!"

"Ah! I seem to remember. I had not thought of it. " Then briskly:"Well, that makes all for the best again. Ah! I was right not to scold_monsieur le coiffeur_ too much, was I not?"

"You are very good to be so patient, " said Madame Valière, with a sobin her voice. 

Madame Dépine shot her a dignified glance. "We will discuss ouraffairs at home. Here it only remains to say whether you are satisfiedwith the fit. "

Madame Valière patted the wig, as much in approbation as inadjustment. "But it fits me to a miracle!"

"Then we will pay our friend, and wish him _le bon jour_. " Sheproduced the fifty francs--two gold pieces, well sounding, for whichshe had exchanged her silver and copper, and two five-franc pieces. "And _voilà_, " she added, putting down a franc for _pourboire_, "weare very content with the artist. "

The "Princess" stared at her, with a new admiration. 

"_Merci bien_, " said the _coiffeur_, fervently, as he counted thecash. "Would that all customers' heads lent themselves so easily toartistic treatment!"

"And when will my friend's wig be ready?" said the "Princess. "

"Madame Valière! What are you saying there? Monsieur will set to workwhen I bring him the fifty francs. "

"_Mais non_, madame. I commence immediately. In a week it shall beready, and you shall only pay on delivery. "

"You are very good. But I shall not need it yet--not till thewinter--when the snows come, " said Madame Dépine, vaguely. "_Bonjour_, monsieur;" and, thrusting the old wig on the new block, andboth under her shawl, she dragged the "Princess" out of the shop. Then, looking back through the door, "Do not lose the measurement, monsieur, " she cried. "One of these days!"

XIII

The grey wig soon showed its dark side. Its possession, indeed, enabled Madame Valière to loiter on the more lighted stairs, or dawdlein the hall with Madame la Propriétaire; but Madame Dépine was notonly debarred from these dignified domestic attitudes, but found a newawkwardness in bearing Madame Valière company in their walksabroad. Instead of keeping each other in countenance--_duoe contramundum_--they might now have served as an advertisement for the_coiffeur_ and the _convenable_. Before the grey wig--after the greywig. 

Wherefore Madame Dépine was not so very sorry when, after a few weeksof this discomforting contrast, the hour drew near of the "Princess's"departure for the family wedding; especially as she was only losingher for two days. She had insisted, of course, that the savings forthe second wig were not to commence till the return, so that MadameValière might carry with her a present worthy of her position and herport. They had anxious consultations over this present. Madame Dépinewas for a cheap but showy article from the Bon Marché; but MadameValière reminded her that the price-lists of this enterprising firmknocked at the doors of Tonnerre. Something distinguished (insilver) was her own idea. Madame Dépine frequently wept during thesediscussions, reminded of her own wedding. Oh, the roundabouts atRobinson, and that delicious wedding-lunch up the tree! One was gaythen, my dear. 

At last they purchased a tiny metal Louis Quinze timepiece for elevenfrancs seventy-five centimes, congratulating themselves on the surplusof twenty-five centimes from their three weeks' savings. MadameValière packed it with her impedimenta into the carpet-bag lent her byMadame la Propriétaire. She was going by a night train from the Garede Lyon, and sternly refused to let Madame Dépine see her off. 

"And how would you go back--an old woman, alone in these dark Novembernights, with the papers all full of crimes of violence? It is not_convenable_, either. "

Madame Dépine yielded to the latter consideration; but as MadameValière, carrying the bulging carpet-bag, was crying "_La porte, s'ilvous plaît_" to the _concierge_, she heard Madame Dépine come tearingand puffing after her like the steam-tram, and, looking back, sawher breathlessly brandishing her gold brooch. "_Tiens!_" she panted, fastening the "Princess's" cloak with it. "That will give thee anair. "

"But--it is too valuable. Thou must not. " They had never "thou'd" eachother before, and this enhanced the tremulousness of the moment. 

"I do not give it thee, " Madame Dépine laughed through her tears. "_Aurevoir, mon amie_. "

"_Adieu, ma chérie!_ I will tell my dear ones of my Paris comrade. "And for the first time their lips met, and the brown wig brushed thegrey. 

XIV

Madame Dépine had two drearier days than she had foreseen. She keptto her own room, creeping out only at night, when, like all cats, allwigs are grey. After an eternity of loneliness the third day dawned, and she went by pre-arrangement to meet the morning train. Ah, howgaily gleamed the kiosks on the boulevards through the grey mist! Whatjolly red faces glowed under the cabmen's white hats! How blithely thebirds sang in the bird-shops!

The train was late. Her spirits fell as she stood impatiently at thebarrier, shivering in her thin clothes, and morbidly conscious of allthose eyes on her wig. At length the train glided in unconcernedly, and shot out a medley of passengers. Her poor old eyes strainedtowards them. They surged through the gate in animated masses, butMadame Valière's form did not disentangle itself from them, thoughevery instant she expected it to jump at her eyes. Her heartcontracted painfully--there was no "Princess. " She rushed round toanother exit, then outside, to the gates at the end of the drive; shepeered into every cab even, as it rumbled past. What had happened? Shetrudged home as hastily as her legs could bear her. No, Madame Valièrehad not arrived. 

"They have persuaded her to stay another day, " said Madame laPropriétaire. "She will come by the evening train, or she will write. "

Madame Dépine passed the evening at the Gare de Lyon, and came homeheavy of heart and weary of foot. The "Princess" might still arriveat midnight, though, and Madame Dépine lay down dressed in her bed, waiting for the familiar step in the corridor. About three o'clock shefell into a heavy doze, and woke in broad day. She jumped to her feet, her overwrought brain still heavy with the vapours of sleep, and threwopen her door. 

"Ah! she has already taken in her boots, " she thought confusedly. "Ishall be late for coffee. " She gave her perfunctory knock, and turnedthe door-handle. But the door would not budge. 

"Jacques! Jacques!" she cried, with a clammy fear at her heart. The_garçon_, who was pottering about with pails, opened the door with hiskey. An emptiness struck cold from the neat bed, the bare walls, theparted wardrobe-curtains that revealed nothing. She fled down thestairs, into the bureau. 

"Madame Valière is not returned?" she cried. 

Madame la Propriétaire shook her head. 

"And she has not written?"

"No letter in her writing has come--for anybody. "

"_O mon Dieu!_ She has been murdered. She _would_ go alone by night. "

"She owes me three weeks' rent, " grimly returned Madame laPropriétaire. 

"What do you insinuate?" Madame Dépine's eyes flared. 

Madame la Propriétaire shrugged her shoulders. "I am not at my firstcommunion. I have grown grey in the service of lodgers. And this ishow they reward me. " She called Jacques, who had followed uneasily inMadame Dépine's wake. "Is there anything in the room?"

"Empty as an egg-shell, madame. "

"Not even the miniature of her sister?"

"Not even the miniature of her sister. "

"Of her sister?" repeated Madame Dépine. 

"Yes; did I never tell you of her? A handsome creature, but she threwher bonnet over the mills. "

"But I thought that was the Princess. "

"The Princess, too. Her bonnet will also be found lying there. "

"No, no; I mean I thought the portrait was the Princess's. "

Madame la Propriétaire laughed. "She told you so?"

"No, no; but--but I imagined so. "

"Without doubt, she gave you the idea. _Quelle farceuse!_ I don'tbelieve there ever was a Princess. The family was always inflated. "

All Madame Dépine's world seemed toppling. Somehow her own mistakeadded to her sense of having been exploited. 

"Still, " said Madame la Propriétaire with a shrug, "it is only threeweeks' rent. "

"If you lose it, I will pay!" Madame Dépine had an heroic burst offaith. 

"As you please. But I ought to have been on my guard. Where did shetake the funds for a grey wig?"

"Ah, the brown wig!" cried Madame Dépine, joyfully. "She must haveleft that behind, and any _coiffeur_ will give you three weeks' rentfor that alone. "

"We shall see, " replied Madame la Propriétaire, ambiguously. 

The trio mounted the stairs, and hunted high and low, disturbing thepeaceful spider-webs. They peered under the very bed. Not even theold block was to be seen. As far as Madame Valière's own chattels wereconcerned, the room was indeed "empty as an egg-shell. "

"She has carried it away with the three weeks' rent, " sneered Madamela Propriétaire. "In my own carpet-bag, " she added with a terriblerecollection. 

"She wished to wear it at night against the hard back of the carriage, and guard the other all glossy for the wedding. " Madame Dépinequavered pleadingly, but she could not quite believe herself. 

"The wedding had no more existence than the Princess, " returned Madamela Propriétaire, believing herself more and more. 

"Then she will have cheated me out of the grey wig from the first, "cried Madame Dépine, involuntarily. "And I who sacrificed myself toher!"

"_Comment!_ It was your wig?"

"No, no. " She flushed and stammered. "But _enfin_--and then, oh, heaven! my brooch!"

"She has stolen your brooch?"

Great tears rolled down the wrinkled, ashen cheeks. So this washer reward for secretly instructing the _coiffeur_ to make the"Princess's" wig first. The Princess, indeed! Ah, the adventuress! Shefelt choking; she shook her fist in the air. Not even the brooch toshow when her family came up from Tonnerre, to say nothing of the wig. Was there a God in the world at all? Oh, holy Mother! No wonder thetrickstress would not be escorted to the station--she never went tothe station. No wonder she would not sell the royal secrets to thejournalist--there were none to sell. Oh! it was all of a piece. 

"If I were you I should go to the bureau of police!" said Madame laPropriétaire. 

Yes, she would go; the wretch should be captured, should be haled togaol. Even her half of the Louis Quinze timepiece recurred to poorMadame Dépine's brain. 

"Add that she has stolen my carpet-bag. "

The local bureau telegraphed first to Tonnerre. 

There had been the wedding, but no Madame Valière. She had acceptedthe invitation, had given notice of her arrival; one had awaited themidnight train. The family was still wondering why the rich aunt hadturned sulky at the last hour. But she was always an eccentric; acapricious and haughty personage. 

Poor Madame Dépine's recurrent "My wig! my brooch!" reduced theofficial mind to the same muddle as her own. 

"No doubt a sudden impulse of senescent kleptomania, " said thesuperintendent, sagely, when he had noted down for transference toheadquarters Madame Dépine's verbose and vociferous description ofthe traits and garments of the runagate. "But we will do our bestto recover your brooch and your wig. " Then, with a spasm of supremesagacity, "Without doubt they are in the carpet-bag. "

XV

Madame Dépine left the bureau and wandered about in a daze. Thatmonster of ingratitude! That arch-adventuress, more vicious even thanher bejewelled sister! All the long months of more than Lentenrigour recurred to her self-pitiful mood, that futile half-year ofsemi-starvation. How Madame Valière must have gorged on the sly, therich eccentric! She crossed a bridge to the Ile de la Cité, and cameto the gargoyled portals of Notre Dame, and let herself be drawnthrough the open door, and all the gloom and glory of the buildingfell around her like a soothing caress. She dropped before an altarand poured out her grief to the Mother of Sorrows. At last she arose, and tottered up the aisle, and the great rose-window glowed likethe window of heaven. She imagined her husband and the dead childrenlooking through it. Probably they wondered, as they gazed down, whyher head remained so young. 

Ah! but she was old, so very old. Surely God would take her soon. Howshould she endure the long years of loneliness and social ignominy?

As she stumbled out of the Cathedral, the cold, hard day smote herfull in the face. People stared at her, and she knew it was at thebrown wig. But could they expect her to starve herself for a wholeyear?

"_Mon Dieu!_ Starve yourselves, my good friends. At my age, one needsfuel. "

She escaped from them, and ran, muttering, across the road, and almostinto the low grey shed. 

Ah! the Morgue! Blessed idea! That should be the end of her. Amoment's struggle, and then--the rose-window of heaven! Hell? No, no;the Madonna would plead for her; she who always looked so beautiful, so _convenable_. 

She would peep in. Let her see how she would look when they found her. Would they clap a grey wig upon her, or expose her humiliation even indeath?

"A-a-a-h!" A long scream tore her lips apart. There, behind the glass, in terrible waxen peace, a gash on her forehead, lay the "Princess, "so uncanny-looking without any wig at all, that she would nothave recognised her but for that moment of measurement at thehairdresser's. She fell sobbing before the cold glass wall of thedeath-chamber. Ah, God! Her first fear had been right; her brooch hadbut added to the murderer's temptation. And she had just traduced thismartyred saint to the police. 

"Forgive me, _ma chérie_, forgive me, " she moaned, not even consciousthat the attendant was lifting her to her feet with professionalinterest. 

For in that instant everything passed from her but the great yearningfor love and reconciliation, and for the first time a grey wig seemeda petty and futile aspiration. 

 * * * * *

CHASSÉ-CROISÉ

I

SET TO PARTNERS

"Oh, look, dear, there's that poor Walter Bassett. "

Amber Roan looked down from the roof of the drag at the crossingrestless shuttles, weaving with feminine woof and masculine warpthe multi-coloured web of Society in London's cricket Coliseum. 

"Where?" she murmured, her eye wandering over the little tract ofsunlit green between the coaches with their rival Eton and Harrowfavours. Before Lady Chelmer had time to bend her pink parasol alittle more definitely, a thunder of applause turned Amber Roan'sface back towards the wickets, with a piqued expression. 

"It's real mean, " she said. "What have I missed now?"

"Only a good catch, " said the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy, whose eyes hadnever faltered from her face. 

"My, that's just the one thing I've been dying for, " she poutedself-mockingly. 

"Poor Walter Bassett, " Lady Chelmer repeated. "I knew his mother. "

"Where?" Amber asked again. 

"In Huntingdonshire, before the property went to Algy--"

"No, no, Lady Chelmer; I mean, where is poor Walter Whatsaname now?"

"Why, right here, " said Lady Chelmer, involuntarily borrowing from thevocabulary of her young American protégée. 

"Walter Bassett!" said the Hon. Tolshunt, languidly. "Isn't that thechap that's always getting chucked out of Parliament?"

"But his name doesn't sound Irish?" queried Amber. 

"What are you talking about, Amber!" cried Lady Chelmer. "Why, hecomes of a good old Huntingdon family. If he had been his own elderbrother, he'd have got in long ago. "

"Oh, you mean he never gets _into_ Parliament, " said Amber. 

"Serve him right. I believe he's one of those independent nuisances, "said the old Marquis of Woodham. "How is one ever to govern thecountry, if every man is a party unto himself?" He said "one, " butonly out of modesty; for having once accepted a minor post in aMinistry that the Premier _in posse_ had not succeeded in forming, hehad retained a Cabinet air ever since. 

"Well, the beggar will scarcely come up at Highmead for a thirdlicking, " observed the Hon. Tolshunt. 

"No, poor Walter, " said Lady Chelmer. "He thought he'd be sure toget in this time, but he's quite crushed now. Wasn't it actually twothousand votes less than last time?"

"Two thousand and thirty-three, " replied Lord Woodham, withpunctilious inaccuracy. 

Involuntarily Amber's eyes turned in search of the crushed candidatewhom she almost saw flattened beneath the 2033 votes, and whom itwould scarcely have been a surprise to find asquat under a carriage, humbly assisting the footmen to pack the dirty plates. But beforeshe had time to decide which of the unlively men, loitering roundthe carriages or helping stout old dowagers up slim iron ladders, was sufficiently lugubrious to be identified as the martyr of theballot-box, she was absorbed by a tall, masterful figure, whose facehad the radiance of easeful success, and whose hands were clapping atsome nuance of style which had escaped the palms of the great circularmob. 

"I can't see any Walter Bassett, " she murmured absently. 

"Why, you are staring straight at him, " said Lady Chelmer. 

Miss Roan did not reply, but her face was eloquent of her astonishment, and when her face spoke, it was with that vivacity which is the Americanaccent of beauty. What wonder if the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy paid heed to it, although he liked what it said less than the form of expression! As heused to put it in after days, "She gave one look, and threw herself awayfrom the top of that drag. " The more literal truth was that she drewWalter Bassett up to the top of that drag. 

Lady Chelmer protested in vain that she could not halloo to the man. 

"You knew his mother, " Amber replied. "And he's got no seat. "

"Quite symbolical! He, he, he!" and the old Marquis chuckled andcackled in solitary amusement. "Let's offer him one, " he went on, halfto enjoy the joke a little longer, half to utilise the opportunity ofbringing his Ministerial wisdom to bear upon this erratic young man. 

"I don't see where there's room, " said the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy, sulkily. 

"There's room on the front bench, " cackled the Marquis, shaking hissides. 

"Oh, I don't want you to roll off for him, " said Miss Roan, whotreated Ministerial Marquises with a contempt that bred in them adelightful sense of familiarity. "Tolshunt can sit opposite me--he'sstared at the cricket long enough. "

Tolshunt blushed with apparent irrelevance. But even the prospectof staring at Amber more comfortably did not reconcile him todisplacement. "It's so awkward meeting a fellow who's had a tumble, "he grumbled. "It's like having to condole with a man fresh from afuneral. "

"There doesn't seem much black about Walter Bassett, " Amber laughed. And at this moment--the dull end of a "maiden over"--the radiantpersonage in question turned his head, and perceiving Lady Chelmer'smassive smile, acknowledged her recognition with respectful superiority, whereupon her Ladyship beckoned him with her best parasol manner. 

"I want to introduce you to my friend, Miss Roan, " she said, as heclimbed to her side. 

"I've been reading so much about you, " said that young lady, witha sweet smile. "But you shouldn't be so independent, you know, youreally shouldn't. "

He smiled back. "I'm only independent till they come to my way ofthinking. "

Lady Chelmer gasped. "Then you still have hopes of Highmead!"

"I won a moral victory there each time, Lady Chelmer. "

"How so, sir?" put in the Marquis. "Your opponent increased theGovernment majority--"

"And my reputation. A tiresome twaddler. Unfortunately, " and he smiledagain, "two moral victories are as bad as a defeat. On the other hand, a defeat at a bye-election equals a victory at a general. You play asolo--and on your own trumpet. " A burst of cheering rounded off theseremarks. This time Amber did not even inquire what it indicated--shewas almost content to take it as an endorsement of Walter Bassett'sepigrams. But Lord Woodham eagerly improved the situation. "A finestroke that, " he said, "but a batsman outside a team doesn't play thegame. "

"It will be a good time for the country, Lord Woodham, " Mr. Bassettreturned quietly, "when people cease to regard the Parliamentarysession as a cricket match, one side trying to bowl over or catch outthe other. But then England always _has_ been a sporting nation. "

"Ah, you allow some good in the old country, " said Lady Chelmer, pleased. "Look at the trouble we all take to come here to encouragethe dear boys;" and the words ended with a tired sigh. 

"Yes, of course, that is the side on which they need encouragement, "he rejoined drily. "Majuba was lost on the playing-field of Lord's. "

There was a moment of shocked surprise. Lady Chelmer, herself a martyrto the religion of sport thus blasphemed--of which she understoodas little as of any other religion--hastily tried to pour tea on thetroubled waters. But they had been troubled too deeply. For fulleight minutes the top of the drag became a political platform forMarquis-Ministerial denunciations of Mr. Gladstone, to a hail ofrepartee from the profane young man. 

At the end of those eight minutes--when Lady Chelmer was at last ableto reinsinuate tea into the discussion--Miss Amber Roan realised witha sudden shock that she had not "chipped in" once, and that "poorWalter Bassett" had commanded her ear for all that time withoutpouring into it a single compliment, or, indeed, addressing to itany observation whatever. For the first time since her début in theMilwaukee parlour at the age of five, this spoiled daughter of thedollar had lost sight of herself. As they walked towards the tea-tent, through the throng of clergymen and parasols and tanned men withfield-glasses, and young bloods and pretty girls, she noted uneasilythat his eyes wandered from her to these types of English beauty, these flower-faces under witching hats. Indeed, he had led her out ofthe way to plough past a row of open carriages. "The shortest cut, " hesaid, "is past the prettiest woman. "

But he had to face her at the tea-table, where she blocked his view ofthe tables beyond and plied him with strawberries and smiles under thesullen glances of the Hon. Tolshunt Darcy and the timid cough of herchaperon. 

"I wonder you waste your time on the silly elections, " she said. "Wedon't take much stock in Senators in America. "

"It's just because M. P. 's are at such a discount that I want to getin. In the realm of the blind the one-eyed is a king. "

"They must be blind not to let you in, " she answered with equalfrankness. 

"No, they see too well, if you mean the voters. They've got their eyeon the price of their vote. "

"What!" she cried. "You can't buy votes in England!"

"Oh, can't you--"

"But I'm sure I read about it in the English histories--it was allabolished. "

"A good many things were abolished by the Decalogue even earlier, "he replied grimly. "Half an hour before the poll closed I could havebought a thousand votes at a shilling each. "

"Well, that seems reasonable enough, " said Lady Chelmer. 

"It was beyond my pocket. "

"What! Fifty pounds?" cried Amber, incredulously. 

The blush that followed was hers, not his. "But what became of thethousand votes?" she asked hurriedly. 

He laughed. "Half an hour before the poll closed they had gone down tosixpence apiece--like fish that wouldn't keep. "

"My! And were they all wasted?"

"No. My rival bought them up. _Vide_ the newspapers--'the polling wasunusually heavy towards the close. '"

"Really!" intervened Lady Chelmer. "Then at that rate you can unseathim for bribery. "

"At that rate--or higher, " he replied drily. "To unseat another iseven more expensive than to seat oneself. "

"Why, it seems all a question of money, " said Miss Amber Roan, naively. 

II

CHASSÉ

Lady Chelmer was glad when the season came to an end and the dancingmice had no longer to spin dizzyingly in their gilded cage. "ThePrisoner of Pleasure" was Walter Bassett's phrase for her. Even nowshe was a convict on circuit. Some of the dungeons were in ancientcastles, from which Bassett was barred, but all of which opened toAmber's golden keys, though only because Lady Chelmer knew how to turnthem. He, however, penetrated the ducal doors through the letter-box. 

The Hon. Tolshunt and Lord Woodham, in their apprehension of thecommon foe, began to find each other endurable. If it was politicsthat attracted her, Tolshunt felt he too could stoop to a career. Asfor the Marquis, he began to meditate resuming office. Both had freelyhinted to her Ladyship that to give a millionaire bride to a man whohadn't a penny savoured of Socialism. 

Galled by such terrible insinuations, Lady Chelmer had dared to soundthe girl. 

"I love his letters, " gushed Amber, bafflingly. "He writes such cutethings. "

"He doesn't dress very well, " said Lady Chelmer, feebly fighting. 

"Oh, of course, he doesn't bother as much as Tolly, who looks as if hehad been poured into his clothes--"

"Yes, the mould of fashion, " quoted Lady Chelmer, vaguely. 

An eruption of Walter Bassett in the Press did not tend to allay herLadyship's alarm, especially as Amber began to dally with the morningpaper and the evening. 

Opening a new People's Library at Highmead--in the absence abroadof the successful candidate--he had contrived to set the newspaperssneering. He had told the People that although they might temporarilyaccept such gifts as "Capital's conscience-money, " yet it was as muchthe duty of the parish to supply light as to supply street-lamps;which was considered both ungracious and unsound. The donor hedescribed as "a millionaire of means, " which was considered wilfullyparadoxical by those who did not know how great capitals are locked upin industries. But what worked up the Press most was his denunciationof modern journalism, in malodorous comparison with the literaturethis Library would bring the People. "The journalist, " he saidtersely, "is Satan's secretary. " No shorter cut to notoriety couldhave been devised, for it was the "Silly Season, " and Satan foundplenty of mischief for his idle hands to do. 

"Oh, you poor man!" Amber wrote Walter. "Why don't you say you werethinking of America--yellow journalism, and all that? The yellowis, of course, Satan's sulphur. You would hardly believe what hissecretaries have written even of poor little me! And you should seethe pictures of 'The Milwaukee Millionairess' in the Sunday numbers!"

Walter Bassett did not reply regularly and punctually to Amber'sletters, and it was a novel sensation to the jaded beauty who hadoften thrown aside masculine missives after a glance at the envelope, to find herself eagerly shuffling her morning correspondence in thehope of turning up a trump-card. A card, indeed, it often proved, though never a postcard, and Amber meekly repaid it fourfold. Shefound it delicious to pour herself out to him; it had the pleasureof abandonment without its humiliation. Verbally, this was the leastflirtatious correspondence she had ever maintained with the oppositesex. 

So when at last, towards the end of the holiday season, the pair metin the flesh at a country house (Lady Chelmer still protests it wasa coincidence), Walter Bassett had no apprehension of danger, and hisexpression of pleasure at the coincidence was unfeigned, for he felthis correspondence would be lightened. In nothing did he feel the wantof pence more keenly than in his inability to keep a secretary for hispublic work. "Money is time, " he used to complain; "the millionaire isyour only Methuselah. "

The house had an old-world garden, and it was here they had theirfirst duologue. Amber had quickly discovered that Walter wasinterested in the apiaries that lay at the foot of its slope, and sohe found her standing in poetic grace among the tall sweet-peas, withtheir whites and pinks and faint purples, a basket of roses in onehand and a pair of scissors in the other. 

As he came to her under the quaint trellised arch, "I always feel likea croquet ball going through the hoop, " he said. 

"But the ball is always driven, " she said. 

"Oh, I dare say it has the illusion of freewill. Doubtless the piecesin that chess game, which Eastern monarchs are said to play with humanfigures, come to think they move of themselves. The knight chuckles ashe makes his tortuous jump at the queen, and the bishop swoops down onthe castle with holy joy. "

She came imperceptibly closer to him. "Then you don't think any of usmove of ourselves?"

"One or two of us in each generation. They make the puppets dance. "

"You admire Bismarck, I see. "

"Yes. A pity he didn't emigrate to your country, like so many Germans. "

"Do you think we need him? But he couldn't have been President. Youmust be born in America. "

"True. Then I shall remain on here. "

"You're terrible ambitious, Mr. Bassett. "

"Yes, terrible, " he repeated mockingly. 

"Then come and help me pick blackberries, " she said, and caught him byhis own love of the unexpected. They left the formal garden, and cameout into the rabbit-warren, and toiled up and down hillocks in searchof ripe bushes, paying, as Walter said, "many pricks to the pint. "And when Amber urged him to scramble to the back of tangled bushes, through coils of bristling briars, "You were right, " he laughed; "this_is_ terrible ambitious. " The best of the blackberries plucked, Amberbegan a new campaign against mushrooms, and had frequent opportunitiesto rebuke his clumsiness in crumbling the prizes he uprooted. Sheknelt at his side to teach him, and once laid her deft fingersinstructively upon his. 

And just at that moment he irritatingly discovered a dead mole, andfell to philosophising upon it and its soft, velvet, dainty skin--asif a girl's fingers were not softer and daintier! "Look at its poorlittle pale-red mouth, " he went on, "gaspingly open, as in surprise atthe strange great forces that had made and killed it. "

"I dare say it had a good time, " said Amber, pettishly. 

After the harvest had been carried indoors they scarcely exchanged aword till she found him watching the bees the next morning. 

"Are you interested in bees?" she inquired in tones of surprise. 

"Yes, " he said. "They are the most striking example of Nature'sBismarckism--her habit of using her creatures to work her will throughtheir own. _Sic vos non vobis. _"

"I learnt enough Latin at College to understand that, " she said; "butI don't see how one finds out anything by just watching them hoverover their hives. I've never even been able to find the queen bee. Won't you come and see what beautiful woods there are behind thehouse? Lady Chelmer is walking there, and I ought to be joining her. "

"You ought to be taking her an umbrella, " he said coldly. Amber lookedup at the sky. Had it been blue, she would have felt it grey. As it_was_ grey, she felt it black. 

"Oh, if you're afraid of a drop of rain--" And Amber walked onwitheringly. It was a clever move. 

Walter followed in silence. Amber did not become aware of him till shewas in the middle of an embryonic footpath through tall bracken thatmade way, courtseying, for the rare pedestrian. 

"Oh!" She gave a little scream. "I thought you were studying thebees--or the moles. "

"I have only been studying your graceful back. "

"How mean! Behind my back!" She laughed, pleased. "I hope you haven'tdiscovered anything Bismarckian about my back. "

"Only in the sense that I followed it, and must follow--till the pathwidens. "

"Ah, how you must hate following--you, so terrible ambitious. "

"The path will widen, " he said composedly. 

She planted her feet firm on Mother Earth--as though it were literallyher own mother--and turned a mocking head over a tantalising shoulder. "I shall stay still right here. "

He smiled maliciously. "And I, too; I follow you no farther. "

"Oh, you are just too cute, " she said with a laugh of vexation andpleasure. "You make me go on just to make you follow; but it is reallyyou that make me lead. That's what you mean by Bismarckism, isn't it?"

"You put it beautifully. "

She swung round to face him. "Is there nothing you admire but Force?"

"Not Force--Power!"

"What's the difference?"

"Force is blind. "

"So is love, " she said. "Do you scorn that?" And her smile was daringand dazzling. 

Ere he could reply Nature outdid her in dazzlement, and superadded acrash of thunder. 

"Yes, " he said, as though there had been no interruption. "I scornall that is blind--even this storm that may strike you and me. Ah! therain, " as the great drops began to fall. "Poor Lady Chelmer--withoutan umbrella. "

"We can shelter by these shrubs. " In an instant she was crouching amidthe ferns on a carpet of autumn leaves, making space for him besideher. 

"Thank you--I will stand, " he said coldly. "But I don't know if you'reaware these are oak-shrubs. "

"What of it?"

"I was only thinking of the Swiss proverb about lightning, 'Vor denEichen sollst du weichen. ' We ought to make for the beeches. "

"I'm not going to leave my umbrella. I am sorry you won't accept a bitof it. " And she bent the tall ferns invitingly towards him. 

"I don't like cowering even before the rain, " he laughed. "How itbrings out the beautiful earthy smell. "

"One enjoys the beautiful earthy smell the better for being nearer tothe earth. "

He did not reply. 

"Oh, you dear fool, " she thought. Hadn't she had heaps of Power fromchildhood--over her stern old father, over her weakling mother, overher governesses, and later over the whole tribe of "the boys, " and nowin Europe over Marquises and Honourables--and could it all compare inintensity to this delicious, poignant sense of being caught up intoa masterful personality! No, not Power but Powerlessness was life'scentral reality; not to turn with iron hand the great wheels of Fate, but to faint at a dear touch, to be sucked up as a moth in the flame. And for him, too, it were surely as sweet to leave this strenuousquest for dominance, or to be content with dominating her alone. Oh, she would bring him to clear vision, to live for nothing but her, evenas she asked for nothing but him. 

The harsh scream of a bluejay struck a discord through her reverie. She remembered that he had yet to be won. 

"But didn't you tell me people can't get power without money?" shesaid, forgetting the hiatus in the conversation. 

"Nor with it generally, " he replied, without surprise. "Money is buta lever. You cannot move the earth unless you have force and fulcrum, too. "

"But I guess a man like you must get real mad to see so many leverslying about idle. "

"Oh, I shall get on without a lever, like primitive man. I havemuscles. "

"But it seems too bad not to be able to afford machinery. "

"I shall be hand-made. "

"Yes, and by your own hand. But won't it be slow?"

"It will be sure. "

Every one of his speeches rang like the stroke of a hammer. Yes, indeed he had muscles. 

"But how much surer _with_ money! You ought to turn your career into acompany. Surely it would pay a dividend to its promoters. "

"The directors would interfere. "

"You could be chairman--with a veto. "

He shook his head. "The rain is dripping through your umbrella. Don'tyou think we might run to the house?"

"It's only an old hat. " It was fresh from Paris, broad-brimmed, beautiful, and bewitching. "Why don't you find"--she smilednervously--"a millionaire of means?"

"And what would be his reward?"

"Just Virtue's. Won't you be a light to England? And isn't it theduty of parishes and millionaires to supply light?" She was pluckinga fern-leaf to pieces. 

"Millionaires' minds don't run that way. "

"Not male millionaires, perhaps, " she said, turning her face from himso jerkily that she shook the oak-shrub and it became a shower-bath. 

He looked at her, slightly startled. It was the first emotion she hadever provoked in him, and her heart beat faster. 

"I really do think it is giving over now, " he said, gazing at hersopping hat. 

'Twas as if he had shaken the shrub again and drenched her with coldwater. He was mocking her, her and her dollars and her love. 

"It is quite over, " she said savagely, springing up, and growingeven angrier when she found the rain had really stopped, so that herindignation sounded only like acquiescence. She strode ahead of him, silent, through the wet bracken, her frock growing a limp rag as itbrushed aside the glistening ferns. 

As she struck the broader path to the house, the cackling laugh of agoat chained to a roadside log followed her cynically. Where had sheheard this bleat before? Ah, yes, from the Marquis of Woodham. 

III

BALANCEZ

Walter Bassett had spoken truly. He did not admire love--that blindforce. Women seemed to him delightfully aesthetic objects--to bekept at a distance, however closely one embraced them. They wereunreasoning beings at the best, even when unbiassed by that supremeprejudice--love. 

It was not his conception of the strong man that he must needs becomeas water at some woman's touch and go dancing and babbling like asylvan brook. Women were the light of life--he was willing enough toadmit it, but one must be able to switch the light on and off at will. All these were reasons for not falling in love--they were not reasonsfor not marrying. And so, Amber being determined to marry him, therewas really less difficulty than if it had been necessary for him tofall in love with her. 

It took, however, many letters and interviews, full of the subtlestcomedy, infinite advancing and retiring, and recrossing and bowing, and courtesying and facing and half-turning, before this leap-yeardance could end in the solemn Wedding March. 

"You know, " she said once, "how I should love the fun of seeing youplough your way through all the mediocrities. "

"That is the means, not the end, " he reminded her, rebukingly. "Oneonly wants the world to swallow one's pills for the world's sake. "

"I don't believe you, " she said frankly. "Else you'd move mountainsto get the money for the pills, not turn up your nose at the mountainwhen it comes to you. "

He laughed heartily. "What a delightful confusion of metaphors! I'msure you've got Irish blood somewhere. "

"Of course I have. Did I never tell you I am descended from the kingsof Ireland?"

He took off his hat mockingly. "I salute Miss Brian Boru. "

"You're an awfully good fellow, " he told her on a later occasion. "Ialmost believe I'd take your money if you were not a woman. " "If Iwere not a woman I should not offer it to you--I should want a careerof my own. "

"And my career would content you?" he asked, touched. 

"Absolutely, " she lied. "The interest I should take in it--wouldn'tthat be sufficient interest on the loan?"

"There is one thing you have taught me, " he said slowly--"howconventional I am! But every prejudice in me shrinks from yourproposition, much as I admire your manliness. "

"Perhaps it could be put on more conventional lines--superficially, "she suggested in a letter that harked back to this conversation. "Onemight go through conventional forms. That adorable Disraeli--I havejust been reading his letters. How right he was not to marry forlove!"

The penultimate stage of the pre-nuptial comedy was reached in thelobby of the Opera, while Society was squeezing to its carriage. Itwas after the _Rheingold_, and poor Lady Chelmer could hardly keepher eyes open, and actually dozed off as she leaned against a wall, inpatient martyrdom. Walter Bassett had been specially irritating, forhe had not come up to the box once, and everybody knows (as the Hon. Tolshunt had said, with unwonted brilliance) the _Rheingold_ is inheavy bars. 

"I didn't know you admired Wagner so much, " Amber said scathingly, asWalter pushed through the grooms. "Such a rapt devotee!"

"Wagner is the greatest man of the century. He alone has been able tochange London's dinner-hour. "

Amber could not help smiling. "Poor Lady Chelmer!" she said, noddingtowards the drowsing dowager. "Since half-past six!"

"Is that our carriage?" said the "Prisoner of Pleasure, " opening hereyes. 

"No, dear--I guess we are some fifty behind. Tolly and the Marquis arewatching from the pavement. "

The poor lady sighed and went to sleep again. 

"Behold the compensations of poverty, " observed Walter Bassett. "The gallery-folk have to wait and squeeze before the opera; thecarriage-folk after the opera. "

"You forget the places they occupy _during_ the opera. Poor Wagner!What a fight! I wish I could have helped his career. " And Amber set awistful smile in the becoming frame of her white hood. 

"The form of the career appears to be indifferent to you, " he said, with a little laugh. 

"As indifferent as the man, " she replied, meeting his eyes calmly. 

The faint scent of her hair mingled with his pleasurable sense of herfrank originality. For the first time the bargain really appealedto him. He could not but see that she was easily the fairest of thatcrush of fair women, and to have her prostrated at the foot of hiscareer was more subtly delicious than to have her surrender to hisperson. The ball was at his foot in surely the most tempting form thata ball could take. And the fact that he must leave her hurriedly towrite the musical criticism that was the price of his stall, was notcalculated to diminish his appreciation of all the kingdoms of theworld which his temptress was showing him from her high mountain. 

"Alas! I must go and write a notice, " he sighed. 

"Satan's Secretary?" she queried mischievously. 

He started. Had he not been just thinking of her as a Satan in skirts?

"_En attendant_ that I become Satan's master, " he replied ambiguously, as he raised his hat. 

"Oh, to drive off with him into the peace and solitude of Love--awayfrom the grinding paths of ambition, " thought Amber, when the horsespranced up. 

IV

CROISÉ

"Women, not measures, " said the reigning wit anent the administrationwhich Amber's Salon held together, and in which her husband occupied aposition quite disproportionate to his nominal office, and stillmore so to the almost unparalleled brevity of his career as a privatemember. 

Few, indeed, were the recalcitrants who could resist Amber's smiles, or her still more seductive sulkiness. Walter Bassett's many enemiesdeclared that the young Cabinet Minister owed his career entirely tohis wife. His admirers indignantly pointed out that he had representedHighmead for two sessions before he met Miss Roan. The germ of truthin this was that he had stipulated to himself that he would not acceptthe contract unless Amber, too, must admit "Value received, " and incontributing a career already self-launched, and a good old Huntingdonname, his pride was satisfied. This, however, had wasted a year orso, while the Government was getting itself turned out, and it neverentered his brain that his crushing victory at the GeneralElection could owe anything to a corner in votes--at five dollars ahead--secretly made by a fair American financier. 

It was in the thick of the season, and Amber had just said good-byeto the Bishop, the last of her dinner-guests. "I always say grace whenthe church goes, " she laughed, as she turned to her budget of unreadcorrespondence and shuffled the letters, as in the old days, when shehoped to draw a letter of Walter's. But her method had become morescientific. Recognising the writers by their crests or mottoes, shewould arrange the letters in order of precedence, alleging it wasto keep her hand in, otherwise she would always be making the mosthorrible mistakes in "your Mediæval British etiquette. "

"Who goes first to-night?" said her husband, watching her movementsfrom a voluptuous arm-chair. 

"Only Lady Chelmer, " Amber yawned, as she broke the seal. 

"Didn't I see the scrawl of the Honourable Tolly?"

"Yes, poor dear. I do so want to know if he is happy in BritishHonduras. But he must take his turn. "

"If he had taken his turn, " Walter laughed, "he never would have gotthe appointment there. "

"No, poor dear; it was very good of you. "

"Of me?" Walter's tone was even more amused. His eyes roved round thevast drawing-room, as if with the thought that he had as little todo with its dignified grandeur. Then his gaze rested once more on hiswife; she seemed a delicious harmony of silks and flowers and creamyflesh-tones. 

"Mrs. Bassett, " he said softly, lingering on the proprietorial term. 

"Yes, Walter, " she said, not looking up from her letter. 

"Do you realise this is the first time we have been alone togetherthis month?"

"No? Really?" She glanced up absently. 

"Never mind that muddle-headed old Chelmer. I dare say she only wantsanother hundred or two. " He came over, took the letter and her handwith it. "I have a great secret to tell you. "

Now he had captured her attention as well as her hand. Her eyessparkled. "A Cabinet Secret?" she said. 

"Yes. At this moment every newspaper office is in a fever--to-morrowall England will be ringing with the news. It is a thunderbolt. "

She started up, snatching her hand away, every nerve a-quiver withexcitement. "And you kept this from me all through dinner?"

"I hadn't a chance, darling--I came straight from the scrimmage. "

"You won't gloss it over by calling me novel names. I hate stalethunderbolts. You might have breathed a word in my ear. "

"I shall make amends by beginning with the part that is only for yourear. Do you know what next Monday is?"

"The day you address your constituents, of course. Oh, I see, thisthunderbolt is going to change your speech. "

"Is going to change my speech altogether. Next Monday is the seventhanniversary of our wedding. "

"Is it? But what has that to do with your speech at Highmead?"

"Everything. " He smiled mysteriously, then went on softly, "Amber, doyou remember our honeymoon?"

She smiled faintly. "Oh, I haven't quite forgotten. "

"If you had quite forgotten the misery of it, I should be glad. "

"I have quite forgotten. "

"You are kinder than I deserve. But I was so startled to find mycareer was less to you than a kiss that I was more churlish than Ineed have been. I even wished that you might have a child, so that youmight be taken up with it instead of with me. "

She blushed. "Yes, I dare say I showed my hand clumsily as soon as itheld all the aces. "

"Ah, Amber, you were an angel and I was a beast. How gallantly youswallowed your disappointment in your bargain, how loyally you workedheart and soul that I might gain my one ideal--Power!"

"It was a labour of love, " she said deprecatingly. 

"My noble Amber. But did you think, selfishly engrossed though I havebeen with the Fight for Power, that this love-labour of yours was loston me? No, 'terrible ambitious' as I was, I could still see I got theblackberries and you little more than the scratches, and the less youbegan to press your claim upon my heart, the more my heart was openingout with an answering passion. I began to watch the play of your eyes, the shimmer of light across your cheek, the roguish pout of your lips, the lock that strayed across your temple--as it is straying now. "

She pushed it back impatiently. "But what has all this to do with theCabinet Secret?"

"Patience, darling! How much nicer to listen to you than to theOpposition. "

"I shall be in the Opposition unless you get along faster. "

"That is what I want--your face opposite me always, instead ofbald-headed babblers. Ah, if you knew how often, of late, it hasfloated before me in the House, reducing historic wrangles tothe rocking of children's boats in stormy ponds, accentuating theponderous futility. " He took her hand again, and a great joy filledhim as he felt its gentle responsive pressure. 

"Ponderous, perhaps, " she said, smiling faintly; "but not futile, Walter. "

"Futile, so far as I am concerned, dearest. Ah, you are right. Loveis the only reality--everything else a game played with counters. Whatare our winnings? A few cheers drowned in the roar that greetsthe winning jockey, a few leading articles, stale as yesterday'snewspaper. "

"But the good to the masses--" she reminded him. 

"Don't mock me with my own phrases, darling. The masses have done memore good than I can ever do them. Next Monday, dear Amber Roan, we'lltry our honeymoon over again. " And his lips sought hers. 

She drew back. "Yes, yes, after the Speech. But now--the Secret!"

"There will be no speech--that is the secret. "

She drew away from him altogether. "No speech!" she gasped. 

"None save to your adorable ear--and the moonlit waters. Woodham haslent us his yacht--"

"In the middle of a Cabinet Crisis?"

"Which concerns me less than anybody. " And he beamed happily. 

"Less than anybody?" she repeated. 

"Yes--since it is my resignation that makes the crisis. "

She fell back into a chair, white and trembling. "You have resigned!"

"For ever. And now, hey for the great round, wonderful world! Don'tyou hear our keel cutting the shimmering waters?"

"No, " she said savagely. "I hear only Woodham's mockinglaughter!. . . And it sounds like a goat bleating. "

"Darling!" he cried in amaze. 

"I told you not to 'darling' me. How dared you change our liveswithout a word of consultation?"

"Amber!" His voice was pained now. "I prepared a surprise for theanniversary of our wedding. One can't consult about surprises. "

"Keep your quibbles for the House! But perhaps there is no House, either. "

"Naturally. I have done with it all. I have written for the ChilternHundreds. "

"You are mad, Walter. You must take it all back. "

"I can't, Amber. I have quarrelled hopelessly with the Party. ThePrime Minister will never forgive what I said at the Council to-day. The luxury of speaking one's mind is expensive. I ought never to havejoined any Party. I am only fit to be Independent. "

"Independence leads nowhere. " She rose angrily. "And this is to be theend of your Career! The Career you married me for!"

"I did wrong, Amber. But before one finds the true God, one worshipsidols. "

"And what is the true God, pray?"

"The one whose angel and minister you have always been, Amber"--helowered his voice reverently--"Love. "

"Love!" Her voice was bitter. "Any bench in the Park, any alley inHighmead, swarms with Love. " 'Twas as if Cæsar had skipped from hisimperial chariot to a sociable. 

All her childish passion for directing the life of the household, all her girlish relish in keeping lovers in leading strings, allthat unconscious love of Power which--inversely--had attracted herto Walter Bassett, and which had found so delightful a scope in herpolitical activities, leapt--now that her Salon was threatened withextinction--into agonised consciousness of itself. 

Through this brilliant husband of hers, she had touched the destiniesof England, pulled the strings of Empire. Oh, the intoxication of thefight--the fight for which she had seconded and sponged him! Oh, the rapture of intriguing against his enemies--himself included--thefeminine triumph of managing Goodman Waverer or Badman Badgerer!

And now--oh, she could no longer control her sobs!

He tried to soothe her, to caress her, but she repulsed him. 

"Go to your yacht--to your miserable shimmering waters. I shall spendmy honeymoon here alone. . . . You discovered I was Irish. "

 * * * * *

THE WOMAN BEATER

I

She came "to meet John Lefolle, " but John Lefolle did not know he wasto meet Winifred Glamorys. He did not even know he was himself themeeting-point of all the brilliant and beautiful persons, assembled inthe publisher's Saturday Salon, for although a youthful minor poet, hewas modest and lovable. Perhaps his Oxford tutorship was sobering. At any rate his head remained unturned by his precocious fame, andto meet these other young men and women--his reverend seniors onthe slopes of Parnassus--gave him more pleasure than the receipt of"royalties. " Not that his publisher afforded him much opportunity ofcontrasting the two pleasures. The profits of the Muse went to providethis room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinklewith Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming underthe white crescent-moon of early June. 

Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better thana poetess, she was a poem. The publisher always threw in a fewrealities, and some beautiful brainless creature would generally befound the nucleus of a crowd, while Clio in spectacles languished in acorner. Winifred Glamorys, however, was reputed to have a tongue thatmatched her eye; paralleling with whimsies and epigrams its freakishfires and witcheries, and, assuredly, flitting in her white gownthrough the dark balmy garden, she seemed the very spirit ofmoonlight, the subtle incarnation of night and roses. 

When John Lefolle met her, Cecilia was with her, and the firstconversation was triangular. Cecilia fired most of the shots; she wasa bouncing, rattling beauty, chockful of confidence and high spirits, except when asked to do the one thing she could do--sing! Then shebecame--quite genuinely--a nervous, hesitant, pale little thing. However, the suppliant hostess bore her off, and presently her richcontralto notes passed through the garden, adding to its passionand mystery, and through the open French windows, John could see herstanding against the wall near the piano, her head thrown back, hereyes half-closed, her creamy throat swelling in the very abandonmentof artistic ecstasy. 

"What a charming creature!" he exclaimed involuntarily. 

"That is what everybody thinks, except her husband, " Winifred laughed. 

"Is he blind then?" asked John with his cloistral _naïveté_. 

"Blind? No, love is blind. Marriage is never blind. "

The bitterness in her tone pierced John. He felt vaguely the passingof some icy current from unknown seas of experience. Cecilia's voicesoared out enchantingly. 

"Then, marriage must be deaf, " he said, "or such music as that wouldcharm it. "

She smiled sadly. Her smile was the tricksy play of moonlight amongclouds of faëry. 

"You have never been married, " she said simply. 

"Do you mean that you, too, are neglected?" something impelled him toexclaim. 

"Worse, " she murmured. 

"It is incredible!" he cried. "You!"

"Hush! My husband will hear you. "

Her warning whisper brought him into a delicious conspiracy with her. "Which is your husband?" he whispered back. 

"There! Near the casement, standing gazing open-mouthed at Cecilia. He always opens his mouth when she sings. It is like two toys moved bythe same wire. "

He looked at the tall, stalwart, ruddy-haired Anglo-Saxon. "Do youmean to say he--?"

"I mean to say nothing. "

"But you said--"

"I said 'worse. '"

"Why, what can be worse?"

She put her hand over her face. "I am ashamed to tell you. " Howadorable was that half-divined blush!

"But you must tell me everything. " He scarcely knew how he had leaptinto this _rôle_ of confessor. He only felt they were "moved by thesame wire. "

Her head drooped on her breast. "He--beats--me. "

"What!" John forgot to whisper. It was the greatest shock his recluselife had known, compact as it was of horror at the revelation, shamedconfusion at her candour, and delicious pleasure in her confidence. 

This fragile, exquisite creature under the rod of a brutal bully!

Once he had gone to a wedding reception, and among the seriouspresents some grinning Philistine drew his attention to an uncouthclub--"a wife-beater" he called it. The flippancy had jarred uponJohn terribly: this intrusive reminder of the customs of the slums. Itgrated like Billingsgate in a boudoir. Now that savage weapon recurredto him--for a lurid instant he saw Winifred's husband wielding it. Oh, abomination of his sex! And did he stand there, in his immaculateevening dress, posing as an English gentleman? Even so might somegentleman burglar bear through a salon his imperturbable swallow-tail. 

Beat a woman! Beat that essence of charm and purity, God's best giftto man, redeeming him from his own grossness! Could such thingsbe? John Lefolle would as soon have credited the French legend thatEnglish wives are sold in Smithfield. No! it could not be real thatthis flower-like figure was thrashed. 

"Do you mean to say--?" he cried. The rapidity of her confidence alonemade him feel it all of a dreamlike unreality. 

"Hush! Cecilia's singing!" she admonished him with an unexpectedsmile, as her fingers fell from her face. 

"Oh, you have been making fun of me. " He was vastly relieved. "Hebeats you--at chess--or at lawn-tennis?"

"Does one wear a high-necked dress to conceal the traces of chess, orlawn-tennis?"

He had not noticed her dress before, save for its spiritual whiteness. Susceptible though he was to beautiful shoulders, Winifred'senchanting face had been sufficiently distracting. Now the thoughtof physical bruises gave him a second spasm of righteous horror. Thatdelicate rose-leaf flesh abraded and lacerated!

"The ruffian! Does he use a stick or a fist?"

"Both! But as a rule he just takes me by the arms and shakes me like aterrier. I'm all black and blue now. "

"Poor butterfly!" he murmured poetically. 

"Why did I tell you?" she murmured back with subtler poetry. 

The poet thrilled in every vein. "Love at first sight, " of which hehad often read and often written, was then a reality! It could beas mutual, too, as Romeo's and Juliet's. But how awkward that Julietshould be married and her husband a Bill Sykes in broadcloth!

II

Mrs. Glamorys herself gave "At Homes, " every Sunday afternoon, and so, on the morrow, after a sleepless night mitigated by perpended sonnets, the love-sick young tutor presented himself by invitation at thebeautiful old house in Hampstead. He was enchanted to find his heart'smistress set in an eighteenth-century frame of small-paned windows andof high oak-panelling, and at once began to image her dancing minuetsand playing on virginals. Her husband was absent, but a broad bandof velvet round Winifred's neck was a painful reminder of hispossibilities. Winifred, however, said it was only a touch of sorethroat caught in the garden. Her eyes added that there was nothing inthe pathological dictionary which she would not willingly have caughtfor the sake of those divine, if draughty moments; but that, alas! itwas more than a mere bodily ailment she had caught there. 

There were a great many visitors in the two delightfully quaintrooms, among whom he wandered disconsolate and admired, jealous of herscattered smiles, but presently he found himself seated by her side ona "cosy corner" near the open folding-doors, with all the other guestshuddled round a violinist in the inner room. How Winifred had managedit he did not know, but she sat plausibly in the outer room, awaitingnew-comers, and this particular niche was invisible, save to adetermined eye. He took her unresisting hand--that dear, warm hand, with its begemmed artistic fingers, and held it in uneasy beatitude. How wonderful! She--the beautiful and adored hostess, of whosesweetness and charm he heard even her own guests murmur to oneanother--it was her actual flesh-and-blood hand that lay inhis--thrillingly tangible. Oh, adventure beyond all merit, beyondall hoping!

But every now and then, the outer door facing them would open on somenew-comer, and John had hastily to release her soft magnetic fingersand sit demure, and jealously overhear her effusive welcome to thoseinnocent intruders, nor did his brow clear till she had shepherdedthem within the inner fold. Fortunately, the refreshments were in thissection, so that once therein, few of the sheep strayed back, andthe jiggling wail of the violin was succeeded by a shrill babbleof tongues and the clatter of cups and spoons. "Get me an ice, please--strawberry, " she ordered John during one of these forcedintervals in manual flirtation; and when he had steered laboriouslyto and fro, he found a young actor beside her _their_ hands dispart. Hestood over them with a sickly smile, while Winifred ate her ice. Whenhe returned from depositing the empty saucer, the player-fellow wasgone, and in remorse for his mad suspicion he stooped and reverentlylifted her fragrant finger-tips to his lips. The door behind his backopened abruptly. 

"Good-by, " she said, rising in a flash. The words had the calmconventional cadence, and instantly extorted from him--amid all hisdazedness--the corresponding "Good-by. " When he turned and saw it wasMr. Glamorys who had come in, his heart leapt wildly at thenearness of his escape. As he passed this masked ruffian, he noddedperfunctorily and received a cordial smile. Yes, he was handsome andfascinating enough externally, this blonde savage. 

"A man may smile and smile and be a villain, " John thought. "I wonderhow he'd feel, if he knew I knew he beats women. "

Already John had generalised the charge. "I hope Cecilia will keep himat arm's length, " he had said to Winifred, "if only that she may notsmart for it some day. "

He lingered purposely in the hall to get an impression of the brute, who had begun talking loudly to a friend with irritating bursts oflaughter, speciously frank-ringing. Golf, fishing, comic operas--ah, the Boeotian! These were the men who monopolised the etherealdivinities. 

But this brusque separation from his particular divinity wasdisconcerting. How to see her again? He must go up to Oxford in themorning, he wrote her that night, but if she could possibly let himcall during the week he would manage to run down again. 

 "Oh, my dear, dreaming poet, " she wrote to Oxford, "how could you possibly send me a letter to be laid on the breakfast-table beside _The Times_! With a poem in it, too. Fortunately my husband was in a hurry to get down to the City, and he neglected to read my correspondence. ('The unchivalrous blackguard, ' John commented. 'But what can be expected of a woman beater?') Never, never write to me again at the house. A letter, care of Mrs. Best, 8A Foley Street, W. C. , will always find me. She is my maid's mother. And you must not come here either, my dear handsome head-in-the-clouds, except to my 'At Homes, ' and then only at judicious intervals. I shall be walking round the pond in Kensington Gardens at four next Wednesday, unless Mrs. Best brings me a letter to the contrary. And now thank you for your delicious poem; I do not recognise my humble self in the dainty lines, but I shall always be proud to think I inspired them. Will it be in the new volume? I have never been in print before; it will be a novel sensation. I cannot pay you song for song, only feeling for feeling. Oh, John Lefolle, why did we not meet when I had still my girlish dreams? Now, I have grown to distrust all men--to fear the brute beneath the cavalier. . . . "

Mrs. Best did bring her a letter, but it was not to cancel theappointment, only to say he was not surprised at her horror of themale sex, but that she must beware of false generalisations. Life wasstill a wonderful and beautiful thing--_vide_ poem enclosed. He wascounting the minutes till Wednesday afternoon. It was surely a popularmistake that only sixty went to the hour. 

This chronometrical reflection recurred to him even more poignantly inthe hour that he circumambulated the pond in Kensington Gardens. Had she forgotten--had her husband locked her up? What could havehappened? It seemed six hundred minutes, ere, at ten past five shecame tripping daintily towards him. His brain had been reduced toinsanely devising problems for his pupils--if a man walks two stridesof one and a half feet a second round a lake fifty acres in area, in how many turns will he overtake a lady who walks half as fast andisn't there?--but the moment her pink parasol loomed on the horizon, all his long misery vanished in an ineffable peace and uplifting. He hurried, bare-headed, to clasp her little gloved hand. He hadforgotten her unpunctuality, nor did she remind him of it. 

"How sweet of you to come all that way, " was all she said, and it wasa sufficient reward for the hours in the train and the six hundredminutes among the nursemaids and perambulators. The elms were in theirglory, the birds were singing briskly, the water sparkled, the sunlitsward stretched fresh and green--it was the loveliest, coolest momentof the afternoon. John instinctively turned down a leafy avenue. Nature and Love! What more could poet ask?

"No, we can't have tea by the Kiosk, " Mrs. Glamorys protested. "Ofcourse I love anything that savours of Paris, but it's become sofashionable. There will be heaps of people who know me. I supposeyou've forgotten it's the height of the season. I know a quiet littleplace in the High Street. " She led him, unresisting but bemused, towards the gate, and into a confectioner's. Conversation languishedon the way. 

"Tea, " he was about to instruct the pretty attendant. 

"Strawberry ices, " Mrs. Glamorys remarked gently. "And some of thosenice French cakes. "

The ice restored his spirits, it was really delicious, and he hadgot so hot and tired, pacing round the pond. Decidedly Winifred wasa practical person and he was a dreamer. The pastry he dared nottouch--being a genius--but he was charmed at the gaiety with whichWinifred crammed cake after cake into her rosebud of a mouth. What anenchanting creature! How bravely she covered up her life's tragedy!

The thought made him glance at her velvet band--it was broader thanever. 

"He has beaten you again!" he murmured furiously. Her joyous eyessaddened, she hung her head, and her fingers crumbled the cake. "Whatis his pretext?" he asked, his blood burning. 

"Jealousy, " she whispered. 

His blood lost its glow, ran cold. He felt the bully's blows on hisown skin, his romance turning suddenly sordid. But he recovered hiscourage. He, too, had muscles. "But I thought he just missed seeing mekiss your hand. "

She opened her eyes wide. "It wasn't you, you darling old dreamer. "

He was relieved and disturbed in one. 

"Somebody else?" he murmured. Somehow the vision of the player-fellowcame up. 

She nodded. "Isn't it lucky he has himself drawn a red-herring acrossthe track? I didn't mind his blows--you were safe!" Then, with one ofher adorable transitions, "I am dreaming of another ice, " she criedwith roguish wistfulness. 

"I was afraid to confess my own greediness, " he said, laughing. Hebeckoned the waitress. "Two more. "

"We haven't got any more strawberries, " was her unexpected reply. "There's been such a run on them to-day. "

Winifred's face grew overcast. "Oh, nonsense!" she pouted. To John themoment seemed tragic. 

"Won't you have another kind?" he queried. He himself liked any kind, but he could scarcely eat a second ice without her. 

Winifred meditated. "Coffee?" she queried. 

The waitress went away and returned with a face as gloomy asWinifred's. "It's been such a hot day, " she said deprecatingly. "Thereis only one ice in the place and that's Neapolitan. "

"Well, bring two Neapolitans, " John ventured. 

"I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left. "

"Well, bring that. I don't really want one. "

He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felta certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something ofthe haunting sadness of "The Last Rose of Summer. " It would makea graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking. But at the lastspoonful, his beautiful companion dislocated his rhymes by her suddenupspringing. 

"Goodness gracious, " she cried, "how late it is!"

"Oh, you're not leaving me yet!" he said. A world of things sprang tohis brain, things that he was going to say--to arrange. They had saidnothing--not a word of their love even; nothing but cakes and ices. 

"Poet!" she laughed. "Have you forgotten I live at Hampstead?" Shepicked up her parasol. "Put me into a hansom, or my husband will beraving at his lonely dinner-table. "

He was so dazed as to be surprised when the waitress blocked hisdeparture with a bill. When Winifred was spirited away, he rememberedshe might, without much risk, have given him a lift to Paddington. Hehailed another hansom and caught the next train to Oxford. But he wastoo late for his own dinner in Hall. 

III

He was kept very busy for the next few days, and could only exchange apassionate letter or two with her. For some time the examinationfever had been raging, and in every college poor patients sat with wettowels round their heads. Some, who had neglected their tutor all theterm, now strove to absorb his omniscience in a sitting. 

On the Monday, John Lefolle was good-naturedly giving a specialaudience to a muscular dunce, trying to explain to him the politicaleffects of the Crusades, when there was a knock at the sitting-roomdoor, and the scout ushered in Mrs. Glamorys. She was bewitchinglydressed in white, and stood in the open doorway, smiling--anembodiment of the summer he was neglecting. He rose, but his tonguewas paralysed. The dunce became suddenly important--a symbol of thedecorum he had been outraging. His soul, torn so abruptly from historyto romance, could not get up the right emotion. Why this imprudence ofWinifred's? She had been so careful heretofore. 

"What a lot of boots there are on your staircase!" she said gaily. 

He laughed. The spell was broken. "Yes, the heap to be cleaned israther obtrusive, " he said, "but I suppose it is a sort of tradition. "

"I think I've got hold of the thing pretty well now, sir. " The duncerose and smiled, and his tutor realised how little the dunce had tolearn in some things. He felt quite grateful to him. 

"Oh, well, you'll come and see me again after lunch, won't you, if oneor two points occur to you for elucidation, " he said, feeling vaguelya liar, and generally guilty. But when, on the departure of the dunce, Winifred held out her arms, everything fell from him but the sense ofthe exquisite moment. Their lips met for the first time, but only foran instant. He had scarcely time to realise that this wonderful thinghad happened before the mobile creature had darted to his book-shelvesand was examining a Thucydides upside down. 

"How clever to know Greek!" she exclaimed. "And do you really talk itwith the other dons?"

"No, we never talk shop, " he laughed. "But, Winifred, what made youcome here?"

"I had never seen Oxford. Isn't it beautiful?"

"There's nothing beautiful _here_, " he said, looking round his soberstudy. 

"No, " she admitted; "there's nothing I care for here, " and had leftanother celestial kiss on his lips before he knew it. "And now youmust take me to lunch and on the river. "

He stammered, "I have--work. "

She pouted. "But I can't stay beyond to-morrow morning, and I want somuch to see all your celebrated oarsmen practising. "

"You are not staying over the night?" he gasped. 

"Yes, I am, " and she threw him a dazzling glance. 

His heart went pit-a-pat. "Where?" he murmured. 

"Oh, some poky little hotel near the station. The swell hotels arefull. "

He was glad to hear she was not conspicuously quartered. 

"So many people have come down already for Commem, " he said. "Isuppose they are anxious to see the Generals get their degrees. Buthadn't we better go somewhere and lunch?"

They went down the stone staircase, past the battalion of boots, andacross the quad. He felt that all the windows were alive witheyes, but she insisted on standing still and admiring their iviedpicturesqueness. After lunch he shamefacedly borrowed the dunce'spunt. The necessities of punting, which kept him far from her, anddemanded much adroit labour, gradually restored his self-respect, andhe was able to look the uncelebrated oarsmen they met in the eyes, except when they were accompanied by their parents and sisters, whichsubtly made him feel uncomfortable again. But Winifred, piquant underher pink parasol, was singularly at ease, enraptured with the changingbeauty of the river, applauding with childish glee the wild flowers onthe banks, or the rippling reflections in the water. 

"Look, look!" she cried once, pointing skyward. He stared upwards, expecting a balloon at least. But it was only "Keats' little rosycloud, " she explained. It was not her fault if he did not find theexcursion unreservedly idyllic. 

"How stupid, " she reflected, "to keep all those nice boys cooped upreading dead languages in a spot made for life and love. "

"I'm afraid they don't disturb the dead languages so much as youthink, " he reassured her, smiling. "And there will be plenty oflove-making during Commem. "

"I am so glad. I suppose there are lots of engagements that week. "

"Oh, yes--but not one per cent come to anything. "

"Really? Oh, how fickle men are!"

That seemed rather question-begging, but he was so thrilled bythe implicit revelation that she could not even imagine feminineinconstancy, that he forebore to draw her attention to her inadequatelogic. 

So childish and thoughtless indeed was she that day that nothing wouldcontent her but attending a "Viva, " which he had incautiously informedher was public. 

"Nobody will notice us, " she urged with strange unconsciousness of herloveliness. "Besides, they don't know I'm not your sister. "

"The Oxford intellect is sceptical, " he said, laughing. "It cultivatesphilosophical doubt. "

But, putting a bold face on the matter, and assuming a fraternal air, he took her to the torture-chamber, in which candidates sat dolefullyon a row of chairs against the wall, waiting their turn to come beforethe three grand inquisitors at the table. Fortunately, Winifred and hewere the only spectators; but unfortunately they blundered in atthe very moment when the poor owner of the punt was on the rack. Thecentral inquisitor was trying to extract from him information aboutà Becket, almost prompting him with the very words, but withoutpenetrating through the duncical denseness. John Lefolle breathed morefreely when the Crusades were broached; but, alas, it very soon becameevident that the dunce had by no means "got hold of the thing. " As thedunce passed out sadly, obviously ploughed, John Lefolle suffered morethan he. So conscience-stricken was he that, when he had accompaniedWinifred as far as her hotel, he refused her invitation to come in, pleading the compulsoriness of duty and dinner in Hall. But he couldnot get away without promising to call in during the evening. 

The prospect of this visit was with him all through dinner, at oncetempting and terrifying. Assuredly there was a skeleton at hisfeast, as he sat at the high table, facing the Master. The venerableportraits round the Hall seemed to rebuke his romantic waywardness. Inthe common-room, he sipped his port uneasily, listening as in a dazeto the discussion on Free Will, which an eminent stranger had stirredup. How academic it seemed, compared with the passionate realitiesof life. But somehow he found himself lingering on at the academicdiscussion, postponing the realities of life. Every now and again, hewas impelled to glance at his watch; but suddenly murmuring, "It isvery late, " he pulled himself together, and took leave of his learnedbrethren. But in the street the sight of a telegraph office drew hissteps to it, and almost mechanically he wrote out the message: "Regretdetained. Will call early in morning. "

When he did call in the morning, he was told she had gone back toLondon the night before on receipt of a telegram. He turned away witha bitter pang of disappointment and regret. 

IV

Their subsequent correspondence was only the more amorous. The reasonshe had fled from the hotel, she explained, was that she could notendure the night in those stuffy quarters. He consoled himself withthe hope of seeing much of her during the Long Vacation. He did seeher once at her own reception, but this time her husband wanderedabout the two rooms. The cosy corner was impossible, and they couldonly manage to gasp out a few mutual endearments amid the buzz andmovement, and to arrange a _rendezvous_ for the end of July. When theday came, he received a heart-broken letter, stating that her husbandhad borne her away to Goodwood. In a postscript she informed him that"Quicksilver was a sure thing. " Much correspondence passed withoutanother meeting being effected, and he lent her five pounds to pay adebt of honour incurred through her husband's "absurd confidence inQuicksilver. " A week later this horsey husband of hers brought her onto Brighton for the races there, and hither John Lefolle flew. But herhusband shadowed her, and he could only lift his hat to her as theypassed each other on the Lawns. Sometimes he saw her sitting pensivelyon a chair while her lord and thrasher perused a pink sporting-paper. Such tantalising proximity raised their correspondence through theHove Post Office to fever heat. Life apart, they felt, was impossible, and, removed from the sobering influences of his cap and gown, JohnLefolle dreamed of throwing everything to the winds. His literaryreputation had opened out a new career. The Winifred lyrics alone hadbrought in a tidy sum, and though he had expended that and moreon despatches of flowers and trifles to her, yet he felt thisextravagance would become extinguished under daily companionship, and the poems provoked by her charms would go far towards their dailymaintenance. Yes, he could throw up the University. He would rescueher from this bully, this gentleman bruiser. They would live openlyand nobly in the world's eye. A poet was not even expected to beconventional. 

She, on her side, was no less ardent for the great step. She ragedagainst the world's law, the injustice by which a husband's crueltywas not sufficient ground for divorce. "But we finer souls must takethe law into our own hands, " she wrote. "We must teach societythat the ethics of a barbarous age are unfitted for our century ofenlightenment. " But somehow the actual time and place of the elopementcould never get itself fixed. In September her husband dragged her toScotland, in October after the pheasants. When the dramatic day wasactually fixed, Winifred wrote by the next post deferring it fora week. Even the few actual preliminary meetings they planned forKensington Gardens or Hampstead Heath rarely came off. He lived in awhirling atmosphere of express letters of excuse, and telegrams thattransformed the situation from hour to hour. Not that her passion inany way abated, or her romantic resolution really altered: it was onlythat her conception of time and place and ways and means was dizzilymutable. 

But after nigh six months of palpitating negotiations with theadorable Mrs. Glamorys, the poet, in a moment of dejection, pennedthe prose apophthegm, "It is of no use trying to change a changeableperson. "

V

But at last she astonished him by a sketch plan of the elopement, sodetailed, even to band-boxes and the Paris night route _viâ_ Dieppe, that no further room for doubt was left in his intoxicated soul, andhe was actually further astonished when, just as he was putting hishandbag into the hansom, a telegram was handed to him saying: "Goneto Homburg. Letter follows. "

He stood still for a moment on the pavement in utter distraction. Whatdid it mean? Had she failed him again? Or was it simply that she hadchanged the city of refuge from Paris to Homburg? He was about to namethe new station to the cabman, but then, "letter follows. " Surely thatmeant that he was to wait for it. Perplexed and miserable, hestood with the telegram crumpled up in his fist. What a ridiculoussituation! He had wrought himself up to the point of breaking with theworld and his past, and now--it only remained to satisfy the cabman!

He tossed feverishly all night, seeking to soothe himself, but reallyexciting himself the more by a hundred plausible explanations. He wasnow strung up to such a pitch of uncertainty that he was astonishedfor the third time when the "letter" did duly "follow. "

 "Dearest, " it ran, "as I explained in my telegram, my husband became suddenly ill"--("if she had only put that in the telegram, " he groaned)--"and was ordered to Homburg. Of course it was impossible to leave him in this crisis, both for practical and sentimental reasons. You yourself, darling, would not like me to have aggravated his illness by my flight just at this moment, and thus possibly have his death on my conscience. " ("Darling, you are always right, " he said, kissing the letter. ) "Let us possess our souls in patience a little longer. I need not tell you how vexatious it will be to find myself nursing him in Homburg--out of the season even--instead of the prospect to which I had looked forward with my whole heart and soul. But what can one do? How true is the French proverb, 'Nothing happens but the unexpected'! Write to me immediately _Poste Restante_, that I may at least console myself with your dear words. "

The unexpected did indeed happen. Despite draughts of Elizabethbrunnenand promenades on the Kurhaus terrace, the stalwart woman beatersuccumbed to his malady. The curt telegram from Winifred gave noindication of her emotions. He sent a reply-telegram of sympathy withher trouble. Although he could not pretend to grieve at this suddenprovidential solution of their life-problem, still he did sincerelysympathise with the distress inevitable in connection with a death, especially on foreign soil. 

He was not able to see her till her husband's body had been broughtacross the North Sea and committed to the green repose of the oldHampstead churchyard. He found her pathetically altered--her face wanand spiritualised, and all in subtle harmony with the exquisite blackgown. In the first interview, he did not dare speak of their love atall. They discussed the immortality of the soul, and she quoted GeorgeHerbert. But with the weeks the question of their future began toforce its way back to his lips. 

"We could not decently marry before six months, " she said, whendefinitely confronted with the problem. 

"Six months!" he gasped. 

"Well, surely you don't want to outrage everybody, " she said, pouting. 

At first he was outraged himself. What! She who had been readyto flutter the world with a fantastic dance was now measuring herfootsteps. But on reflection he saw that Mrs. Glamorys was right oncemore. Since Providence had been good enough to rescue them, why shouldthey fly in its face? A little patience, and a blameless happiness laybefore them. Let him not blind himself to the immense relief hereally felt at being spared social obloquy. After all, a poet could beunconventional in his _work_--he had no need of the practical outletdemanded for the less gifted. 

VI

They scarcely met at all during the next six months--it had, naturally, in this grateful reaction against their recklessness, become a sacred period, even more charged with tremulous emotionthan the engagement periods of those who have not so nearly scorchedthemselves. Even in her presence he found a certain pleasure incombining distant adoration with the confident expectation ofproximity, and thus she was restored to the sanctity which she hadrisked by her former easiness. And so all was for the best in the bestof all possible worlds. 

When the six months had gone by, he came to claim her hand. She wasquite astonished. "You promised to marry me at the end of six months, "he reminded her. 

"Surely it isn't six months already, " she said. 

He referred her to the calendar, recalled the date of her husband'sdeath. 

"You are strangely literal for a poet, " she said. "Of course I _said_six months, but six months doesn't mean twenty-six weeks by the clock. All I meant was that a decent period must intervene. But even tomyself it seems only yesterday that poor Harold was walking beside mein the Kurhaus Park. " She burst into tears, and in the face of them hecould not pursue the argument. 

Gradually, after several interviews and letters, it was agreed thatthey should wait another six months. 

"She _is_ right, " he reflected again. "We have waited so long, we mayas well wait a little longer and leave malice no handle. "

The second six months seemed to him much longer than the first. Thecharm of respectful adoration had lost its novelty, and once againhis breast was racked by fitful fevers which could scarcely calmthemselves even by conversion into sonnets. The one point of reposewas that shining fixed star of marriage. Still smarting underWinifred's reproach of his unpoetic literality, he did not intend toforce her to marry him exactly at the end of the twelve-month. But hewas determined that she should have no later than this exact datefor at least "naming the day. " Not the most punctilious stickler forconvention, he felt, could deny that Mrs. Grundy's claim had been paidto the last minute. 

The publication of his new volume--containing the Winifred lyrics--hadserved to colour these months of intolerable delay. Even the reactionof the critics against his poetry, that conventional revolt againstevery second volume, that parrot cry of over-praise from the verythroats that had praised him, though it pained and perplexed him, was perhaps really helpful. At any rate, the long waiting was over atlast. He felt like Jacob after his years of service for Rachel. 

The fateful morning dawned bright and blue, and, as the towers ofOxford were left behind him he recalled that distant Saturday whenhe had first gone down to meet the literary lights of London in hispublisher's salon. How much older he was now than then--and yethow much younger! The nebulous melancholy of youth, the clouds ofphilosophy, had vanished before this beautiful creature of sunshinewhose radiance cut out a clear line for his future through theconfusion of life. 

At a florist's in the High Street of Hampstead he bought a costlybouquet of white flowers, and walked airily to the house and rang thebell jubilantly. He could scarcely believe his ears when the maid toldhim her mistress was not at home. How dared the girl stare at him soimpassively? Did she not know by what appointment--on what errand--hehad come? Had he not written to her mistress a week ago that he wouldpresent himself that afternoon?

"Not at home!" he gasped. "But when will she be home?"

"I fancy she won't be long. She went out an hour ago, and she has anappointment with her dressmaker at five. "

"Do you know in what direction she'd have gone?"

"Oh, she generally walks on the Heath before tea. "

The world suddenly grew rosy again. "I will come back again, " he said. Yes, a walk in this glorious air--heathward--would do him good. 

As the door shut he remembered he might have left the flowers, but hewould not ring again, and besides, it was, perhaps, better he shouldpresent them with his own hand, than let her find them on the halltable. Still, it seemed rather awkward to walk about the streets witha bouquet, and he was glad, accidentally to strike the old HampsteadChurch, and to seek a momentary seclusion in passing through itsavenue of quiet gravestones on his heathward way. 

Mounting the few steps, he paused idly a moment on the verge of thisgreen "God's-acre" to read a perpendicular slab on a wall, and hisface broadened into a smile as he followed the absurdly elaboratebiography of a rich, self-made merchant who had taught himself toread. "Reader, go thou and do likewise, " was the delicious bull at theend. As he turned away, the smile still lingering about his lips, hesaw a dainty figure tripping down the stony graveyard path, and thoughhe was somehow startled to find her still in black, there was nomistaking Mrs. Glamorys. She ran to meet him with a glad cry, whichfilled his eyes with happy tears. 

"How good of you to remember!" she said, as she took the bouquet fromhis unresisting hand, and turned again on her footsteps. He followedher wonderingly across the uneven road towards a narrow aisle ofgraves on the left. In another instant she had stooped before ashining white stone, and laid his bouquet reverently upon it. As hereached her side, he saw that his flowers were almost lost in the vastmass of floral offerings with which the grave of the woman beater wasbestrewn. 

"How good of you to remember the anniversary, " she murmured again. 

"How could I forget it?" he stammered, astonished. "Is not this theend of the terrible twelve-month?"

The soft gratitude died out of her face. "Oh, is _that_ what you werethinking of?"

"What else?" he murmured, pale with conflicting emotions. 

"What else! I think decency demanded that this day, at least, shouldbe sacred to his memory. Oh, what brutes men are!" And she burst intotears. 

His patient breast revolted at last. "You said _he_ was the brute!" heretorted, outraged. 

"Is that your chivalry to the dead? Oh, my poor Harold, my poorHarold!"

For once her tears could not extinguish the flame of his anger. "Butyou told me he beat you, " he cried. 

"And if he did, I dare say I deserved it. Oh, my darling, my darling!"She laid her face on the stone and sobbed. 

John Lefolle stood by in silent torture. As he helplessly watched herwhite throat swell and fall with the sobs, he was suddenly struck bythe absence of the black velvet band--the truer mourning she had wornin the lifetime of the so lamented. A faint scar, only perceptible tohis conscious eye, added to his painful bewilderment. 

At last she rose and walked unsteadily forward. He followed her inmute misery. In a moment or two they found themselves on the outskirtsof the deserted heath. How beautiful stretched the gorsy rollingcountry! The sun was setting in great burning furrows of gold andgreen--a panorama to take one's breath away. The beauty and peace ofNature passed into the poet's soul. 

"Forgive me, dearest, " he begged, taking her hand. 

She drew it away sharply. "I cannot forgive you. You have shownyourself in your true colours. "

Her unreasonableness angered him again. "What do you mean? I only camein accordance with our long-standing arrangement. You have put me offlong enough. "

"It is fortunate I did put you off long enough to discover what youare. "

He gasped. He thought of all the weary months of waiting, all the longcomedy of telegrams and express letters, the far-off flirtations ofthe cosy corner, the baffled elopement to Paris. "Then you won't marryme?"

"I cannot marry a man I neither love nor respect. "

"You don't love me!" Her spontaneous kiss in his sober Oxford studyseemed to burn on his angry lips. 

"No, I never loved you. "

He took her by the arms and turned her round roughly. "Look me in theface and dare to say you have never loved me. "

His memory was buzzing with passionate phrases from her endlessletters. They stung like a swarm of bees. The sunset was likeblood-red mist before his eyes. 

"I have never loved you, " she said obstinately. 

"You--!" His grasp on her arms tightened. He shook her. 

"You are bruising me, " she cried. 

His grasp fell from her arms as though they were red-hot. He hadbecome a woman beater. 

 * * * * *

THE ETERNAL FEMININE

He wore a curious costume, representing the devil carrying off hiscorpse; but I recognised him at once as the lesser lion of a Londonevening party last season. Then he had just returned from a Polarexpedition, and wore the glacier of civilisation on his breast. To-night he was among the maddest of the mad, dancing savagely withthe Bacchantes of the Latin Quarter at the art students' ball, andsome of his fellow-Americans told me that he was the best marinepainter in the _atelier_ which he had joined. More they did not pauseto tell me, for they were anxious to celebrate this night of nights, when, in that fine spirit of equality born of belonging to twoRepublics, the artist lowers himself to the level of his model. 

The young Arctic explorer, so entirely at home in this more tropicalclime, had relapsed into respectability when I spoke to him. He wassitting at a supper-table smoking a cigarette, and gazing somewhatsadly--it seemed to me--at the pandemoniac phantasmagoria of screamingdancers, the glittering cosmopolitan chaos that multiplied itselfriotously in the mirrored walls of the great flaring ball-room, whereunder-dressed women, waving many-coloured paper lanterns, rode on theshoulders of grotesquely clad men prancing to joyous music. For sometime he had been trying hard to get some one to take the money forhis supper; but the frenzied waiters suspected he was clamouring forsomething to eat, and would not be cajoled into attention. 

Moved by an impulse of mischief, I went up to him and clapped him onhis corpse, which he wore behind. 

There was a death-mask of papier-maché on the back of his head withappropriate funereal drapings down the body. 

"I'll take your money, " I said. 

He started, and turned his devil upon me. The face was madeMephistophelian, and the front half of him wore scarlet. 

"Thanks, " he said, laughing roguishly, when he recognised me. "It'sdarned queer that Paris should be the place where they refuse to takethe devil's money. "

I suggested smilingly that it was the corpse they fought shy of. 

"I guess not, " he retorted. "It's dead men's money that keeps thisplace lively. I wish I'd had the chance of some anyhow; but a rollingstone gathers no moss, they say--not even from graveyards, I suppose. "

He spoke disconsolately, in a tone more befitting the back than thefront of him, and quite out of accord with the reckless revelry aroundhim. 

"Oh! you'll make lots of money with your pictures, " I said heartily. 

He shook his head. "That's the chap who's going to scoop in thedollars, " he said, indicating a brawny Frenchman attired in a blanketthat girdled his loins, and black feathers that decorated his hair. "That fellow's got the touch of Velasquez. You should see the portraithe's doing for the Salon. "

"Well, I don't see much art in his costume, anyhow, " I retorted. "Yours is an inspiration of genius. "

"Yes; so prophetic, don't you know, " he replied modestly. "But youare not the only one who has complimented me. To it I owe the proudestmoment of my life--when I shook hands with a European prince. " And helaughed with returning merriment. 

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "With which?"

"Ah! I see your admiration for my rig is mounting. No; it wasn't withthe Prince of Wales--confess your admiration is going down already. Come, you shall guess. _Je vous le donne en trois_. "

After teasing me a little he told me it was the Kronprinds of Denmark. "At the _Kunstner Karneval_ in Copenhagen, " he explained briefly. Hisfront face had grown sad again. 

"Did you study art in Copenhagen?" I inquired. 

"Yes, before I joined that expedition, " he said. "It was from there Istarted. "

"Yes, of course, " I replied. "I remember now. It was a Danishexpedition. But what made you chuck up your studies so suddenly?"

"Oh! I don't know. I guess I was just about sick of most things. Mystars! Look at that little gypsy-girl dancing the can-can; isn't shefresh? Isn't she wonderful? How awful to think she'll be used up in ayear or two!"

"I suppose there was a woman--the eternal feminine, " I said, stickinghim to the point, for I was more interested in him than in theseething saturnalia, our common sobriety amid which seemed somehowto raise our casual acquaintanceship to the plane of confidentialfriendship. 

"Yes, I suppose there was a woman, " he echoed in low tones. "Theeternal feminine!" And a strange unfathomable light leapt into hiseyes, which he raised slightly towards the gilded ceiling, wherecountless lustres glittered. 

"Deceived you, eh?" I said lightly. 

His expression changed. "Deceived me, as you say, " he murmured, witha faint, sad smile, that made me conjure up a vision of a passionatelovely face with cruel eyes. 

"Won't you tell me about it?" I asked, as I tendered him a freshcigarette, for while we spoke his half-smoked one had been snatchedfrom his mouth by a beautiful Mænad, who whirled off puffing it. 

"I reckon you'll be making copy out of it, " he said, his smile growingwhimsical. 

"If it's good enough, " I replied candidly. "That's why I am here. "

"What a lovely excuse! But there's nothing in my affair to make astory of. "

I smiled majestically. 

"You stick to your art--leave me to manage mine. " And I put a light tohis cigarette. 

"Ah, but you'll be disappointed this time, I warrant, " he saidlaughingly, as the smoke circled round his diabolically handsome face. Then, becoming serious again, he went on: "It's so terribly plebeian, yet it all befell through that very _Kunstner Karneval_. I was tellingyou of when I first wore this composite costume which gained me thesmile of royalty. It was a very swell affair, of course, not a bitlike this, but it was given in hell. "

"In hell!" I cried, startled. 

"Yes. _Underverden_ they call it in their lingo. The ball-roomof the palace (the _Palaeet_, an old disused mansion) was got up torepresent the infernal regions--you tumble?--and everybody had todress appropriately. That was what gave me the idea of this costume. The staircase up which you entered was made the mouth of a greatdragon, and as you trod on the first step his eye gleamed blazes andbrimstone. There were great monsters all about, and dark grottoesradiating around; and when you took your dame into one of them, yourtread flooded them with light. If, however, the cavalier modestlyconducted his mistress into one of the lighted caves, virtue wasrewarded by instantaneous darkness. "

"That was really artistic, " I said, laughing. 

"You bet! The artists spent any amount of money over the affair. Thewhole of Hades bristled with ingenious devices in every corner. I hadgot a couple of tickets, and had designed the dress of my best girl, as well as my own, and the morning before (there being little workdone in the studios that day, as you may well imagine) I called uponher to see her try it on. To my chagrin I found she was down withinfluenza, or something of that sort appropriate to the bitter winterwe were having. And it did freeze that year, by Jove!--so hard thatDenmark and Sweden were united--to their mutual disgust, I fancy--bya broad causeway of ice. I remember, as I walked back from the girl'shouse towards the town along the Langelinie, my mortification wassomewhat allayed by the picturesque appearance of the Sound, in whosewhite expanse boats of every species and colour were embedded, lookinglike trapped creatures unable to stir oar or sail. But as I left thePromenade and came into the narrow old streets of the town, with theircobblestones and their quaint, many-windowed houses, my ill-humourreturned. I had had some trouble in getting the second ticket, and nowit looked as if I should get left. I went over in my mind the girls Icould ask, and what with not caring more for one than for another, andnot knowing which were booked already, and what with the imminence ofthe ball, I felt the little brains I had getting addled in my head. At last, in sheer despair, I had what is called a happy thought. Iresolved to ask the first girl of my acquaintance I met in my walk. Instantly my spirits rose like a thermometer in a Turkish bath. Theclouds of irresolution rolled away, and the touch of adventure made mywalk joyous again. I peered eagerly into every female face I met, butit was not till I approached the market-place that I knew my fate. Then, turning a corner, I came suddenly and violently face to facewith Fröken Jensen. "

He paused and relit his cigarette, and the maddening music of brassinstruments and brazen creatures, which his story had shut out, crashed again upon my ears. "I reckon if you were telling this, you'dstop here, " he said, "and put down 'to be continued in our next. '"There seemed a trace of huskiness in his flippant tones, as if he weretrying to keep under some genuine emotion. 

"Never you mind, " I returned, smiling. "You're not a writer, anyhow, so just keep straight on. "

"Well, Fröken Jensen was absolutely the ugliest girl I have seen inall my globe-trottings. . . . On second thoughts, that is the place tostop, isn't it?"

"Not at all; it's only in long novels one stops for refreshment. Sogo ahead, and--I say--do cut your interruptions _à la_ Fielding andThackeray. _C'est vieux jeu_. "

"All right, don't get mad. Fröken Jensen had the most irregularand ungainly features that ever crippled a woman's career; her nosewas--But no! I won't describe her, poor girl. She was about twenty-sixyears old, but one of those girls whose years no one counts, who areold maids at seventeen. Well, you can fancy what a fix I was in. Itwas no good pretending to myself that I hadn't seen her, for we nearlybowled each other over--she was coming along quick trot with a basketon her arm--and it seemed kind of shuffling to back out of my promiseto her, though she didn't know anything about it. It was like bettingwith yourself and wanting to cheat yourself when you lost. I felt Ishould never trust myself again, if I turned welsher--that's the word, isn't it?"

"It's like Jephtha, " I said. "He swore, you know, he would sacrificethe first creature that he saw on his triumphant return from the wars, and his daughter came out and had to be sacrificed. "

"Thank you for the compliment, " he said, with a grimace. "But I'm notup in the classics, so the comparison didn't strike me. But what didstrike me, after the first moment of annoyance, was the humour of thesituation. I turned and walked beside her--under cover of an elaborateapology for my dashing behaviour. She seemed quite concerned at myregret, and insisted that it was she that had dashed--it washer marketing-day, and she was late. You must know she kept aboarding-house for art and university students, and it was there thatI had made her acquaintance, when I went to dine once or twice witha studio chum who was quartered there. I had never exchanged twosentences with her before, as you can well imagine. She was notinviting to the artistic eye; indeed, I rather wondered how my friendcould tolerate her at the head of the table, till he jestingly toldme it was reckoned off the bill. The place was indeed suited tothe student's pocket. But this morning I was surprised at thesprightliness of her share in the dialogue of mutual apologies. Hermind seemed as alert as her step, her voice was pleasing and gentle, and there was a refreshing gaiety in her attitude towards the situation. 

"'But I am quite sure it was _my_ fault, ' I wound up rather lamelyat last, 'and, if you will allow me to make you amends, I shall bepleased to send you a ticket for the ball to-morrow night. '

"She stood still. 'For the _Kunstner Karneval_!' she cried eagerly, while her poor absurd face lit up. 

"'Yes, Fröken; and I shall be happy to escort you there if you willgive me the pleasure. '

"She looked at me with sudden suspicion--the idea that I was chaffingher must have crossed her mind. I felt myself flushing furiously, feeling somehow half-guilty by my secret thoughts of her a few momentsago. We had arrived at the _Amagertorv_--the market-place--and Irecollect getting a sudden impression of the quaint stalls andthe picturesque _Amager_-women--one with a preternaturally hideousface--and the frozen canal in the middle, with the ice-boundfruit-boats from the islands, and the red sails of the Norwegianboats, and the Egyptian architecture of Thorwaldsen's Museum in thebackground, making up my mind to paint it all, in the brief instantbefore I added in my most convincing tones, 'The Kronprinds will bethere. '

"Her incredulous expression became tempered by wistfulness, and withan inspiration I drew out the ticket and thrust it into her hand. Isaw her eyes fill with tears as she turned her head away and examinedsome vegetables. 

"'You will excuse me, ' she said presently, holding the ticket limplyin her hand, 'but I fear it is impossible for me to accept your kindinvitation. You see I have so much to do, and my children will be souncomfortable without me. '

"'Your children will be at the ball to a man, ' I retorted. 

"'But I haven't any fancy costume, ' she pleaded, and tendered me theticket back. It struck me--almost with a pang--that her hand was bareof glove, and the work-a-day costume she was wearing was ill adapted tothe rigour of the weather. 

"'Oh! Come anyhow, ' I said. 'Ordinary evening dress. Of course, youwill need a mask. '

"I saw her lip twitch at this unfortunate way of putting it, andhastened to affect unconsciousness of my blunder. 

"'_She_ wouldn't, ' I added with feigned jocularity, nodding towardsthe preternaturally hideous _Amager_-woman. 

"'Poor old thing, ' she said gently. 'I shall be sorry when she dies. '

"'Why?' I murmured. 

"'Because then I shall be the ugliest woman in Copenhagen, ' sheanswered gaily. 

"Something in that remark sent a thrill down my backbone--there seemedan infinite pathos and lovableness in her courageous recognition offacts. It dispensed me from the painful necessity of pretending to beunaware of her ugliness--nay, gave it almost a _cachet_--made it aspossible a topic of light conversation as beauty itself. I pressed hermore fervently to come, and at last she consented, stipulating onlythat I should call for her rather late, after she had quite finishedher household duties and the other boarders had gone off to the ball. 

"Well, I took her to the ball (it was as brilliant and gay as thiswithout being riotous), and--will you believe it?--she made quite alittle sensation. With a black domino covering her impossible face, and a simple evening dress, she looked as _distinguée_ as my best girlwould have done. Her skin was good, and her figure, freed from thedistracting companionship of her face, was rather elegant, while thelively humour of her conversation had now fair play. She danced well, too, with a natural grace. I believe she enjoyed her incog. Almost asmuch as the ball, and I began to feel quite like a fairy godmother whowas giving poor little Cinderella an outing, and to regret that I hadnot the power to make her beautiful for ever, or at least to make lifeone eternal fancy ball, at which silk masks might veil the horrors ofreality. I dare say, too, she got a certain kudos through dancingso much with me, for, as I have told you _ad nauseam_, this lovelycostume of mine was the hit of the evening, and the Kronprinds askedfor the honour of an introduction to me. It was rather funny--thecircuitous etiquette. I had to be first introduced to his_aide-de-camp_. This was done through an actress of the KongeligeTheatre, with whom I had been polking (he knew all the soubrettes, that _aide-de-camp_!). Then he introduced me to the Kronprinds, andI held out my hand and shook his royal paw heartily. He was verygracious to me, learning I was an American, and complimented me onmy dress and my dancing, and I answered him affably; and the natives, gathered round at a respectful distance, eyed me with reverentcuriosity. But at last, when the music struck up again, I said, 'Excuse me, I am engaged for this waltz!' and hurried off to dancewith my Cinderella, much to the amazement of the Danes, who wonderedaudibly what mighty foreign potentate His Royal Highness had beenmaking himself agreeable to. "

"It was plain enough, " I broke in. "His Satanic Majesty, of course. "

"I am glad you interrupted me, " he said, "for you give me an openingto state that the Kronprinds has nothing to do with the story. You, ofcourse, would have left him out; but I am only an amateur, and I getmy threads mixed. "

"Shut up!" I cried. "I mean--go on. "

"Oh, well, perhaps, he _has_ got a little to do with the story, afterall; for after that, Fröken Jensen became more important--sharing inmy reflected glory--or, perhaps, now I come to think of it, it wasonly then that she became important. Anyway, important she was;and, among others, Axel Larson--who was got up as an ancient Gallicwarrior, to show off his fine figure--came up and asked me tointroduce him. I don't think I should have done so ordinarily, for hewas the filthiest-mouthed fellow in the _atelier_--a great swaggeringDon Juan Baron Munchausen sort of chap, handsome enough in his raffishway--a tall, stalwart Swede, blue-eyed and yellow-haired. But thefun of the position was that Axel Larson was one of my Cinderella's'children, ' so I could not resist introducing him formally to 'FrökenJensen. ' His happy air of expectation was replaced by a scowl ofsurprise and disgust. 

"'What, thou, Ingeborg!' he cried. 

"I could have knocked the man down. The familiar _tutoiement_, theChristian name--these, perhaps, he had a right to use; but nothingcould justify the contempt of his tone. It reminded me disagreeablyof the ugliness I had nigh forgotten. I felt Ingeborg's arm tremble inmine. 

"'Yes, it is I, Herr Larson, ' she said, with her wonted gentleness, and almost apologetically. 'This gentleman was good enough to bringme. ' She spoke as if her presence needed explanation--with thetimidity of one shut out from the pleasures of life. I could feelher poor little heart fluttering wildly, and knew that her face wasalternating from red to white beneath the mask. 

"Axel Larson shot a swift glance of surprise at me, which was followedby a more malicious bolt. 'I congratulate you, Ingeborg, ' he said, 'on the property you seem to have come into. ' It was a clever _doubleentente_--the man was witty after his coarse fashion--but the sarcasmscarcely stung either of us. I, of course, had none of the motivesthe cad imagined; and as for Ingeborg, I fancy she thought he alludedmerely to the conquest of myself, and was only pained by the fear Imight resent so ludicrous a suggestion. Having thrown the shadowof his cynicism over our innocent relation, Axel turned away highlypleased with himself, rudely neglecting to ask Ingeborg for a dance. Ifelt like giving him 'Hail Columbia, ' but I restrained myself. 

"Some days after this--in response to Ingeborg's grateful anxiety toreturn my hospitality--I went to dine with her 'children. ' I foundAxel occupying the seat of honour, and grumbling at the soup and thesauces like a sort of autocrat of the dinner-table, and generallymaking things unpleasant. I had to cling to my knife and fork so asnot to throw the water-bottle at his head. Ingeborg presided meeklyover the dishes, her ugliness more rampant than ever after theillusion of the mask. I remembered now he had been disagreeable when Ihad dined there before, though, not being interested in Ingeborg then, I had not resented his ill-humour, contenting myself with remarking tomy friend that I understood now why the Danes disliked the Swedes somuch--a generalisation that was probably as unjust as most of one'sjudgments of other peoples. After dinner I asked her why she toleratedthe fellow. She flushed painfully and murmured that times were hard. I protested that she could easily get another boarder to replace him, but she said Axel Larson had been there so long--nearly two years--andwas comfortable, and knew the ways of the house, and it would be verydiscourteous to ask him to go. I insisted that rather than seeher suffer I would move into Larson's room myself, but she urgedtremulously that she didn't suffer at all from his rudeness, it wasonly his surface-manner; it deceived strangers, but there was a goodheart underneath, as who could know better than she? Besides, he wasa genius with the brush, and everybody knew well that geniuses werebears. And, finally, she could not afford to lose boarders--there werealready two vacancies. 

"It ended--as I dare say you have guessed--by my filling up one ofthose two vacancies, partly to help her pecuniarily, partly to actas a buffer between her and the swaggering Swede. He was quiteflabbergasted by my installation in the house, and took me aside inthe _atelier_ and asked me if Ingeborg had really come into any money. I was boiling over, but I kept the lid on by main force, and answeredcurtly that Ingeborg had a heart of gold. He laughed boisterously, and said one could not raise anything on that; adding, with an air ofauthority, that he believed I spoke the truth, for it was not likelythe hag would have kept anything from her oldest boarder. 'I dare saythe real truth is, ' he wound up, 'that you are hard up, like me, andwant to do the thing cheap. '

"'I wasn't aware you were hard up, ' I said, for I had seen him oftenenough flaunting it in the theatres and restaurants. 

"'Not for luxuries, ' he retorted with a guffaw, 'but fornecessities--yes. And there comes in the value of our domesticeyesore. Why, I haven't paid her a _skilling_ for six months!'

"I thought of poor Ingeborg's thin winter attire, and would have likedto reply with my fist, only the reply didn't seem quite logical. Itwas not my business, after all; but I thought I understood now whyIngeborg was so reluctant to part with him--it is the immemorialfallacy of economical souls to throw good money after bad; though whenI saw the patience with which she bore his querulous complaints andthe solicitude with which she attended to his wants, I sometimesimagined he had some secret hold over her. Often I saw her cowerand flush piteously, as with terror, before his insolent gaze. But Idecided finally his was merely the ascendency of the strong overthe weak--of the bully over his victims, who serve him more loyallybecause he kicks them. The bad-tempered have the best of it in thisvile world. I cannot tell you how I grew to pity that poor girl. Living in her daily presence, I marked the thousand and one trialsof which her life was made up, all borne with the same sweetness andgood-humour. I discovered that she had a bed-ridden mother, whom shekept in the attic, and whom she stole up to attend to fifty times aday, sitting with her when her work was done and the moonlight on theSound tempted one to be out enjoying one's youth. Alone she managedand financed the entire establishment, aided only by a littlemaid-of-all-work, just squeezing out a scanty living for herselfand her mother. If ever there was an angel on earth it was IngeborgJensen. I tell you, when I see the angels of the Italian masters Ifeel they are all wrong: I don't want flaxen-haired cherubs to giveme an idea of heaven in this hell of a world. I just want to see goodhonest faces, full of suffering and sacrifice, and if ever I paint anangel its phiz shall have the unflinching ugliness of Ingeborg Jensen, God bless her! To be near her was to live in an atmosphere of purityand pity and tenderness, and everything that is sweet and sacred. "

As he spoke I became suddenly aware that the gas-lights were paling, and glancing towards the window on my left I saw the splendour of thesunrise breaking fresh and clear over the city of diabolical night, where in the sombre eastern sky--

"God made himself an awful rose of dawn. "

A breath of coolness and purity seemed to waft into the feverishball-room; a ray of fresh morning sunlight. I looked curiously at theyoung artist. He seemed transfigured. I could scarcely realise thatan hour ago he had been among the rowdiest of the _Comus_ crew, whoseshrieks and laughter still rang all around us. Even his duplex costumeseemed to have grown subtly symbolical, the diabolical part typicalof all that is bestial and selfish in man, the death-mask speakingsilently of renunciation and the peace of the tomb. He went on, aftera moment of emotion: "They say that pity is akin to love, but I am notsure that I ever loved her, for I suppose that love involves passion, and I never arrived at that. I only came to feel that I wanted to bewith her always, to guard her, to protect her, to work for her, tosuffer for her if need be, to give her life something of the joy andsweetness that God owed her. I felt I wasn't much use in the world, and that would be something to do. And so one day--though not withoutmuch mental tossing, for we are curiously, complexly built, and Idreaded ridicule and the long years of comment from unsympatheticstrangers--I asked her to be my wife. Her surprise, her agitation, waspainful to witness. But she was not incredulous, as before; she hadlearned to know that I respected her. 

"Nevertheless, her immediate impulse was one of refusal. 

"'It cannot be, ' she said, and her bosom heaved spasmodically. 

"I protested that it could and would be, but she shook her head. 

"'You are very kind to me! God bless you!' she said. 'You have alwaysbeen kind to me. But you do not love me. '

"I assured her I did, and in that moment I dare say I spoke the truth. For in that moment of her reluctance and diffidence to snatch atproffered joy, when the suggestion of rejection made her appear doublyprecious, she seemed to me the most adorable creature in the world. 

"But still she shook her head. 'No one can love me, ' she said sadly. 

"I took her hand in mute protestation, but she withdrew it gently. 

"'I cannot be your wife, ' she persisted. 

"'Why not, Ingeborg?' I asked passionately. 

"She hesitated, panting and colouring painfully, then--the words areechoing in my brain--she answered softly, '_Jeg kan ikke elske Dem_'(I cannot love you). 

"It was like a shaft of lightning piercing me, rending andilluminating. In my blind conceit the obverse side of the question hadnever presented itself to me. I had taken it for granted I had only toask to be jumped at. But now, in one great flash of insight, I seemedto see everything plain. 

"'You love Axel Larson!' I cried chokingly, as I thought of all theinsults he had heaped upon her in her presence, all the sneers andvile jocosities of which she had been the butt behind her back, in return for the care she had lavished upon his comfort, for herpinching to make both ends meet without the money he should havecontributed. 

"She did not reply. The tears came into her eyes, she let her headdroop on her heaving breast. As in those visions that are said tocome to the dying, I saw Axel Larson feeding day by day at her board, brutally conscious of her passion, yet not deigning even to sacrificeher to it; I saw him ultimately leave the schools and the town tocarry his clever brush to the welcome of a wider world, without a wordor a thought of thanks for the creature who had worshipped and waitedupon him hand and foot; and then I saw her life from day to day unrollits long monotonous folds, all in the same pattern, all drab duty andjoyless sacrifice, and hopeless undying love. 

"I took her hand again in a passion of pity. She understood mysympathy, and the hot tears started from her eyes and rolled down herpoor wan cheeks. And in that holy moment I saw into the inner heavenof woman's love, which purifies and atones for the world. The eternalfeminine!"

The sentimental young artist ceased, and buried his devil's face inhis hands. I looked around and started. We were alone in the abandonedsupper-room. The gorgeously grotesque company was seated in a giganticcircle upon the ball-room floor furiously applauding the efforts oftwo sweetly pretty girls who were performing the celebrated _danse duventre_. 

"The eternal feminine!" I echoed pensively. 

 * * * * *

THE SILENT SISTERS

They had quarrelled in girlhood, and mutually declared theirintention never to speak to each other again, wetting and drying theirforefingers to the accompaniment of an ancient childish incantation, and while they lived on the paternal farm they kept their foolish oathwith the stubbornness of a slow country stock, despite the alternatecoaxing and chastisement of their parents, notwithstanding theperpetual everyday contact of their lives, through every vicissitudeof season and weather, of sowing and reaping, of sun and shade, of joyand sorrow. 

Death and misfortune did not reconcile them, and when their fatherdied and the old farm was sold up, they travelled to London in thesame silence, by the same train, in search of similar situations. Service separated them for years, though there was only a stone'sthrow between them. They often stared at each other in the streets. 

Honor, the elder, married a local artisan, and two and a half yearslater, Mercy, the younger, married a fellow-workman of Honor'shusband. The two husbands were friends, and often visited each other'shouses, which were on opposite sides of the same sordid street, andthe wives made them welcome. Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered anallusion to their breach; it was understood that their silence must bereceived in silence. Each of the children had a quiverful of childrenwho played and quarrelled together in the streets and in one another'shouses, but not even the street affrays and mutual grievances of thechildren could provoke the mothers to words. They stood at their doorsin impotent fury, almost bursting with the torture of keeping theirmouths shut against the effervescence of angry speech. When eitherlost a child the other watched the funeral from her window, dumb asthe mutes. 

The years rolled on, and still the river of silence flowed between theirlives. Their good looks faded, the burden of life and child-bearing washeavy upon them. Grey hairs streaked their brown tresses, then brownhairs streaked their grey tresses. The puckers of age replaced thedimples of youth. The years rolled on, and Death grew busy among thefamilies. Honor's husband died, and Mercy lost a son, who died a weekafter his wife. Cholera took several of the younger children. But thesisters themselves lived on, bent and shrivelled by toil and sorrow, evenmore than by the slow frost of the years. 

Then one day Mercy took to her death-bed. An internal disease, toolong neglected, would carry her off within a week. So the doctor toldJim, Mercy's husband. 

Through him, the news travelled to Honor's eldest son, who still livedwith her. By the evening it reached Honor. 

She went upstairs abruptly when her son told her, leaving himwondering at her stony aspect. When she came down she was bonneted andshawled. He was filled with joyous amaze to see her hobble across thestreet and for the first time in her life pass over her sister Mercy'sthreshold. 

As Honor entered the sick-room, with pursed lips, a light leapt intothe wasted, wrinkled countenance of the dying creature. She raisedherself slightly in bed, her lips parted, then shut tightly, and herface darkened. 

Honor turned angrily to Mercy's husband, who hung about impotently. "Why did you let her run down so low?" she said. 

"I didn't know, " the old man stammered, taken aback by her presenceeven more than by her question. "She was always a woman to say nothin'. "

Honor put him impatiently aside and examined the medicine bottle onthe bedside table. 

"Isn't it time she took her dose?"

"I dessay. "

Honor snorted wrathfully. "What's the use of a man?" she inquired, asshe carefully measured out the fluid and put it to her sister's lips, which opened to receive it, and then closed tightly again. 

"How is your wife feeling now?" Honor asked after a pause. 

"How are you, now, Mercy?" asked the old man awkwardly. 

The old woman shook her head. "I'm a-goin' fast, Jim, " she grumbledweakly, and a tear of self-pity trickled down her parchment cheek. 

"What rubbidge she do talk!" cried Honor, sharply. "Why d'ye standthere like a tailor's dummy? Why don't you tell her to cheer up?"

"Cheer up, Mercy, " quavered the old man, hoarsely. 

But Mercy groaned instead, and turned fretfully on her other side, with her face to the wall. 

"I'm too old, I'm too old, " she moaned, "this is the end o' me. "

"Did you ever hear the like?" Honor asked Jim, angrily, as shesmoothed his wife's pillow. "She was always conceited about her age, settin' herself up as the equals of her elders, and here am I, herelder sister, as carried her in my arms when I was five and she wastwo, still hale and strong, and with no mind for underground for manya day. Nigh three times her age I was once, mind you, and now she hasthe imperence to talk of dyin' before me. "

She took off her bonnet and shawl. "Send one o' the kids to tell myboy I'm stayin' here, " she said, "and then just you get 'em all tobed--there's too much noise about the house. "

The children, who were orphaned grandchildren of the dying woman, weresent to bed, and then Jim himself was packed off to refresh himselffor the next day's labours, for the poor old fellow still dodderedabout the workshop. 

The silence of the sick-room spread over the whole house. About teno'clock the doctor came again and instructed Honor how to alleviatethe patient's last hours. All night long she sat watching her dyingsister, hand and eye alert to anticipate every wish. No word broke theawful stillness. 

The first thing in the morning, Mercy's married daughter, the onlychild of hers living in London, arrived to nurse her mother. But Honorindignantly refused to be dispossessed. 

"A nice daughter you are, " she said, "to leave your mother lay a dayand a night without a sight o' your ugly face. "

"I had to look after the good man, and the little 'uns, " the daughterpleaded. 

"Then what do you mean by desertin' them now?" the irate old womanretorted. "First you deserts your mother, and then your husband andchildren. You must go back to them as needs your care. I carried yourmother in my arms before you was born, and if she wants anybody elsenow to look after her, let her just tell me so, and I'll be off in abrace o' shakes. "

She looked defiantly at the yellow, dried-up creature in the bed. Mercy's withered lips twitched, but no sound came from them. Jim, strung up by the situation, took the word. "You can't do no good uphere, the doctor says. You might look after the kids downstairs a bit, when you can spare an hour, and I've got to go to the shop. I'll sendyou a telegraph if there's a change, " he whispered to the daughter, and she, not wholly discontented to return to her living interests, kissed her mother, lingered a little, and then stole quietly away. 

All that day the old women remained together in solemn silence, brokenonly by the doctor's visit. He reported that Mercy might last a coupleof days more. In the evening Jim replaced his sister-in-law, who sleptperforce. At midnight she reappeared and sent him to bed. The sufferertossed about restlessly. At half-past two she awoke, and Honor fed herwith some broth, as she would have fed a baby. Mercy, indeed, lookedscarcely bigger than an infant, and Honor only had the advantage ofher by being puffed out with clothes. A church clock in the distancestruck three. Then the silence fell deeper. The watcher drowsed, thelamp flickered, tossing her shadow about the walls as if she, too, were turning feverishly from side to side. A strange ticking madeitself heard in the wainscoting. Mercy sat up with a scream of terror. "Jim!" she shrieked, "Jim!"

Honor started up, opened her mouth to cry "Hush!" then checkedherself, suddenly frozen. 

"Jim, " cried the dying woman, "listen! Is that the death spider?"

Honor listened, her blood curdling. Then she went towards the doorand opened it. "Jim, " she said, in low tones, speaking towards thelanding, "tell her it's nothing, it's only a mouse. She was always anervous little thing. " And she closed the door softly, and pressingher trembling sister tenderly back on the pillow, tucked her up snuglyin the blanket. 

Next morning, when Jim was really present, the patient beggedpathetically to have a grandchild with her in the room, day and night. "Don't leave me alone again, " she quavered, "don't leave me alone withnot a soul to talk to. " Honor winced, but said nothing. 

The youngest child, who did not have to go to school, was brought--apretty little boy with brown curls, which the sun, streaming throughthe panes, turned to gold. The morning passed slowly. About noon Mercytook the child's hand, and smoothed his curls. 

"My sister Honor had golden curls like that, " she whispered. 

"They were in the family, Bobby, " Honor answered. "Your granny hadthem, too, when she was a girl. "

There was a long pause. Mercy's eyes were half-glazed. But her visionwas inward now. 

"The mignonette will be growin' in the gardens, Bobby, " she murmured. 

"Yes, Bobby, and the heart's-ease, " said Honor, softly. "We lived inthe country, you know, Bobby. "

"There is flowers in the country, " Bobby declared gravely. 

"Yes, and trees, " said Honor. "I wonder if your granny remembers whenwe were larruped for stealin' apples. "

"Ay, that I do, Bobby, he, he, " croaked the dying creature, with aburst of enthusiasm. "We was a pair o' tomboys. The farmer he ranafter us cryin' 'Ye! ye!' but we wouldn't take no gar. He, he, he!"

Honor wept at the laughter. The native idiom, unheard for half acentury, made her face shine under the tears. "Don't let your grannyexcite herself, Bobby. Let me give her her drink. " She moved the boyaside, and Mercy's lips automatically opened to the draught. 

"Tom was wi' us, Bobby, " she gurgled, still vibrating with amusement, "and he tumbled over on the heather. He, he!"

"Tom is dead this forty year, Bobby, " whispered Honor. 

Mercy's head fell back, and an expression of supreme exhaustion cameover the face. Half an hour passed. Bobby was called down to dinner. The doctor had been sent for. The silent sisters were alone. SuddenlyMercy sat up with a jerk. 

"It be growin' dark, Tom, " she said hoarsely, "'haint it time to callthe cattle home from the ma'shes?"

"She's talkin' rubbidge again, " said Honor, chokingly. "Tell her she'sin London, Bobby. "

A wave of intelligence traversed the sallow face. Still sitting up, Mercy bent towards the side of the bed. "Ah, is Honor still there?Kiss me--Bobby. " Her hands groped blindly. Honor bent down and the oldwomen's withered lips met. 

And in that kiss Mercy passed away into the greater Silence. 

 * * * * *

THE BIG BOW MYSTERY

I

On a memorable morning of early December, London opened its eyes on afrigid grey mist. There are mornings when King Fog masses his moleculesof carbon in serried squadrons in the city, while he scatters themtenuously in the suburbs; so that your morning train may bear you fromtwilight to darkness. But to-day the enemy's manoeuvring was moremonotonous. From Bow even unto Hammersmith there draggled a dull, wretched vapour, like the wraith of an impecunious suicide come into afortune immediately after the fatal deed. The barometers and thermometershad sympathetically shared its depression, and their spirits (when theyhad any) were low. The cold cut like a many-bladed knife. 

Mrs. Drabdump, of 11 Glover Street, Bow, was one of the few persons inLondon whom fog did not depress. She went about her work quite ascheerlessly as usual. She had been among the earliest to be aware of theenemy's advent, picking out the strands of fog from the coils of darknessthe moment she rolled up her bedroom blind and unveiled the sombrepicture of the winter morning. She knew that the fog had come to stay forthe day at least, and that the gas-bill for the quarter was going to beatthe record in high-jumping. She also knew that this was because she hadallowed her new gentleman lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant, to pay a fixed sumof a shilling a week for gas, instead of charging him a proportion of theactual account for the whole house. The meteorologists might have savedthe credit of their science if they had reckoned with Mrs. Drabdump'snext gas-bill when they predicted the weather and made "Snow" thefavourite, and said that "Fog" would be nowhere. Fog was everywhere, yetMrs. Drabdump took no credit to herself for her prescience. Mrs. Drabdumpindeed took no credit for anything, paying her way along doggedly, andstruggling through life like a wearied swimmer trying to touch thehorizon. That things always went as badly as she had foreseen did notexhilarate her in the least. 

Mrs. Drabdump was a widow. Widows are not born but made, else you mighthave fancied Mrs. Drabdump had always been a widow. Nature had given herthat tall, spare form, and that pale, thin-lipped, elongated, hard-eyedvisage, and that painfully precise hair, which are always associated withwidowhood in low life. It is only in higher circles that women can losetheir husbands and yet remain bewitching. The late Mr. Drabdump hadscratched the base of his thumb with a rusty nail, and Mrs. Drabdump'sforeboding that he would die of lockjaw had not prevented her wrestlingday and night with the shadow of Death, as she had wrestled with itvainly twice before, when Katie died of diphtheria and little Johnny ofscarlet fever. Perhaps it is from overwork among the poor that Death hasbeen reduced to a shadow. 

Mrs. Drabdump was lighting the kitchen fire. She did it veryscientifically, as knowing the contrariety of coal and the anxiety offlaming sticks to end in smoke unless rigidly kept up to the mark. Science was a success as usual; and Mrs. Drabdump rose from her kneescontent, like a Parsee priestess who had duly paid her morning devotionsto her deity. Then she started violently, and nearly lost her balance. Her eye had caught the hands of the clock on the mantel. They pointed tofifteen minutes to seven. Mrs. Drabdump's devotion to the kitchen fireinvariably terminated at fifteen minutes past six. What was the matterwith the clock?

Mrs. Drabdump had an immediate vision of Snoppet, the neighbouringhorologist, keeping the clock in hand for weeks and then returning itonly superficially repaired and secretly injured more vitally "for thegood of the trade. " The evil vision vanished as quickly as it came, exorcised by the deep boom of St. Dunstan's bells chiming thethree-quarters. In its place a great horror surged. Instinct had failed;Mrs. Drabdump had risen at half-past six instead of six. Now sheunderstood why she had been feeling so dazed and strange and sleepy. She had overslept herself. 

Chagrined and puzzled, she hastily set the kettle over the cracklingcoal, discovering a second later that she had overslept herself becauseMr. Constant wished to be woke three-quarters of an hour earlier thanusual, and to have his breakfast at seven, having to speak at an earlymeeting of discontented tram-men. She ran at once, candle in hand, to hisbedroom. It was upstairs. All "upstairs" was Arthur Constant's domain, for it consisted of but two mutually independent rooms. Mrs. Drabdumpknocked viciously at the door of the one he used for a bedroom, crying, "Seven o'clock, sir. You'll be late, sir. You must get up at once. " Theusual slumbrous "All right" was not forthcoming; but, as she herself hadvaried her morning salute, her ear was less expectant of the echo. Shewent downstairs, with no foreboding save that the kettle would come offsecond best in the race between its boiling and her lodger's dressing. 

For she knew there was no fear of Arthur Constant's lying deaf tothe call of Duty--temporarily represented by Mrs. Drabdump. He wasa light sleeper, and the tram-conductors' bells were probably ringingin his ears, summoning him to the meeting. Why Arthur Constant, B. A. --white-handed and white-shirted, and gentleman to the very purse ofhim--should concern himself with tram-men, when fortune had confined hisnecessary relations with drivers to cabmen at the least, Mrs. Drabdumpcould not quite make out. He probably aspired to represent Bow inParliament; but then it would surely have been wiser to lodge with alandlady who possessed a vote by having a husband alive. Nor was theremuch practical wisdom in his wish to black his own boots (an occupationin which he shone but little), and to live in every way like a Bowworking man. Bow working men were not so lavish in their patronage ofwater, whether existing in drinking-glasses, morning tubs, or laundress'sestablishments. Nor did they eat the delicacies with which Mrs. Drabdumpsupplied him, with the assurance that they were the artisan's appanage. She could not bear to see him eat things unbefitting his station. ArthurConstant opened his mouth and ate what his landlady gave him, not firstdeliberately shutting his eyes according to the formula, the ratherpluming himself on keeping them very wide open. But it is difficult forsaints to see through their own halos; and in practice an aureola aboutthe head is often indistinguishable from a mist. 

The tea to be scalded in Mr. Constant's pot, when that cantankerouskettle should boil, was not the coarse mixture of black and green sacredto herself and Mr. Mortlake, of whom the thoughts of breakfast nowreminded her. Poor Mr. Mortlake, gone off without any to Devonport, somewhere about four in the fog-thickened darkness of a winter night!Well, she hoped his journey would be duly rewarded, that his perks wouldbe heavy, and that he would make as good a thing out of the "travellingexpenses" as rival labour leaders roundly accused him of to otherpeople's faces. She did not grudge him his gains, nor was it her businessif, as they alleged, in introducing Mr. Constant to her vacant rooms, hisidea was not merely to benefit his landlady. He had done her an uncommongood turn, queer as was the lodger thus introduced. His own apostleshipto the sons of toil gave Mrs. Drabdump no twinges of perplexity. TomMortlake had been a compositor; and apostleship was obviously aprofession better paid and of a higher social status. Tom Mortlake--thehero of a hundred strikes--set up in print on a poster, was unmistakablysuperior to Tom Mortlake setting up other men's names at a case. Still, the work was not all beer and skittles, and Mrs. Drabdump felt that Tom'slatest job was not enviable. 

She shook his door as she passed it on her way back to the kitchen, butthere was no response. The street door was only a few feet off down thepassage, and a glance at it dispelled the last hope that Tom hadabandoned the journey. The door was unbolted and unchained, and the onlysecurity was the latch-key lock. Mrs. Drabdump felt a whit uneasy, though, to give her her due, she never suffered as much as most goodhousewives do from criminals who never come. Not quite opposite, butstill only a few doors off, on the other side of the street, lived thecelebrated ex-detective Grodman, and, illogically enough, his presence inthe street gave Mrs. Drabdump a curious sense of security, as of abeliever living under the shadow of the fane. That any human being of illodour should consciously come within a mile of the scent of so famous asleuth-hound seemed to her highly improbable. Grodman had retired (with acompetence) and was only a sleeping dog now; still, even criminals wouldhave sense enough to let him lie. 

So Mrs. Drabdump did not really feel that there had been any danger, especially as a second glance at the street door showed that Mortlake hadbeen thoughtful enough to slip the loop that held back the bolt of thebig lock. She allowed herself another throb of sympathy for the labourleader whirling on his dreary way towards Devonport Dockyard. Not that hehad told her anything of his journey, beyond the town; but she knewDevonport had a Dockyard because Jessie Dymond--Tom's sweetheart--oncementioned that her aunt lived near there, and it lay on the surface thatTom had gone to help the dockers, who were imitating their Londonbrethren. Mrs. Drabdump did not need to be told things to be aware ofthem. She went back to prepare Mr. Constant's superfine tea, vaguelywondering why people were so discontented nowadays. But when she broughtup the tea and the toast and the eggs to Mr. Constant's sitting-room(which adjoined his bedroom, though without communicating with it), Mr. Constant was not sitting in it. She lit the gas, and laid the cloth; thenshe returned to the landing and beat at the bedroom door with animperative palm. Silence alone answered her. She called him by name andtold him the hour, but hers was the only voice she heard, and it soundedstrangely to her in the shadows of the staircase. Then, muttering, "Poorgentleman, he had the toothache last night; and p'r'aps he's only justgot a wink o' sleep. Pity to disturb him for the sake of them grizzlingconductors. I'll let him sleep his usual time, " she bore the tea-potdownstairs with a mournful, almost poetic, consciousness that soft-boiledeggs (like love) must grow cold. 

Half-past seven came--and she knocked again. But Constant slept on. 

His letters, always a strange assortment, arrived at eight, and atelegram came soon after. Mrs. Drabdump rattled his door, shouted, and atlast put the wire under it. Her heart was beating fast enough now, thoughthere seemed to be a cold, clammy snake curling round it. She wentdownstairs again and turned the handle of Mortlake's room, and went inwithout knowing why. The coverlet of the bed showed that the occupant hadonly lain down in his clothes, as if fearing to miss the early train. Shehad not for a moment expected to find him in the room; yet somehow theconsciousness that she was alone in the house with the sleeping Constantseemed to flash for the first time upon her, and the clammy snaketightened its folds round her heart. 

She opened the street door, and her eye wandered nervously up and down. It was half-past eight. The little street stretched cold and still in thegrey mist, blinking bleary eyes at either end, where the street lampssmouldered on. No one was visible for the moment, though smoke was risingfrom many of the chimneys to greet its sister mist. At the house of thedetective across the way the blinds were still down and the shutters up. Yet the familiar, prosaic aspect of the street calmed her. The bleak airset her coughing; she slammed the door to, and returned to the kitchen tomake fresh tea for Constant, who could only be in a deep sleep. But thecanister trembled in her grasp. She did not know whether she dropped itor threw it down, but there was nothing in the hand that battered againa moment later at the bedroom door. No sound within answered the clamourwithout. She rained blow upon blow in a sort of spasm of frenzy, scarceremembering that her object was merely to wake her lodger, and almoststaving in the lower panels with her kicks. Then she turned the handleand tried to open the door, but it was locked. The resistance recalledher to herself--she had a moment of shocked decency at the thought thatshe had been about to enter Constant's bedroom. Then the terror came overher afresh. She felt that she was alone in the house with a corpse. Shesank to the floor, cowering; with difficulty stifling a desire to scream. Then she rose with a jerk and raced down the stairs without lookingbehind her, and threw open the door and ran out into the street, onlypulling up with her hand violently agitating Grodman's door-knocker. In amoment the first-floor window was raised--the little house was of thesame pattern as her own--and Grodman's full fleshy face loomed throughthe fog in sleepy irritation from under a nightcap. Despite its scowl theex-detective's face dawned upon her like the sun upon an occupant of thehaunted chamber. 

"What in the devil's the matter?" he growled. Grodman was not an earlybird, now that he had no worms to catch. He could afford to despiseproverbs now, for the house in which he lived was his, and he lived in itbecause several other houses in the street were also his, and it is wellfor the landlord to be about his own estate in Bow, where poachers oftenshoot the moon. Perhaps the desire to enjoy his greatness among his earlycronies counted for something, too, for he had been born and bred at Bow, receiving when a youth his first engagement from the local policequarters, whence he had drawn a few shillings a week as an amateurdetective in his leisure hours. 

Grodman was still a bachelor. In the celestial matrimonial bureau apartner might have been selected for him, but he had never been ableto discover her. It was his one failure as a detective. He was aself-sufficing person, who preferred a gas stove to a domestic; but indeference to Glover Street opinion he admitted a female factotum betweenten A. M. And ten P. M. , and, equally in deference to Glover Streetopinion, excluded her between ten P. M. And ten A. M. 

"I want you to come across at once, " Mrs. Drabdump gasped. "Something hashappened to Mr. Constant. "

"What! Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I hope?"

"No, no! He didn't go. He is dead. "

"Dead?" Grodman's face grew very serious now. 

"Yes. Murdered!"

"What?" almost shouted the ex-detective. "How? When? Where? Who?"

"I don't know. I can't get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does notanswer. "

Grodman's face lit up with relief. 

"You silly woman! Is that all? I shall have a cold in my head. Bitterweather. He's dog-tired after yesterday--processions, three speeches, kindergarten, lecture on 'the moon, ' article on cooperation. That's hisstyle. " It was also Grodman's style. He never wasted words. 

"No, " Mrs. Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, "he's dead. "

"All right; go back. Don't alarm the neighbourhood unnecessarily. Waitfor me. Down in five minutes. " Grodman did not take this Cassandra of thekitchen too seriously. Probably he knew his woman. His small, bead-likeeyes glittered with an almost amused smile as he withdrew them fromMrs. Drabdump's ken, and shut down the sash with a bang. The poor womanran back across the road and through her door, which she would notclose behind her. It seemed to shut her in with the dead. She waited inthe passage. After an age--seven minutes by any honest clock--Grodmanmade his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but with unkempthair and with disconsolate side-whisker. He was not quite used to thatside-whisker yet, for it had only recently come within the margin ofcultivation. In active service Grodman had been clean-shaven, like allmembers of _the_ profession--for surely your detective is the mostversatile of actors. Mrs. Drabdump closed the street door quietly, andpointed to the stairs, fear operating like a polite desire to give himprecedence. Grodman ascended, amusement still glimmering in his eyes. Arrived on the landing he knocked peremptorily at the door, crying, "Nineo'clock, Mr. Constant; nine o'clock!" When he ceased there was no othersound or movement. His face grew more serious. He waited, then knocked, and cried louder. He turned the handle but the door was fast. He tried topeer through the keyhole, but it was blocked. He shook the upper panels, but the door seemed bolted as well as locked. He stood still, his faceset and rigid, for he liked and esteemed the man. 

"Ay, knock your loudest, " whispered the pale-faced woman. "You'll notwake him now. "

The grey mist had followed them through the street door, and hoveredabout the staircase, charging the air with a moist sepulchral odour. 

"Locked and bolted, " muttered Grodman, shaking the door afresh. 

"Burst it open, " breathed the woman, trembling violently all over, andholding her hands before her as if to ward off the dreadful vision. Without another word, Grodman applied his shoulder to the door, and madea violent muscular effort. He had been an athlete in his time, and thesap was yet in him. The door creaked, little by little it began togive, the woodwork enclosing the bolt of the lock splintered, the panelsbent inwards, the large upper bolt tore off its iron staple; the doorflew back with a crash. Grodman rushed in. 

"My God!" he cried. The woman shrieked. The sight was too terrible. 

 * * * * *

Within a few hours the jubilant newsboys were shrieking "Horrible Suicidein Bow, " and _The Moon_ poster added, for the satisfaction of those toopoor to purchase, "A Philanthropist Cuts His Throat. "

II

But the newspapers were premature. Scotland Yard refused to prejudice thecase despite the penny-a-liners. Several arrests were made, so that thelater editions were compelled to soften "Suicide" into "Mystery. " Thepeople arrested were a nondescript collection of tramps. Most of them hadcommitted other offences for which the police had not arrested them. Onebewildered-looking gentleman gave himself up (as if he were a riddle), but the police would have none of him, and restored him forthwith to hisfriends and keepers. The number of candidates for each new opening inNewgate is astonishing. 

The full significance of this tragedy of a noble young life cut shorthad hardly time to filter into the public mind, when a fresh sensationabsorbed it. Tom Mortlake had been arrested the same day at Liverpool onsuspicion of being concerned in the death of his fellow-lodger. The newsfell like a bombshell upon a land in which Tom Mortlake's name was ahousehold word. That the gifted artisan orator, who had never shrunk uponoccasion from launching red rhetoric at society, should actually haveshed blood seemed too startling, especially as the blood shed was notblue, but the property of a lovable young middle-class idealist, who hadnow literally given his life to the Cause. But this supplementarysensation did not grow to a head, and everybody (save a few labourleaders) was relieved to hear that Tom had been released almostimmediately, being merely subpoenaed to appear at the inquest. In aninterview which he accorded to the representative of a Liverpool paperthe same afternoon, he stated that he put his arrest down entirely to theenmity and rancour entertained towards him by the police throughout thecountry. He had come to Liverpool to trace the movements of a friendabout whom he was very uneasy, and he was making anxious inquiries at thedocks to discover at what times steamers left for America, when thedetectives stationed there had, in accordance with instructions fromheadquarters, arrested him as a suspicious-looking character. "Though, "said Tom, "they must very well have known my phiz, as I have beensketched and caricatured all over the shop. When I told them who I wasthey had the decency to let me go. They thought they'd scored off meenough, I reckon. Yes, it certainly _is_ a strange coincidence that Imight actually have had something to do with the poor fellow's death, which has cut me up as much as anybody; though if they had known I hadjust come from the 'scene of the crime, ' and actually lived in the house, they would probably have--let me alone. " He laughed sarcastically. "Theyare a queer lot of muddle-heads, are the police. Their motto is, 'Firstcatch your man, then cook the evidence. ' If you're on the spot you'reguilty because you're there, and if you're elsewhere you're guiltybecause you have gone away. Oh, I know them! If they could have seentheir way to clap me in quod, they'd ha' done it. Luckily I know thenumber of the cabman who took me to Euston before five this morning. "

"If they clapped you in quod, " the interviewer reported himself asfacetiously observing, "the prisoners would be on strike in a week. "

"Yes, but there would be so many blacklegs ready to take their places, "Mortlake flashed back, "that I'm afraid it 'ould be no go. But do excuseme. I am so upset about my friend. I'm afraid he has left England, and Ihave to make inquiries; and now there's poor Constant gone--horrible!horrible! and I'm due in London at the inquest. I must really run away. Good-by. Tell your readers it's all a police grudge. "

"One last word, Mr. Mortlake, if you please. Is it true that you werebilled to preside at a great meeting of clerks at St. James's Hallbetween one and two to-day to protest against the German invasion?"

"Whew! so I was. But the beggars arrested me just before one, when I wasgoing to wire, and then the news of poor Constant's end drove it out ofmy head. What a nuisance! Lord, how troubles do come together! Well, good-by, send me a copy of the paper. "

Tom Mortlake's evidence at the inquest added little beyond this to thepublic knowledge of his movements on the morning of the Mystery. Thecabman who drove him to Euston had written indignantly to the papers tosay that he picked up his celebrated fare at Bow Railway Station at abouthalf-past four A. M. , and the arrest was a deliberate insult to democracy, and he offered to make an affidavit to that effect, leaving it dubious towhich effect. But Scotland Yard betrayed no itch for the affidavit inquestion, and No. 2138 subsided again into the obscurity of his rank. Mortlake--whose face was very pale below the black mane brushed back fromhis fine forehead--gave his evidence in low, sympathetic tones. He hadknown the deceased for over a year, coming constantly across him in theircommon political and social work, and had found the furnished rooms forhim in Glover Street at his own request, they just being to let whenConstant resolved to leave his rooms at Oxford House in Bethnal Green, and to share the actual life of the people. The locality suited thedeceased, as being near the People's Palace. He respected and admiredthe deceased, whose genuine goodness had won all hearts. The deceasedwas an untiring worker; never grumbled, was always in fair spirits, regarded his life and wealth as a sacred trust to be used for the benefitof humanity. He had last seen him at a quarter past nine P. M. On theday preceding his death. He (witness) had received a letter by the lastpost which made him uneasy about a friend. He went up to consult deceasedabout it. Deceased was evidently suffering from toothache, and was fixinga piece of cotton-wool in a hollow tooth, but he did not complain. Deceased seemed rather upset by the news he brought, and they bothdiscussed it rather excitedly. 

By a JURYMAN: Did the news concern him?

MORTLAKE: Only impersonally. He knew my friend, and was keenlysympathetic when one was in trouble. 

CORONER: Could you show the jury the letter you received?

MORTLAKE: I have mislaid it, and cannot make out where it has got to. Ifyou, sir, think it relevant or essential, I will state what the troublewas. 

CORONER: Was the toothache very violent?

MORTLAKE: I cannot tell. I think not, though he told me it had disturbedhis rest the night before. 

CORONER: What time did you leave him?

MORTLAKE: About twenty to ten. 

CORONER: And what did you do then?

MORTLAKE: I went out for an hour or so to make some inquiries. Then Ireturned, and told my landlady I should be leaving by an early trainfor--for the country. 

CORONER: And that was the last you saw of the deceased?

MORTLAKE (with emotion): The last. 

CORONER: How was he when you left him?

MORTLAKE: Mainly concerned about my trouble. 

CORONER: Otherwise you saw nothing unusual about him?

MORTLAKE: Nothing. 

CORONER: What time did you leave the house on Tuesday morning?

MORTLAKE: At about five-and-twenty minutes past four. 

CORONER: Are you sure that you shut the street door?

MORTLAKE: Quite sure. Knowing my landlady was rather a timid person, Ieven slipped the bolt of the big lock, which was usually tied back. Itwas impossible for any one to get in, even with a latch-key. 

Mrs. Drabdump's evidence (which, of course, preceded his) was moreimportant, and occupied a considerable time, unduly eked out byDrabdumpian padding. Thus she not only deposed that Mr. Constant had thetoothache, but that it was going to last about a week; in tragi-comicindifference to the radical cure that had been effected. Her account ofthe last hours of the deceased tallied with Mortlake's, only that shefeared Mortlake was quarrelling with him over something in the letterthat came by the nine o'clock post. Deceased had left the house a littleafter Mortlake, but had returned before him, and had gone straight tohis bedroom. She had not actually seen him come in, having been in thekitchen, but she heard his latch-key, followed by his light step up thestairs. 

A JURYMAN: How do you know it was not somebody else? (_Sensation, ofwhich the juryman tries to look unconscious_. )

WITNESS: He called down to me over the banisters, and says in hissweetish voice, "Be hextra sure to wake me at a quarter to seven, Mrs. Drabdump, or else I shan't get to my tram meeting. " (_Jurymancollapses_. )

CORONER: And did you wake him?

MRS. DRABDUMP (breaking down): Oh, my lud, how can you ask?

CORONER: There, there, compose yourself. I mean did you try to wake him?

MRS. DRABDUMP: I have taken in and done for lodgers this seventeen years, my lud, and have always gave satisfaction; and Mr. Mortlake, he wouldn'tha' recommended me otherwise, though I wish to Heaven the poor gentlemanhad never--

CORONER: Yes, yes, of course. You tried to rouse him?

But it was some time before Mrs. Drabdump was sufficiently calm toexplain that, though she had overslept herself, and though it would havebeen all the same anyhow, she _had_ come up to time. Bit by bit thetragic story was forced from her lips--a tragedy that even her tellingcould not make tawdry. She told with superfluous detail how--when Mr. Grodman broke in the door--she saw her unhappy gentleman-lodger lying onhis back in bed, stone dead, with a gaping red wound in his throat; howher stronger-minded companion calmed her a little by spreading ahandkerchief over the distorted face; how they then looked vainly aboutand under the bed for any instrument by which the deed could have beendone, the veteran detective carefully making a rapid inventory of thecontents of the room, and taking notes of the precise position andcondition of the body before anything was disturbed by the arrival ofgapers or bunglers; how she had pointed out to him that both the windowswere firmly bolted to keep out the cold night air; how, having noted thisdown with a puzzled, pitying shake of the head, he had opened the windowto summon the police, and espied in the fog one Denzil Cantercot, whom hecalled, and told to run to the nearest police-station and ask them tosend on an inspector and a surgeon; how they both remained in the roomtill the police arrived, Grodman pondering deeply the while and makingnotes every now and again, as fresh points occurred to him, and askingher questions about the poor, weak-headed young man. Pressed as to whatshe meant by calling the deceased "weak-headed, " she replied that some ofher neighbours wrote him begging letters, though, Heaven knew, they werebetter off than herself, who had to scrape her fingers to the bone forevery penny she earned. Under further pressure from Mr. Talbot, who waswatching the inquiry on behalf of Arthur Constant's family, Mrs. Drabdumpadmitted that the deceased had behaved like a human being, nor was thereanything externally eccentric or queer in his conduct. He was alwayscheerful and pleasant spoken, though certainly soft--God rest his soul. No; he never shaved, but wore all the hair that Heaven had given him. 

By a JURYMAN: She thought deceased was in the habit of locking his doorwhen he went to bed. Of course, she couldn't say for certain. (Laughter. )There was no need to bolt the door as well. The bolt slid upwards, andwas at the top of the door. When she first let lodgings, her reasons forwhich she seemed anxious to publish, there had only been a bolt, but asuspicious lodger, she would not call him a gentleman, had complainedthat he could not fasten his door behind him, and so she had been put tothe expense of having a lock made. The complaining lodger went off soonafter without paying his rent. (Laughter. ) She had always known he would. 

The CORONER: Was deceased at all nervous?

WITNESS: No, he was a very nice gentleman. (A laugh. )

CORONER: I mean did he seem afraid of being robbed?

WITNESS: No, he was always goin' to demonstrations. (Laughter. ) I toldhim to be careful. I told him I lost a purse with 3s. 2d. Myself onJubilee Day. 

Mrs. Drabdump resumed her seat, weeping vaguely. 

The CORONER: Gentlemen, we shall have an opportunity of viewing the roomshortly. 

The story of the discovery of the body was retold, though morescientifically, by Mr. George Grodman, whose unexpected resurgence intothe realm of his early exploits excited as keen a curiosity as thereappearance "for this occasion only" of a retired prima donna. Hisbook, _Criminals I have Caught_, passed from the twenty-third to thetwenty-fourth edition merely on the strength of it. Mr. Grodman statedthat the body was still warm when he found it. He thought that death wasquite recent. The door he had had to burst was bolted as well as locked. He confirmed Mrs. Drabdump's statement about the windows; the chimneywas very narrow. The cut looked as if done by a razor. There was noinstrument lying about the room. He had known the deceased about a month. He seemed a very earnest, simple-minded young fellow, who spoke a greatdeal about the brotherhood of man. (The hardened old man-hunter's voicewas not free from a tremor as he spoke jerkily of the dead man'senthusiasms. ) He should have thought the deceased the last man in theworld to commit suicide. 

Mr. DENZIL CANTERCOT was next called: He was a poet. (Laughter. ) He wason his way to Mr. Grodman's house to tell him he had been unable to dosome writing for him because he was suffering from writer's cramp, whenMr. Grodman called to him from the window of No. 11 and asked him to runfor the police. No, he did not run; he was a philosopher. (Laughter. ) Hereturned with them to the door, but did not go up. He had no stomach forcrude sensations. (Laughter. ) The grey fog was sufficiently unbeautifulfor him for one morning. (Laughter. )

Inspector HOWLETT said: About 9. 45 on the morning of Tuesday, 4thDecember, from information received, he went with Sergeant Runnymedeand Dr. Robinson to 11 Glover Street, Bow, and there found the dead bodyof a young man, lying on his back with his throat cut. The door of theroom had been smashed in, and the lock and the bolt evidently forced. Theroom was tidy. There were no marks of blood on the floor. A purse full ofgold was on the dressing-table beside a big book. A hip-bath, with coldwater, stood beside the bed, over which was a hanging bookcase. There wasa large wardrobe against the wall next to the door. The chimney was verynarrow. There were two windows, one bolted. It was about eighteen feet tothe pavement. There was no way of climbing up. No one could possibly havegot out of the room, and then bolted the doors and windows behind him;and he had searched all parts of the room in which any one might havebeen concealed. He had been unable to find any instrument in the room inspite of exhaustive search, there being not even a penknife in thepockets of the clothes of the deceased, which lay on a chair. The houseand the back yard, and the adjacent pavement, had also been fruitlesslysearched. 

Sergeant RUNNYMEDE made an identical statement, saving only that _he_ hadgone with Dr. Robinson and Inspector Howlett. 

Dr. ROBINSON, divisional surgeon, said: "The deceased was lying on hisback, with his throat cut. The body was not yet cold, the abdominalregion being quite warm. Rigor mortis had set in in the lower jaw, neck, and upper extremities. The muscles contracted when beaten. I inferredthat life had been extinct some two or three hours, probably not longer, it might have been less. The bed-clothes would keep the lower part warmfor some time. The wound, which was a deep one, was five and a halfinches from right to left across the throat to a point under the leftear. The upper portion of the windpipe was severed, and likewise thejugular vein. The muscular coating of the carotid artery was divided. There was a slight cut, as if in continuation of the wound, on the thumbof the left hand. The hands were clasped underneath the head. There wasno blood on the right hand. The wound could not have been self-inflicted. A sharp instrument had been used, such as a razor. The cut might havebeen made by a left-handed person. No doubt death was practicallyinstantaneous. I saw no signs of a struggle about the body or the room. I noticed a purse on the dressing-table, lying next to Madame Blavatsky'sbig book on Theosophy. Sergeant Runnymede drew my attention to the factthat the door had evidently been locked and bolted from within. "

By a JURYMAN: I do not say the cuts could not have been made by aright-handed person. I can offer no suggestion as to how the inflictorof the wound got in or out. Extremely improbable that the cut wasself-inflicted. There was little trace of the outside fog in the room. 

Police constable Williams said he was on duty in the early hours of themorning of the 4th inst. Glover Street lay within his beat. He saw orheard nothing suspicious. The fog was never very dense, though nasty tothe throat. He had passed through Glover Street about half-past four. Hehad not seen Mr. Mortlake or anybody else leave the house. 

The Court here adjourned, the coroner and the jury repairing in a body to11 Glover Street, to view the house and the bedroom of the deceased. Andthe evening posters announced "The Bow Mystery Thickens. "

III

Before the inquiry was resumed, all the poor wretches in custody had beenreleased on suspicion that they were innocent; there was not a singlecase even for a magistrate. Clues, which at such seasons are gathered bythe police like blackberries off the hedges, were scanty and unripe. Inferior specimens were offered them by bushels, but there was not agood one among the lot. The police could not even manufacture a clue. 

Arthur Constant's death was already the theme of every hearth, railway-carriage, and public-house. The dead idealist had pointsof contact with so many spheres. The East-end and the West-end alikewere moved and excited, the Democratic Leagues and the Churches, theDoss-houses and the Universities. The pity of it! And then theimpenetrable mystery of it!

The evidence given in the concluding portion of the investigation wasnecessarily less sensational. There were no more witnesses to bring thescent of blood over the coroner's table; those who had yet to be heardwere merely relatives and friends of the deceased, who spoke of him as hehad been in life. His parents were dead, perhaps happily for them; hisrelatives had seen little of him, and had scarce heard as much about himas the outside world. No man is a prophet in his own country, and, evenif he migrates, it is advisable for him to leave his family at home. Hisfriends were a motley crew; friends of the same friend are notnecessarily friends of one another. But their diversity only made thecongruity of the tale they had to tell more striking. It was the tale ofa man who had never made an enemy even by benefiting him, nor lost afriend even by refusing his favours; the tale of a man whose heartoverflowed with peace and goodwill to all men all the year round; of aman to whom Christmas came not once, but three hundred and sixty-fivetimes a year; it was the tale of a brilliant intellect, who gave up tomankind what was meant for himself, and worked as a labourer in thevineyard of humanity, never crying that the grapes were sour; of a manuniformly cheerful and of good courage, living in that forgetfulness ofself which is the truest antidote to despair. And yet there was not quitewanting the note of pain to jar the harmony and make it human. RichardElton, his chum from boyhood, and vicar of Somerton, in Midlandshire, handed to the coroner a letter received from the deceased about tendays before his death, containing some passages which the coroner readaloud:--"Do you know anything of Schopenhauer? I mean anything beyond thecurrent misconceptions? I have been making his acquaintance lately. He isan agreeable rattle of a pessimist; his essay on 'The Misery of Mankind'is quite lively reading. At first his assimilation of Christianity andPessimism (it occurs in his essay on 'Suicide') dazzled me as anaudacious paradox. But there is truth in it. Verily the whole creationgroaneth and travaileth, and man is a degraded monster, and sin is overall. Ah, my friend, I have shed many of my illusions since I came to thisseething hive of misery and wrongdoing. What shall one man's life--amillion men's lives--avail against the corruption, the vulgarity, and thesqualor of civilisation? Sometimes I feel like a farthing rushlight inthe Hall of Eblis. Selfishness is so long and life so short. And theworst of it is that everybody is so beastly contented. The poor no moredesire comfort than the rich culture. The woman, to whom a penny schoolfee for her child represents an appreciable slice of her income, issatisfied that the rich we shall always have with us. 

"The real old Tories are the paupers in the Workhouse. The radicalworking men are jealous of their own leaders, and the leaders are jealousof one another. Schopenhauer must have organised a Labour Party in hissalad days. And yet one can't help feeling that he committed suicide as aphilosopher by not committing it as a man. He claims kinship with Buddha, too; though Esoteric Buddhism at least seems spheres removed from thephilosophy of 'the Will and the Idea. ' What a wonderful woman MadameBlavatsky must be! I can't say I follow her, for she is up in the cloudsnearly all the time, and I haven't as yet developed an astral body. ShallI send you on her book? It is fascinating. . . . I am becoming quite afluent orator. One soon gets into the way of it. The horrible thing isthat you catch yourself saying things to lead up to 'Cheers' instead ofsticking to the plain realities of the business. Lucy is still doing thegalleries in Italy. It used to pain me sometimes to think of my darling'shappiness when I came across a flat-chested factory-girl. Now I feel herhappiness is as important as a factory-girl's. "

Lucy, the witness explained, was Lucy Brent, the betrothed of thedeceased. The poor girl had been telegraphed for, and had started forEngland. The witness stated that the outburst of despondency in thisletter was almost a solitary one, most of the letters in his possessionbeing bright, buoyant, and hopeful. Even this letter ended with ahumorous statement of the writer's manifold plans and projects for theNew Year. The deceased was a good Churchman. 

CORONER: Was there any private trouble in his own life to account for thetemporary despondency?

WITNESS: Not so far as I am aware. His financial position wasexceptionally favourable. 

CORONER: There had been no quarrel with Miss Brent?

WITNESS: I have the best authority for saying that no shadow ofdifference had ever come between them. 

CORONER: Was the deceased left-handed?

WITNESS: Certainly not. He was not even ambidexter. 

A JURYMAN: Isn't Shoppinhour one of the infidel writers, published by theFreethought Publication Society?

WITNESS: I do not know who publishes his books. 

The JURYMAN (a small grocer and big raw-boned Scotchman, rejoicing in thename of Sandy Sanderson and the dignities of deaconry and membership ofthe committee of the Bow Conservative Association): No equeevocation, sir. Is he not a secularist, who has lectured at the Hall of Science?

WITNESS: No, he is a foreign writer--(Mr. Sanderson was heard to thankheaven for this small mercy)--who believes that life is not worth living. 

The JURYMAN: Were you not shocked to find the friend of a meenisterreading such impure leeterature?

WITNESS: The deceased read everything. Schopenhauer is the author of asystem of philosophy, and not what you seem to imagine. Perhaps youwould like to inspect the book? (Laughter. )

The JURYMAN: I would na' touch it with a pitchfork. Such books should beburnt. And this Madame Blavatsky's book--what is that? Is that alsopheelosophy?

WITNESS: No. It is Theosophy. (Laughter. )

Mr. Allan Smith, secretary of the Tram-men's Union, stated that he hadhad an interview with the deceased on the day before his death, when he(the deceased) spoke hopefully of the prospects of the movement, andwrote him out a check for ten guineas for his Union. Deceased promised tospeak at a meeting called for a quarter past seven A. M. The next day. 

Mr. Edward Wimp, of the Scotland Yard Detective Department, said that theletters and papers of the deceased threw no light upon the manner of hisdeath, and they would be handed back to the family. His Department hadnot formed any theory on the subject. 

The coroner proceeded to sum up the evidence. "We have to deal, gentlemen, " he said, "with a most incomprehensible and mysterious case, the details of which are yet astonishingly simple. On the morning ofTuesday, the 4th inst. , Mrs. Drabdump, a worthy hard-working widow, wholets lodgings at 11 Glover Street, Bow, was unable to arouse thedeceased, who occupied the entire upper floor of the house. Becomingalarmed, she went across to fetch Mr. George Grodman, a gentleman knownto us all by reputation, and to whose clear and scientific evidence weare much indebted, and got him to batter in the door. They found thedeceased lying back in bed with a deep wound in his throat. Life had onlyrecently become extinct. There was no trace of any instrument by whichthe cut could have been effected: there was no trace of any person whocould have effected the cut. No person could apparently have got in orout. The medical evidence goes to show that the deceased could not haveinflicted the wound himself. And yet, gentlemen, there are, in the natureof things, two--and only two--alternative explanations of his death. Either the wound was inflicted by his own hand, or it was inflicted byanother's. I shall take each of these possibilities separately. First, did the deceased commit suicide? The medical evidence says deceased waslying with his hands clasped behind his head. Now the wound was made fromright to left, and terminated by a cut on the left thumb. If the deceasedhad made it he would have had to do it with his right hand, while hisleft hand remained under his head--a most peculiar and unnatural positionto assume. Moreover, in making a cut with the right hand, one wouldnaturally move the hand from left to right. It is unlikely that thedeceased would move his right hand so awkwardly and unnaturally, unless, of course, his object was to baffle suspicion. Another point is that onthis hypothesis, the deceased would have had to replace his right handbeneath his head. But Dr. Robinson believes that death was instantaneous. If so, deceased could have had no time to pose so neatly. It is justpossible the cut was made with the left hand, but then the deceased wasright-handed. The absence of any signs of a possible weapon undoubtedlygoes to corroborate the medical evidence. The police have made anexhaustive search in all places where the razor or other weapon orinstrument might by any possibility have been concealed, including thebed-clothes, the mattress, the pillow, and the street into which it mighthave been dropped. But all theories involving the wilful concealment ofthe fatal instrument have to reckon with the fact or probability thatdeath was instantaneous, also with the fact that there was no blood aboutthe floor. Finally, the instrument used was in all likelihood a razor, and the deceased did not shave, and was never known to be in possessionof any such instrument. If, then, we were to confine ourselves to themedical and police evidence, there would, I think, be little hesitationin dismissing the idea of suicide. Nevertheless, it is well to forget thephysical aspect of the case for a moment and to apply our minds to anunprejudiced inquiry into the mental aspect of it. Was there any reasonwhy the deceased should wish to take his own life? He was young, wealthy, and popular, loving and loved; life stretched fair before him. He had novices. Plain living, high thinking, and noble doing were the threeguiding stars of his life. If he had had ambition, an illustrious publiccareer was within his reach. He was an orator of no mean power, abrilliant and industrious man. His outlook was always on the future--hewas always sketching out ways in which he could be useful to hisfellow-men. His purse and his time were ever at the command of whosoevercould show fair claim upon them. If such a man were likely to end his ownlife, the science of human nature would be at an end. Still, some of theshadows of the picture have been presented to us. The man had his momentsof despondency--as which of us has not? But they seem to have been fewand passing. Anyhow, he was cheerful enough on the day before his death. He was suffering, too, from toothache. But it does not seem to have beenviolent, nor did he complain. Possibly, of course, the pain became veryacute in the night. Nor must we forget that he may have overworkedhimself, and got his nerves into a morbid state. He worked very hard, never rising later than half-past seven, and doing far more than theprofessional 'labour leader. ' He taught, and wrote, as well as spoke andorganised. But on the other hand all witnesses agreed that he was lookingforward eagerly to the meeting of tram-men on the morning of the 4thinst. His whole heart was in the movement. Is it likely that this was thenight he would choose for quitting the scene of his usefulness? Is itlikely that if he had chosen it, he would not have left letters and astatement behind, or made a last will and testament? Mr. Wimp has foundno possible clue to such conduct in his papers. Or is it likely he wouldhave concealed the instrument? The only positive sign of intention is thebolting of his door in addition to the usual locking of it, but onecannot lay much stress on that. Regarding the mental aspects alone, thebalance is largely against suicide; looking at the physical aspects, suicide is well-nigh impossible. Putting the two together, the caseagainst suicide is all but mathematically complete. The answer, then, toour first question, Did the deceased commit suicide? is, that he didnot. "

The coroner paused, and everybody drew a long breath. The lucidexposition had been followed with admiration. If the coroner had stoppednow, the jury would have unhesitatingly returned a verdict of "murder. "But the coroner swallowed a mouthful of water and went on:--

"We now come to the second alternative--was the deceased the victim ofhomicide? In order to answer that question in the affirmative it isessential that we should be able to form some conception of the modusoperandi. It is all very well for Dr. Robinson to say the cut was made byanother hand; but in the absence of any theory as to how the cut couldpossibly have been made by that other hand, we should be driven back tothe theory of self-infliction, however improbable it may seem to medicalgentlemen. Now, what are the facts? When Mrs. Drabdump and Mr. Grodmanfound the body it was yet warm, and Mr. Grodman, a witness fortunatelyqualified by special experience, states that death had been quite recent. This tallies closely enough with the view of Dr. Robinson, who, examiningthe body about an hour later, put the time of death at two or three hoursbefore, say seven o'clock. Mrs. Drabdump had attempted to wake thedeceased at a quarter to seven, which would put back the act to a littleearlier. As I understand from Dr. Robinson, that it is impossible to fixthe time very precisely, death may have very well taken place severalhours before Mrs. Drabdump's first attempt to wake deceased. Of course, it may have taken place between the first and second calls, as he maymerely have been sound asleep at first; it may also not impossibly havetaken place considerably earlier than the first call, for all thephysical data seem to prove. Nevertheless, on the whole, I think we shallbe least likely to err if we assume the time of death to be half-pastsix. Gentlemen, let us picture to ourselves No. 11 Glover Street, athalf-past six. We have seen the house; we know exactly how it isconstructed. On the ground floor a front room tenanted by Mr. Mortlake, with two windows giving on the street, both securely bolted; a back roomoccupied by the landlady; and a kitchen. Mrs. Drabdump did not leave herbedroom till half-past six, so that we may be sure all the various doorsand windows have not yet been unfastened; while the season of the year isa guarantee that nothing had been left open. The front door, throughwhich Mr. Mortlake has gone out before half-past four, is guarded by thelatch-key lock and the big lock. On the upper floor are two rooms--afront room used by deceased for a bedroom, and a back room which he usedas a sitting-room. The back room has been left open, with the key inside, but the window is fastened. The door of the front room is not only lockedbut bolted. We have seen the splintered mortice and the staple of theupper bolt violently forced from the woodwork and resting on the pin. Thewindows are bolted, the fasteners being firmly fixed in the catches. Thechimney is too narrow to admit of the passage of even a child. This room, in fact, is as firmly barred in as if besieged. It has no communicationwith any other part of the house. It is as absolutely self-centred andisolated as if it were a fort in the sea or a log-hut in the forest. Evenif any strange person is in the house, nay, in the very sitting-room ofthe deceased, he cannot get into the bedroom, for the house is one builtfor the poor, with no communication between the different rooms, so thatseparate families, if need be, may inhabit each. Now, however, let usgrant that some person has achieved the miracle of getting into the frontroom, first floor, 18 feet from the ground. At half-past six, orthereabouts, he cuts the throat of the sleeping occupant. How is he thento get out without attracting the attention of the now roused landlady?But let us concede him that miracle, too. How is he to go away and yetleave the doors and windows locked and bolted from within? This is adegree of miracle at which my credulity must draw the line. No, the roomhad been closed all night--there is scarce a trace of fog in it. No onecould get in or out. Finally, murders do not take place without motive. Robbery and revenge are the only conceivable motives. The deceased hadnot an enemy in the world; his money and valuables were left untouched. Everything was in order. There were no signs of a struggle. The answer, then, to our second inquiry, Was the deceased killed by another person?is, that he was not. 

"Gentlemen, I am aware that this sounds impossible and contradictory. But it is the facts that contradict themselves. It seems clear that thedeceased did not commit suicide. It seems equally clear that the deceasedwas not murdered. There is nothing for it, therefore, gentlemen, but toreturn a verdict tantamount to an acknowledgment of our incompetence tocome to any adequately grounded conviction whatever as to the means orthe manner by which the deceased met his death. It is the mostinexplicable mystery in all my experience. " (Sensation. )

The FOREMAN (after a colloquy with Mr. Sandy Sanderson): We are notagreed, sir. One of the jurors insists on a verdict of "Death fromvisitation by the act of God. "

IV

But Sandy Sanderson's burning solicitude to fix the crime flickeredout in the face of opposition, and in the end he bowed his head to theinevitable "open verdict. " Then the floodgates of inkland were opened, and the deluge pattered for nine days on the deaf coffin where the pooridealist mouldered. The tongues of the Press were loosened, and theleader-writers revelled in recapitulating the circumstances of "TheBig Bow Mystery, " though they could contribute nothing but adjectivesto the solution. The papers teemed with letters--it was a kind of Indiansummer of the silly season. But the editors could not keep them out, norcared to. The mystery was the one topic of conversation everywhere--itwas on the carpet and the bare boards alike, in the kitchen and thedrawing-room. It was discussed with science or stupidity, with aspiratesor without. It came up for breakfast with the rolls, and was swept offthe supper-table with the last crumbs. 

No. 11 Glover Street, Bow, remained for days a shrine of pilgrimage. Theonce sleepy little street buzzed from morning till night. From all partsof the town people came to stare up at the bedroom window and wonder witha foolish face of horror. The pavement was often blocked for hourstogether, and itinerant vendors of refreshment made it a new marketcentre, while vocalists hastened thither to sing the delectable ditty ofthe deed without having any voice in the matter. It was a pity theGovernment did not erect a toll-gate at either end of the street. ButChancellors of the Exchequer rarely avail themselves of the more obviousexpedients for paying off the National Debt. 

Finally, familiarity bred contempt, and the wits grew facetious at theexpense of the Mystery. Jokes on the subject appeared even in the comicpapers. 

To the proverb, "You must not say Bo to a goose, " one added, "or else shewill explain you the Mystery. " The name of the gentleman who askedwhether the Bow Mystery was not 'arrowing shall not be divulged. Therewas more point in "Dagonet's" remark that, if he had been one of theunhappy jurymen, he should have been driven to "suicide. " A professionalparadox-monger pointed triumphantly to the somewhat similar situation in"the murder in the Rue Morgue, " and said that Nature had beenplagiarising again--like the monkey she was--and he recommended Poe'spublishers to apply for an injunction. More seriously, Poe's solutionwas re-suggested by "Constant Reader" as an original idea. He thoughtthat a small organ-grinder's monkey might have got down the chimney withits master's razor, and, after attempting to shave the occupant of thebed, have returned the way it came. This idea created considerablesensation, but a correspondent with a long train of letters dragglingafter his name pointed out that a monkey small enough to get down sonarrow a flue would not be strong enough to inflict so deep a wound. Thiswas disputed by a third writer, and the contest raged so keenly about thepower of monkeys' muscles that it was almost taken for granted that amonkey was the guilty party. The bubble was pricked by the pen of "CommonSense, " who laconically remarked that no traces of soot or blood had beendiscovered on the floor, or on the nightshirt, or the counterpane. The_Lancet's_ leader on the Mystery was awaited with interest. It said: "Wecannot join in the praises that have been showered upon the coroner'ssumming up. It shows again the evils resulting from having coroners whoare not medical men. He seems to have appreciated but inadequately thesignificance of the medical evidence. He should certainly have directedthe jury to return a verdict of murder on that. What was it to do withhim that he could see no way by which the wound could have been inflictedby an outside agency? It was for the police to find how that was done. Enough that it was impossible for the unhappy young man to have inflictedsuch a wound, and then to have strength and will power enough to hide theinstrument and to remove perfectly every trace of his having left the bedfor the purpose. " It is impossible to enumerate all the theoriespropounded by the amateur detectives, while Scotland Yard religiouslyheld its tongue. Ultimately the interest on the subject became confinedto a few papers which had received the best letters. Those papers thatcouldn't get interesting letters stopped the correspondence and sneeredat the "sensationalism" of those that could. Among the mass of fantasythere were not a few notable solutions, which failed brilliantly, likerockets posing as fixed stars. One was that in the obscurity of the fogthe murderer had ascended to the window of the bedroom by means of aladder from the pavement. He had then with a diamond cut one of the panesaway, and effected an entry through the aperture. On leaving he fixed inthe pane of glass again (or another which he had brought with him) andthus the room remained with its bolts and locks untouched. On its beingpointed out that the panes were too small, a third correspondent showedthat that didn't matter, as it was only necessary to insert the hand andundo the fastening, when the entire window could be opened, the processbeing reversed by the murderer on leaving. This pretty edifice of glasswas smashed by a glazier, who wrote to say that a pane could hardly befixed in from only one side of a window frame, that it would fall outwhen touched, and that in any case the wet putty could not have escapeddetection. A door panel sliced out and replaced was also put forward, andas many trap-doors and secret passages were ascribed to No. 11 GloverStreet, as if it were a mediæval castle. Another of these clever theorieswas that the murderer was in the room the whole time the police werethere--hidden in the wardrobe. Or he had got behind the door when Grodmanbroke it open, so that he was not noticed in the excitement of thediscovery, and escaped with his weapon at the moment when Grodman andMrs. Drabdump were examining the window fastenings. 

Scientific explanations also were to hand to explain how the assassinlocked and bolted the door behind him. Powerful magnets outside the doorhad been used to turn the key and push the bolt within. Murderers armedwith magnets loomed on the popular imagination like a new microbe. Therewas only one defect in this ingenious theory--the thing could not bedone. A physiologist recalled the conjurers who swallow swords--by ananatomical peculiarity of the throat--and said that the deceased mighthave swallowed the weapon after cutting his own throat. This was too muchfor the public to swallow. As for the idea that the suicide had beeneffected with a penknife or its blade, or a bit of steel, which had thengot buried in the wound, not even the quotation of Shelley's line:--

 "Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it, "

could secure it a moment's acceptance. The same reception was accordedto the idea that the cut had been made with a candle-stick (or otherharmless necessary bedroom article) constructed like a sword stick. Theories of this sort caused a humorist to explain that the deceased hadhidden the razor in his hollow tooth! Some kind friend of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook suggested that they were the only persons who couldhave done the deed, as no one else could get out of a locked cabinet. Butperhaps the most brilliant of these flashes of false fire was thefacetious, yet probably half-seriously meant letter that appeared in the_Pell Mell Press_ under the heading of

 "THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

 "Sir, --You will remember that when the Whitechapel murders were agitating the universe, I suggested that the district coroner was the assassin. My suggestion has been disregarded. The coroner is still at large. So is the Whitechapel murderer. Perhaps this suggestive coincidence will incline the authorities to pay more attention to me this time. The problem seems to be this. The deceased could not have cut his own throat. The deceased could not have had his throat cut for him. As one of the two must have happened, this is obvious nonsense. As this is obvious nonsense I am justified in disbelieving it. As this obvious nonsense was primarily put in circulation by Mrs. Drabdump and Mr. Grodman, I am justified in disbelieving _them_. In short, sir, what guarantee have we that the whole tale is not a cock-and-bull story, invented by the two persons who first found the body? What proof is there that the deed was not done by these persons themselves, who then went to work to smash the door and break the locks and the bolts, and fasten up all the windows before they called the police in?--I enclose my card, and am, sir, yours truly, "ONE WHO LOOKS THROUGH HIS OWN SPECTACLES. "

"[Our correspondent's theory is not so audaciously original as he seemsto imagine. Has he not looked through the spectacles of the people whopersistently suggested that the Whitechapel murderer was invariablythe policeman who found the body? _Somebody_ must find the body, if it isto be found at all. --Ed. P. M. P. ]"

The editor had reason to be pleased that he inserted this letter, for itdrew the following interesting communication from the great detectivehimself:--

 "THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

 "Sir, --I do not agree with you that your correspondent's theory lacks originality. On the contrary, I think it is delightfully original. In fact it has given me an idea. What that idea is I do not yet propose to say, but if 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will favour me with his name and address I shall be happy to inform him a little before the rest of the world whether his germ has borne any fruit. I feel he is a kindred spirit, and take this opportunity of saying publicly that I was extremely disappointed at the unsatisfactory verdict. The thing was a palpable assassination; an open verdict has a tendency to relax the exertions of Scotland Yard. I hope I shall not be accused of immodesty, or of making personal reflections, when I say that the Department has had several notorious failures of late. It is not what it used to be. Crime is becoming impertinent. It no longer knows its place, so to speak. It throws down the gauntlet where once it used to cower in its fastnesses. I repeat, I make these remarks solely in the interest of law and order. I do not for one moment believe that Arthur Constant killed himself, and if Scotland Yard satisfies itself with that explanation, and turns on its other side and goes to sleep again, then, sir, one of the foulest and most horrible crimes of the century will for ever go unpunished. My acquaintance with the unhappy victim was but recent; still, I saw and knew enough of the man to be certain (and I hope I have seen and known enough of other men to judge) that he was a man constitutionally incapable of committing an act of violence, whether against himself or anybody else. He would not hurt a fly, as the saying goes. And a man of that gentle stamp always lacks the active energy to lay hands on himself. He was a man to be esteemed in no common degree, and I feel proud to be able to say that he considered me a friend. I am hardly at the time of life at which a man cares to put on his harness again; but, sir, it is impossible that I should ever know a day's rest till the perpetrator of this foul deed is discovered. I have already put myself in communication with the family of the victim, who, I am pleased to say, have every confidence in me, and look to me to clear the name of their unhappy relative from the semi-imputation of suicide. I shall be pleased if any one who shares my distrust of the authorities, and who has any clue whatever to this terrible mystery or any plausible suggestion to offer, if, in brief, any 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will communicate with me. If I were asked to indicate the direction in which new clues might be most usefully sought, I should say, in the first instance, anything is valuable that helps us to piece together a complete picture of the manifold activities of the man in the East-end. He entered one way or another into the lives of a good many people; is it true that he nowhere made enemies? With the best intentions a man may wound or offend; his interference may be resented; he may even excite jealousy. A young man like the late Mr. Constant could not have had as much practical sagacity as he had goodness. Whose corns did he tread on? The more we know of the last few months of his life the more we shall know of the manner of his death. Thanking you by anticipation for the insertion of this letter in your valuable columns, I am, sir, yours truly, "George Grodman. 

 "46 Glover Street, Bow. 

 "P. S. --Since writing the above lines, I have, by the kindness of Miss Brent, been placed in possession of a most valuable letter, probably the last letter written by the unhappy gentleman. It is dated Monday, 3 December, the very eve of the murder, and was addressed to her at Florence, and has now, after some delay, followed her back to London where the sad news unexpectedly brought her. It is a letter couched, on the whole, in the most hopeful spirit, and speaks in detail of his schemes. Of course there are things in it not meant for the ears of the public, but there can be no harm in transcribing an important passage:--

 "'You seem to have imbibed the idea that the East-end is a kind of Golgotha, and this despite that the books out of which you probably got it are carefully labelled "Fiction. " Lamb says somewhere that we think of the "Dark Ages" as literally without sunlight, and so I fancy people like you, dear, think of the "East-end" as a mixture of mire, misery, and murder. How's that for alliteration? Why, within five minutes' walk of me there are the loveliest houses, with gardens back and front, inhabited by very fine people and furniture. Many of my university friends' mouths would water if they knew the income of some of the shopkeepers in the High Road. 

 "'The rich people about here may not be so fashionable as those in Kensington and Bayswater, but they are every bit as stupid and materialistic. I don't deny, Lucy, I _do_ have my black moments, and I do sometimes pine to get away from all this to the lands of sun and lotus-eating. But, on the whole, I am too busy even to dream of dreaming. My real black moments are when I doubt if I am really doing any good. But yet on the whole my conscience or my self-conceit tells me that I am. If one cannot do much with the mass, there is at least the consolation of doing good to the individual. And, after all, is it not enough to have been an influence for good over one or two human souls? There are quite fine characters hereabout--especially in the women--natures capable not only of self-sacrifice, but of delicacy of sentiment. To have learnt to know of such, to have been of service to one or two of such--is not this ample return? I could not get to St. James's Hall to hear your friend's symphony at the Henschel concert. I have been reading Mme. Blavatsky's latest book, and getting quite interested in occult philosophy. Unfortunately I have to do all my reading in bed, and I don't find the book as soothing a soporific as most new books. For keeping one awake I find Theosophy as bad as toothache. . . . '"

 * * * * *

 "The Big Bow Mystery Solved

 "Sir, --I wonder if any one besides myself has been struck by the incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue. That he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this letter, are the relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting him with any private documents? It is, no doubt, very good of him to undertake to avenge one whom he seems snobbishly anxious to claim as a friend; but, all things considered, should not his letter have been headed 'The Big Bow Mystery Shelved'? I enclose my card, and am, sir, "Your obedient servant, "Scotland Yard. "

George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and crumpling up thepaper, murmured scornfully, "Edward Wimp!"

V

"Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?" said Denzil Cantercot. 

"Hang the Beautiful!" said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee ofthe Academy. "Give me the True. "

Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him. 

Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, andimparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the closeleathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant withoutraising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, witha greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar. He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private heremoved it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thoughthe was--which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair wasthinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get asnear as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on havingno fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almostlonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, aBlue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-tobacconist. Meat was a fad. Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was afad. "A plain man like me, " Crowl used to say, "can live without fads. ""A plain man" was Crowl's catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stoodon Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop--and held forth to thecrowd on the evils of kings, priests, and mutton chops, the "plain man"turned up at intervals like the "theme" of a symphonic movement. "I amonly a plain man and I want to know. " It was a phrase that sabred thespider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on thepoint. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sundayafternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed thesupernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, andalways carried a minutely printed copy in his pocket, dog's-eared to markcontradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says onething; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictorystatements _may_ both be true, but "I am only a plain man, and I want toknow. " Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting "the word againstthe word. " Cock-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure thanCrowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had ametaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples franticwith admiration, and struck the enemy dumb with dismay. He haddiscovered, for instance, that the Deity could not move, owing to alreadyfilling all space. He was also the first to invent, for the confusion ofthe clerical, the crucial case of a saint dying at the Antipodescontemporaneously with another in London. Both went skyward to heaven, yet the two travelled in directly opposite directions. In all eternitythey would never meet. Which, then, got to heaven? Or was there no suchplace? "I am only a plain man, and I want to know. "

Preserve us our open spaces; they exist to testify to the incurableinterest of humanity in the Unknown and the Misunderstood. Even 'Arry iscapable of five minutes' attention to speculative theology, if 'Arrietisn't in a 'urry. 

Peter Crowl was not sorry to have a lodger like Denzil Cantercot, who, though a man of parts and thus worth powder and shot, was so hopelesslywrong on all subjects under the sun. In only one point did Peter Crowlagree with Denzil Cantercot--he admired Denzil Cantercot secretly. Whenhe asked him for the True--which was about twice a day on the average--hedidn't really expect to get it from him. He knew that Denzil was a poet. 

"The Beautiful, " he went on, "is a thing that only appeals to men likeyou. The True is for all men. The majority have the first claim. Tillthen you poets must stand aside. The True and the Useful--that's what wewant. The Good of Society is the only test of things. Everything standsor falls by the Good of Society. "

"The Good of Society!" echoed Denzil, scornfully. "What's the good ofSociety? The Individual is before all. The mass must be sacrificed to theGreat Man. Otherwise the Great Man will be sacrificed to the mass. Without great men there would be no art. Without art life would be ablank. "

"Ah, but we should fill it up with bread and butter, " said Peter Crowl. 

"Yes, it is bread and butter that kills the Beautiful, " said DenzilCantercot, bitterly. "Many of us start by following the butterfly throughthe verdant meadows, but we turn aside--"

"To get the grub, " chuckled Peter, cobbling away. 

"Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I'll not waste my time on you. "

Denzil's wild eyes flashed angrily. He shook his long hair. Life was veryserious to him. He never wrote comic verse intentionally. 

There are three reasons why men of genius have long hair. One is, thatthey forget it is growing. The second is, that they like it. The thirdis, that it comes cheaper; they wear it long for the same reason thatthey wear their hats long. 

Owing to this peculiarity of genius, you may get quite a reputation forlack of twopence. The economic reason did not apply to Denzil, who couldalways get credit with the profession on the strength of his appearance. Therefore, when street arabs vocally commanded him to get his hair cut, they were doing no service to barbers. Why does all the world watch overbarbers and conspire to promote their interests? Denzil would have toldyou it was not to serve the barbers, but to gratify the crowd'sinstinctive resentment of originality. In his palmy days Denzil had beenan editor, but he no more thought of turning his scissors against himselfthan of swallowing his paste. The efficacy of hair has changed since thedays of Samson, otherwise Denzil would have been a Hercules instead of along, thin, nervous man, looking too brittle and delicate to be used evenfor a pipe-cleaner. The narrow oval of his face sloped to a pointed, untrimmed beard. His linen was reproachable, his dingy boots were down atheel, and his cocked hat was drab with dust. Such are the effects of alove for the Beautiful. 

Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil's condemnation of flippancy, and hehastened to turn off the joke. 

"I'm quite serious, " he said. "Butterflies are no good to nothing ornobody; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving. "

"Just like your view of things, Peter, " said Denzil. "Good morning, madam. " This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaboratecourtesy. 

Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogationin each eye. For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavouring notto see the question. He shifted uneasily on his stool. His wife coughedgrimly. He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook hishead in a horizontal direction. It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl toweredover Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes. She measured half aninch less. It was quite an optical illusion. 

"Mr. Crowl, " said Mrs. Crowl, "then I'll tell him. "

"No, no, my dear, not yet, " faltered Peter, helplessly; "leave it to me. "

"I've left it to you long enough. You'll never do nothing. If it was aquestion of provin' to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don't consarn no mortalsoul, used to contradict each other, your tongue'ud run thirteen to thedozen. But when it's a matter of takin' the bread out o' the mouths o'your own children, you ain't got no more to say for yourself than alamp-post. Here's a man stayin' with you for weeks and weeks--eatin' anddrinkin' the flesh off your bones--without payin' a far--"

"Hush, hush, mother; it's all right, " said poor Crowl, red as fire. 

Denzil looked at her dreamily. "Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?" he said. 

"Who then should I be alludin' to, Mr. Cantercot? Here's seven weeks comeand gone, and not a blessed 'aypenny have I--"

"My dear Mrs. Crowl, " said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouthwith a pained air, "why reproach _me_ for _your_ neglect?"

"_My_ neglect! I like that!"

"I don't, " said Denzil more sharply. "If you had sent me in the bill youwould have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of thesedetails?"

"We ain't so grand down here. People pays their way--they don't get no_bills_" said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn. 

Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse's voice. 

"It's three pounds fourteen and eightpence, if you're so anxious toknow, " Mrs. Crowl resumed. "And there ain't a woman in the Mile End Roadas 'ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quarternand landlords clamburin' for rent every Monday morning almost afore thesun's up and folks draggin' and slidderin' on till their shoes is onlyfit to throw after brides and Christmas comin' and sevenpence a week forschoolin'!"

Peter winced under the last item. He had felt it coming--like Christmas. His wife and he parted company on the question of Free Education. Peterfelt that, having brought nine children into the world, it was only fairhe should pay a penny a week for each of those old enough to beareducating. His better half argued that, having so many children, theyought in reason to be exempted. Only people who had few children couldspare the penny. But the one point on which the cobbler-sceptic of theMile End Road got his way was this of the fees. It was a question ofconscience, and Mrs. Crowl had never made application for theirremission, though she often slapped her children in vexation instead. They were used to slapping, and when nobody else slapped them theyslapped one another. They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pesteredtheir parents and worried their teachers, and were as happy as the Roadwas long. 

"Bother the school fees!" Peter retorted, vexed. "Mr. Cantercot's notresponsible for your children. "

"I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl, " Mrs. Crowl said sternly. "I'mashamed of you. " And with that she flounced out of the shop into theback parlour. 

"It's all right, " Peter called after her soothingly. "The money'll be allright, mother. "

In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; insomewhat superior circles it is the fashion to speak of her as "thewife, " as you speak of "the Stock Exchange, " or "the Thames, " withoutclaiming any peculiar property. Instinctively men are ashamed of beingmoral and domesticated. 

Denzil puffed his cigarette, unembarrassed. Peter bent attentively overhis work, making nervous stabs with his awl. There was a long silence. Anorgan-grinder played a waltz outside, unregarded; and, failing to annoyanybody, moved on. Denzil lit another cigarette. The dirty-faced clock onthe wall chimed twelve. 

"What do you think, " said Crowl, "of Republics?"

"They are low, " Denzil replied. "Without a Monarch there is no visibleincarnation of Authority. "

"What! do you call Queen Victoria visible?"

"Peter, do you want to drive me from the house? Leave frivolousness towomen, whose minds are only large enough for domestic difficulties. Republics are low. Plato mercifully kept the poets out of his. Republicsare not congenial soil for poetry. "

"What nonsense! If England dropped its fad of Monarchy and became aRepublic to-morrow, do you mean to say that--?"

"I mean to say there would be no Poet Laureate to begin with. "

"Who's fribbling now, you or me, Cantercot? But I don't care abutton-hook about poets, present company always excepted. I'm only aplain man, and I want to know where's the sense of givin' any one personauthority over everybody else?"

"Ah, that's what Tom Mortlake used to say. Wait till you're in power, Peter, with trade-union money to control, and working men bursting togive you flying angels and to carry you aloft, like a banner, huzzahing. "

"Ah, that's because he's head and shoulders above 'em already, " saidCrowl, with a flash in his sad grey eyes. "Still, it don't prove that I'dtalk any different. And I think you're quite wrong about his beingspoilt. Tom's a fine fellow--a man every inch of him, and that's a goodmany. I don't deny he has his weaknesses, and there was a time when hestood in this very shop and denounced that poor dead Constant. 'Crowl, 'said he, 'that man'll do mischief. I don't like these kid-glovephilanthropists mixing themselves up in practical labour disputes theydon't understand. '"

Denzil whistled involuntarily. It was a piece of news. 

"I dare say, " continued Crowl, "he's a bit jealous of anybody'sinterference with his influence. But in this case the jealousy did wearoff, you see, for the poor fellow and he got quite pals, as everybodyknows. Tom's not the man to hug a prejudice. However, all that don'tprove nothing against Republics. Look at the Czar and the Jews. I'm onlya plain man, but I wouldn't live in Russia not for--not for all theleather in it! An Englishman, taxed as he is to keep up his Fad ofMonarchy, is at least king in his own castle, whoever bosses it atWindsor. Excuse me a minute, the missus is callin'. "

"Excuse _me_ a minute. I'm going, and I want to say before I go--I feelit only right you should know at once--that after what has passed to-dayI can never be on the same footing here as in the--shall I saypleasant?--days of yore. "

"Oh, no, Cantercot. Don't say that; don't say that!" pleaded the littlecobbler. 

"Well, shall I say unpleasant, then?"

"No, no, Cantercot. Don't misunderstand me. Mother has been very much putto it lately to rub along. You see she has such a growing family. Itgrows--daily. But never mind her. You pay whenever you've got the money. "

Denzil shook his head. "It cannot be. You know when I came here first Irented your top room and boarded myself. Then I learnt to know you. Wetalked together. Of the Beautiful. And the Useful. I found you had nosoul. But you were honest, and I liked you. I went so far as to take mymeals with your family. I made myself at home in your back parlour. Butthe vase has been shattered (I do not refer to that on the mantel-piece), and though the scent of the roses may cling to it still, it can be piecedtogether--nevermore. " He shook his hair sadly and shambled out of theshop. Crowl would have gone after him, but Mrs. Crowl was still calling, and ladies must have the precedence in all polite societies. 

Cantercot went straight--or as straight as his loose gait permitted--to46 Glover Street, and knocked at the door. Grodman's factotum opened it. She was a pock-marked person, with a brickdust complexion and acoquettish manner. 

"Oh! Here we are again!" she said vivaciously. 

"Don't talk like a clown, " Cantercot snapped. "Is Mr. Grodman in?"

"No, you've put him out, " growled the gentleman himself, suddenlyappearing in his slippers. "Come in. What the devil have you been doingwith yourself since the inquest? Drinking again?"

"I've sworn off. Haven't touched a drop since--"

"The murder?"

"Eh?" said Denzil Cantercot, startled. "What do you mean?"

"What I say. Since December 4. I reckon everything from that murder, now, as they reckon longitude from Greenwich. "

"Oh, " said Denzil Cantercot. 

"Let me see. Nearly a fortnight. What a long time to keep away fromDrink--and Me. "

"I don't know which is worse, " said Denzil, irritated. "You both stealaway my brains. "

"Indeed?" said Grodman, with an amused smile. "Well, it's only pettypilfering, after all. What's put salt on your wounds?"

"The twenty-fourth edition of my book. "

"_Whose_ book?"

"Well, _your_ book. You must be making piles of money out of _Criminals Ihave Caught_. "

"'Criminals _I_ have Caught, '" corrected Grodman. "My dear Denzil, howoften am I to point out that _I_ went through the experiences that makethe backbone of my book, not _you_? In each case _I_ cooked thecriminal's goose. Any journalist could have supplied the dressing. "

"The contrary. The journeymen of journalism would have left the truthnaked. You yourself could have done that--for there is no man to beatyou at cold, lucid, scientific statement. But I idealised the barefacts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature. Thetwenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success. "

"Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder. Did you dothat?"

"You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman, " said Denzil, changing histone. 

"No--I've retired, " laughed Grodman. 

Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective's flippancy. He even laughed alittle. 

"Well, give me another fiver, and I'll cry 'quits. ' I'm in debt. "

"Not a penny. Why haven't you been to see me since the murder? I had towrite that letter to the _Pell Mell Press_ myself. You might have earneda crown. "

"I've had writer's cramp, and couldn't do your last job. I was coming totell you so on the morning of the--"

"Murder. So you said at the inquest. "

"It's true. "

"Of course. Weren't you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to getup so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?"

"Why, in the right of course. "

"And you couldn't write with your left?"

"I don't think I could even hold a pen. "

"Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring iton?"

"Writing too much. That is the only possible cause. "

"Oh! I didn't know. Writing what?"

Denzil hesitated. "An epic poem. "

"No wonder you're in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?"

"No; it wouldn't be the least use to me. "

"Here it is, then. "

Denzil took the coin and his hat. 

"Aren't you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write somethingfor me. "

Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place. 

"What do you want me to write?"

"Your Epic Poem. "

Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back inhis arm-chair and laughed, studying the poet's grave face. 

Denzil wrote three lines and paused. 

"Can't remember any more? Well, read me the start. "

Denzil read:--

 "Of man's first disobedience and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world--"

"Hold on!" cried Grodman. "What morbid subjects you choose, to be sure!"

"Morbid! Why, Milton chose the same subject!"

"Blow Milton. Take yourself off--you and your Epics. "

Denzil went. The pock-marked person opened the street door for him. 

"When am I to have that new dress, dear?" she whispered coquettishly. 

"I have no money, Jane, " he said shortly. 

"You have a sovereign. "

Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the door viciously. Grodmanoverheard their whispers, and laughed silently. His hearing was acute. Jane had first introduced Denzil to his acquaintance about two years ago, when he spoke of getting an amanuensis, and the poet had been doing oddjobs for him ever since. Grodman argued that Jane had her reasons. Without knowing them, he got a hold over both. There was no one, he felt, he could not get a hold over. All men--and women--have something toconceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific. 

Denzil Cantercot shambled home thoughtfully, and abstractedly took hisplace at the Crowl dinner-table. 

VI

Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef sosavagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed hismetaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow hisfamily to follow their Fads; but no savoury smells ever tempted him to befalse to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him toomuch of his work. There is nothing like leather, but Bow beefsteaksoccasionally come very near it. 

After dinner Denzil usually indulged in poetic reverie. But to-day he didnot take his nap. He went out at once to "raise the wind. " But therewas a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the officeof the _Mile End Mirror_, to which he contributed scathing leaderettesabout vestrymen. In vain he trudged to the City and offered to write the_Ham and Eggs Gazette_ an essay on the modern methods of bacon-curing. Denzil knew a great deal about the breeding and slaughtering of pigs, smoke-lofts and drying processes, having for years dictated the policy ofthe _New Pork Herald_ in these momentous matters. Denzil also knew agreat deal about many other esoteric matters, including weaving machines, the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff, and the inner economy ofdrain-pipes. He had written for the trade papers since boyhood. But thereis great competition on these papers. So many men of literary gifts knowall about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, andare eager to set the trade right. Grodman perhaps hardly allowedsufficiently for the step backwards that Denzil made when he devoted hiswhole time for months to _Criminals I have Caught_. It was as damaging asa debauch. For when your rivals are pushing forwards, to stand still isto go back. 

In despair Denzil shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused beforethe window of a little tobacconist's shop, wherein was displayed aplacard announcing

 "PLOTS FOR SALE. "

The announcement went on to state that a large stock of plots was to beobtained on the premises--embracing sensational plots, humorous plots, love plots, religious plots, and poetic plots; also complete manuscripts, original novels, poems, and tales. Apply within. 

It was a very dirty-looking shop, with begrimed bricks and blackenedwoodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment ofpipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest daubs unhung, paintedin oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended forlandscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was"Chingford Church, " and it was marked IS. 9d. The others ran from 6d. ToIS. 3d. , and were mostly representations of Scottish scenery--a loch withmountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and atree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background. Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intenselyblue in all. The name of the collection was "Original oil-paintings doneby hand. " Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shovelled on;and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop-window at nightwithout taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, longbut scanty black locks covered by a smoking-cap, and a luxuriant blackmoustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-downoperatic villain. 

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot, " he said, rubbing his hands, halffrom cold, half from usage; "what have you brought me?"

"Nothing, " said Denzil, "but if you will lend me a sovereign I'll do youa stunner. "

The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning. "Ifyou did it after that, it _would_ be a stunner. "

What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them, Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap to-day, andDenzil was glad enough to find a customer. 

"Surely you've known me long enough to trust me, " he cried. 

"Trust is dead, " said the operatic villain, puffing away. 

"So is Queen Anne, " cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangeroushunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was inflexible. No plot, no supper. 

Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily heturned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop-window. Again he read the legend

 "PLOTS FOR SALE. "

He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of thewords suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance. Hewent in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then hetook the 'bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant girlin the 'bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in hisbrain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had neverreally written an epic--except "Paradise Lost"--but he composed lyricsabout wine and women and often wept to think how miserable he was. Butnobody ever bought anything of him, except articles on bacon-curing orattacks on vestrymen. He was a strange, wild creature, and the wench feltquite pretty under his ardent gaze. It almost hypnotised her, though, andshe looked down at her new French kid boots to escape it. 

At Scotland Yard Denzil asked for Edward Wimp. Edward Wimp wasnot on view. Like kings and editors, detectives are difficult ofapproach--unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anythingof them at all. Denzil knew of Edward Wimp, principally because ofGrodman's contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste andculture. Grodman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problemsof logic and evidence. Books about these formed his sole reading; for_belles lettres_ he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse theradiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits ofworkmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantialevidence; in putting two and two together to make five. He would collecttogether a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them theelectric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would havedone credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect which might haveserved to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to theprotection of a capitalistic civilisation. 

By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetised intothe belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzilobtained the great detective's private address. It was near King's Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing whenDenzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he gotup and flashed the bull's-eye of his glance upon the visitor. 

"Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe, " said Wimp. 

Denzil started. He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself asa gentleman. 

"That is my name, " he murmured. 

"You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the lateArthur Constant. I have your evidence there. " He pointed to a file. "Whyhave you come to give fresh evidence?"

Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time. "I want money, " hesaid, almost involuntarily. 

"Sit down. " Denzil sat. Wimp stood. 

Wimp was young and fresh-coloured. He had a Roman nose, and was smartlydressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant forhim. He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without anyone being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secludedstudy at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors he was theordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought poorly ofhis intellect but highly of his heart. In domestic difficulties Wimp washelpless. He could not tell even whether the servant's "character" wasforged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such pettyproblems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to doquadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by thecalculus. 

"How much money do you want?" he asked. 

"I do not make bargains, " Denzil replied, his calm come back by thistime. "I came here to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that youmight offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so, I shall notrefuse it. "

"You shall not refuse it--if you deserve it. "

"Good. I will come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns--TomMortlake. "

Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move. 

"Tom Mortlake, " went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a sweetheart. "He paused impressively. 

Wimp said, "Yes?"

"Where is that sweetheart now?"

"Where, indeed?"

"You know about her disappearance?"

"You have just informed me of it. "

"Yes, she is gone--without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant's murder. "

"Murder? How do you know it was murder?"

"Mr. Grodman says so, " said Denzil, startled again. 

"H'm! Isn't that rather a proof that it was suicide? Well, go on. "

"About a fortnight before the suicide, Jessie Dymond disappeared. So theytell me in Stepney Green, where she lodged and worked. "

"What was she?"

"She was a dressmaker. She had a wonderful talent. Quite fashionableladies got to know of it. One of her dresses was presented at Court. Ithink the lady forgot to pay for it; so Jessie's landlady said. "

"Did she live alone?"

"She had no parents, but the house was respectable. "

"Good-looking, I suppose?"

"As a poet's dream. "

"As yours, for instance?"

"I am a poet; I dream. "

"You dream you are a poet. Well, well! She was engaged to Mortlake?"

"Oh, yes! They made no secret of it. The engagement was an old one. Whenhe was earning 36s. A week as a compositor, they were saving up to buy ahome. He worked at Railton and Hockes who print the _New Pork Herald_. Iused to take my 'copy' into the comps' room, and one day the Father ofthe Chapel told me all about 'Mortlake and his young woman. ' Ye gods! Howtimes are changed! Two years ago Mortlake had to struggle with mycalligraphy--now he is in with all the nobs, and goes to the 'At Homes'of the aristocracy. "

"Radical M. P. 's, " murmured Wimp, smiling. 

"While I am still barred from the dazzling drawing-rooms, where beautyand intellect foregather. A mere artisan! A manual labourer!" Denzil'seyes flashed angrily. He rose with excitement. "They say he always _was_a jabberer in the composing-room, and he has jabbered himself right outof it and into a pretty good thing. He didn't have much to say about thecrimes of capital when he was set up to second the toast of 'Railton andHockes' at the beanfeast. "

"Toast and butter, toast and butter, " said Wimp, genially. "I shouldn'tblame a man for serving the two together, Mr. Cantercot. "

Denzil forced a laugh. "Yes; but consistency's _my_ motto. I like to seethe royal soul immaculate, unchanging, immovable by fortune. Anyhow, whenbetter times came for Mortlake the engagement still dragged on. He didnot visit her so much. This last autumn he saw very little of her. "

"How do you know?"

"I--I was often in Stepney Green. My business took me past the house ofan evening. Sometimes there was no light in her room. That meant she wasdownstairs gossiping with the landlady. "

"She might have been out with Tom?"

"No, sir; I knew Tom was on the platform somewhere or other. He wasworking up to all hours organising the eight hours' working movement. "

"A very good reason for relaxing his sweethearting. "

"It was. He never went to Stepney Green on a week night. "

"But you always did. "

"No--not every night. "

"You didn't go in?"

"Never. She wouldn't permit my visits. She was a girl of strongcharacter. She always reminded me of Flora Macdonald. "

"Another lady of your acquaintance?"

"A lady I know better than the shadows who surround me, who is more realto me than the women who pester me for the price of apartments. JessieDymond, too, was of the race of heroines. Her eyes were clear blue, twowells with Truth at the bottom of each. When I looked into those eyes myown were dazzled. They were the only eyes I could never make dreamy. " Hewaved his hand as if making a pass with it. "It was she who had theinfluence over me. "

"You knew her, then?"

"Oh, yes. I knew Tom from the old _New Pork Herald_ days, and when Ifirst met him with Jessie hanging on his arm he was quite proud tointroduce her to a poet. When he got on he tried to shake me off. "

"You should have repaid him what you borrowed. "

"It--it--was only a trifle, " stammered Denzil. 

"Yes, but the world turns on trifles, " said the wise Wimp. 

"The world is itself a trifle, " said the pensive poet. "The Beautifulalone is deserving of our regard. "

"And when the Beautiful was not gossiping with her landlady, did shegossip with you as you passed the door?"

"Alas, no! She sat in her room reading, and cast a shadow--"

"On your life?"

"No; on the blind. "

"Always one shadow?"

"No, sir. Once or twice, two. "

"Ah, you had been drinking. "

"On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup. "

"That's right. Beer is bad for poets. It makes their feet shaky. Whosewas the second shadow?"

"A man's. "

"Naturally. Mortlake's, perhaps. "

"Impossible. He was still striking eight hours. "

"You found out whose shadow? You didn't leave a shadow of doubt?"

"No; I waited till the substance came out. "

"It was Arthur Constant. "

"You are a magician! You--you terrify me. Yes, it was he. "

"Only once or twice, you say?"

"I didn't keep watch over them. "

"No, no, of course not. You only passed casually. I understand youthoroughly. "

Denzil did not feel comfortable at the assertion. 

"What did he go there for?" Wimp went on. 

"I don't know. I'd stake my soul on Jessie's honour. "

"You might double your stake without risk. "

"Yes, I might! I would! You see her with my eyes. "

"For the moment they are the only ones available. When was the last timeyou saw the two together?"

"About the middle of November. "

"Mortlake knew nothing of the meetings?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he did. Mr. Constant had probably enlisted her inhis social mission work. I knew she was one of the attendants at the bigchildren's tea in the Great Assembly Hall early in November. He treatedher quite like a lady. She was the only attendant who worked with herhands. "

"The others carried the cups on their feet, I suppose. "

"No; how could that be? My meaning is that all the other attendants werereal ladies, and Jessie was only an amateur, so to speak. There was nonovelty for her in handing kids cups of tea. I dare say she had helpedher landlady often enough at that--there's quite a bushel of brats belowstairs. It's almost as bad as at friend Crowl's. Jessie was a real brick. But perhaps Tom didn't know her value. Perhaps he didn't like Constant tocall on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow, she's disappeared, like thesnowfall on the river. There's not a trace. The landlady, who was such afriend of hers that Jessie used to make up her stuff into dresses fornothing, tells me that she's dreadfully annoyed at not having been leftthe slightest clue to her late tenant's whereabouts. "

"You have been making inquiries on your own account apparently?"

"Only of the landlady. Jessie never even gave her the week's notice, butpaid her in lieu of it, and left immediately. The landlady told me Icould have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn't thereto do it, or I should certainly have knocked her down for not keeping hereyes open better. She says if she had only had the least suspicionbeforehand that the minx (she dared to call Jessie a minx) was going, she'd have known where, or her name would have been somebody else's. Andyet she admits that Jessie was looking ill and worried. Stupid old hag!"

"A woman of character, " murmured the detective. 

"Didn't I tell you so?" cried Denzil, eagerly. "Another girl would havelet out that she was going. But no, not a word. She plumped down themoney and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jessie's thingswere there. She must have quietly sold them off, or transferred them tothe new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew herown mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of theMaid of Saragossa. "

"Indeed! And when did she leave?"

"On the l9th of November. "

"Mortlake of course knows where she is?"

"I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire--it was at the endof November--he hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her, ofcourse, sometimes--the landlady knew his writing. "

Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?"

"N-n-no, not at all, " stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodmanwrote to the _Pell Mell_. The more we know about Mr. Constant's life themore we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought myinformation would be valuable to you, and I brought it. "

"And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grodman?"

"Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to _me_. "

"You wrote _Criminals I have Caught_?"

"How--how do you know that?" Wimp was startling him to-day with avengeance. 

"Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique, noble style. "

"Yes, I was afraid it would betray me, " said Denzil. "And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman's a mean curmudgeon. What does he want withall that money and those houses--a man with no sense of the Beautiful?He'd have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha'pence forit, so to speak. "

"Yes, he is a shrewd man after all. I don't see anything valuable in yourevidence against Mortlake. "

"No!" said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to berobbed. "Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was asort of rival organiser, unpaid! A kind of blackleg doing the workcheaper--nay, for nothing. "

"Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?" said Wimp, a shade of sarcasticcontempt piercing through his tones. 

"Oh, yes! He said to me, 'That man will work mischief. I don't like yourkid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don't understand. '"

"Those were his very words?"

"His _ipsissima verba_. "

"Very well. I have your address in my files. Here is a sovereign foryou. "

"Only one sovereign! It's not the least use to me. "

"Very well. It's of great use to me. I have a wife to keep. "

"I haven't, " said Denzil, with a sickly smile, "so perhaps I can manageon it after all. " He took his hat and the sovereign. 

Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant just bringing in some teato her master. He nearly upset her tray at sight of her. She seemed moreamused at the _rencontre_ than he. 

"Good afternoon, dear, " she said coquettishly. "You might let me havethat sovereign. I do so want a new Sunday bonnet. "

Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the hall-door viciously whenhe got to the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to be walking arm-in-armwith the long arm of coincidence. Wimp did not hear the duologue. He wasalready busy on his evening's report to headquarters. The next day Denzilhad a body-guard wherever he went. It might have gratified his vanity hadhe known it. But to-night he was yet unattended, so no one noted that hewent to 46 Glover Street, after the early Crowl supper. He could not helpgoing. He wanted to get another sovereign. He also itched to tauntGrodman. Not succeeding in the former object, he felt the road open forthe second. 

"Do you still hope to discover the Bow murderer?" he asked the oldbloodhound. 

"I can lay my hand on him now, " Grodman announced curtly. 

Denzil hitched his chair back involuntarily. He found conversation withdetectives as lively as playing at skittles with bombshells. They got onhis nerves terribly, these undemonstrative gentlemen with no sense of theBeautiful. 

"But why don't you give him up to justice?" he murmured. 

"Ah--it has to be proved yet. But it is only a matter of time. "

"Oh!" said Denzil, "and shall I write the story for you?"

"No. You will not live long enough. "

Denzil turned white. "Nonsense! I am years younger than you, " he gasped. 

"Yes, " said Grodman, "but you drink so much. "

VII

When Wimp invited Grodman to eat his Christmas plum-pudding at King'sCross, Grodman was only a little surprised. The two men were alwaysoverwhelmingly cordial when they met, in order to disguise their mutualdetestation. When people really like each other, they make no concealmentof their mutual contempt. In his letter to Grodman, Wimp said that hethought it might be nicer for him to keep Christmas in company than insolitary state. There seems to be a general prejudice in favour ofChristmas numbers, and Grodman yielded to it. Besides, he thought that apeep at the Wimp domestic interior would be as good as a pantomime. Hequite enjoyed the fun that was coming, for he knew that Wimp had notinvited him out of mere "peace and goodwill. "

There was only one other guest at the festive board. This was Wimp'swife's mother's mother, a lady of sweet seventy. Only a minority ofmankind can obtain a grandmother-in-law by marrying, but Wimp was notunduly conceited. The old lady suffered from delusions. One of them wasthat she was a centenarian. She dressed for the part. It is extraordinarywhat pains ladies will take to conceal their age. Another of Wimp'sgrandmother-in-law's delusions was that Wimp had married to get her intothe family. Not to frustrate his design, she always gave him her companyon high-days and holidays. Wilfred Wimp--the little boy who stole thejam--was in great form at the Christmas dinner. The only drawback to hisenjoyment was that its sweets needed no stealing. His mother presidedover the platters, and thought how much cleverer Grodman was than herhusband. When the pretty servant who waited on them was momentarily outof the room, Grodman had remarked that she seemed very inquisitive. Thiscoincided with Mrs. Wimp's own convictions, though Mr. Wimp could neverbe brought to see anything unsatisfactory or suspicious about the girl, not even though there were faults in spelling in the "character" withwhich her last mistress had supplied her. 

It was true that the puss had pricked up her ears when Denzil Cantercot'sname was mentioned. Grodman saw it, and watched her, and fooled Wimp tothe top of his bent. It was, of course, Wimp who introduced the poet'sname, and he did it so casually that Grodman perceived at once that hewished to pump him. The idea that the rival bloodhound should come to himfor confirmation of suspicions against his own pet jackal was too funny. It was almost as funny to Grodman that evidence of some sort should beobviously lying to hand in the bosom of Wimp's hand-maiden; so obviouslythat Wimp could not see it. Grodman enjoyed his Christmas dinner, securethat he had not found a successor after all. Wimp, for his part, contemptuously wondered at the way Grodman's thought hovered about Denzilwithout grazing the truth. A man constantly about him, too!

"Denzil is a man of genius, " said Grodman. "And as such comes under theheading of Suspicious Characters. He has written an Epic Poem and read itto me. It is morbid from start to finish. There is 'death' in the thirdline. I dare say you know he polished up my book?" Grodman's artlessnesswas perfect. 

"No. You surprise me, " Wimp replied. "I'm sure he couldn't have done muchto it. Look at your letter in the Pell Mell. Who wants more polish andrefinement than that showed?"

"Ah, I didn't know you did me the honour of reading that. "

"Oh, yes; we both read it, " put in Mrs. Wimp. "I told Mr. Wimp it wasvery clever and cogent. After that quotation from the letter to the poorfellow's _fiancée_ there could be no more doubt but that it was murder. Mr. Wimp was convinced by it too, weren't you, Edward?"

Edward coughed uneasily. It was a true statement, and therefore anindiscreet. Grodman would plume himself terribly. At this moment Wimpfelt that Grodman had been right in remaining a bachelor. Grodmanperceived the humour of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mockingsmile. 

"On the day I was born, " said Wimp's grand-mother-in-law, "over a hundredyears ago, there was a babe murdered. "--Wimp found himself wishing it hadbeen she. He was anxious to get back to Cantercot. "Don't let us talkshop on Christmas Day, " he said, smiling at Grodman. "Besides, murderisn't a very appropriate subject. "

"No, it ain't, " said Grodman. "How did we get on to it? Oh, yes--DenzilCantercot. Ha! ha! ha! That's curious, for since Denzil revised_Criminals I have Caught_, his mind's running on nothing but murders. A poet's brain is easily turned. "

Wimp's eye glittered with excitement and contempt for Grodman'sblindness. In Grodman's eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to theoutsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet. 

Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman slyly andsuddenly unstrung him. 

"How lucky for Denzil!" he said, still in the same naive, facetiousChristmasy tone, "that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair. "

"An alibi!" gasped Wimp. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. He was with his wife, you know. She's my woman of all work, Jane. She happened to mention his being with her. "

Jane had done nothing of the kind. After the colloquy he had overheard, Grodman had set himself to find out the relation between his twoemployees. By casually referring to Denzil as "your husband, " he sostartled the poor woman that she did not attempt to deny the bond. Onlyonce did he use the two words, but he was satisfied. As to the alibi, hehad not yet troubled her; but to take its existence for granted wouldupset and discomfort Wimp. For the moment that was triumph enough forWimp's guest. 

"Par, " said Wilfred Wimp, "what's a alleybi? A marble?"

"No, my lad, " said Grodman, "it means being somewhere else when you'resupposed to be somewhere. "

"Ah, playing truant, " said Wilfred, self-consciously; his schoolmasterhad often proved an alibi against him. "Then Denzil will be hanged. "

Was it a prophecy? Wimp accepted it as such; as an oracle from the godsbidding him mistrust Grodman. Out of the mouths of little childrenissueth wisdom; sometimes even when they are not saying their lessons. 

"When I was in my cradle, a century ago, " said Wimp's grandmother-in-law, "men were hanged for stealing horses. "

They silenced her with snapdragon performances. 

Wimp was busy thinking how to get at Grodman's factotum. 

Grodman was busy thinking how to get at Wimp's domestic. 

Neither received any of the usual messages from the Christmas Bells. 

 * * * * *

The next day was sloppy and uncertain. A thin rain drizzled languidly. One can stand that sort of thing on a summer Bank Holiday; one expectsit. But to have a bad December Bank Holiday is too much of a bad thing. Some steps should surely be taken to confuse the weather clerk'schronology. Once let him know that Bank Holiday is coming, and he writesto the company for more water. To-day his stock seemed low, and he wasdribbling it out; at times the wintry sun would shine in a feeble, diluted way, and though the holiday-makers would have preferred to taketheir sunshine neat, they swarmed forth in their myriads whenever therewas a ray of hope. But it was only dodging the raindrops; up went theumbrellas again, and the streets became meadows of ambulating mushrooms. 

Denzil Cantercot sat in his fur overcoat at the open window, looking atthe landscape in watercolours. He smoked an after-dinner cigarette, andspoke of the Beautiful. Crowl was with him. They were in the first floorfront, Crowl's bedroom, which, from its view of the Mile End Road, waslivelier than the parlour with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs. Crowlwas an anti-tobacconist as regards the best bedroom; but Peter did notlike to put the poet or his cigarette out. He felt there was something incommon between smoke and poetry, over and above their being both Fads. Besides, Mrs. Crowl was sulking in the kitchen. She had been arrangingfor an excursion with Peter and the children to Victoria Park. (She haddreamed of the Crystal Palace, but Santa Claus had put no gifts in thecobbler's shoes. ) Now she could not risk spoiling the feather in herbonnet. The nine brats expressed their disappointment by slapping oneanother on the staircases. Peter felt that Mrs. Crowl connected him insome way with the rainfall, and was unhappy. Was it not enough that hehad been deprived of the pleasure of pointing out to a superstitiousmajority the mutual contradictions of Leviticus and the Song of Solomon?It was not often that Crowl could count on such an audience. 

"And you still call Nature Beautiful?" he said to Denzil, pointing to theragged sky and the dripping eaves. "Ugly old scare-crow!"

"Ugly she seems to-day, " admitted Denzil. "But what is Ugliness but ahigher form of Beauty? You have to look deeper into it to see it; suchvision is the priceless gift of the few. To me this wan desolation ofsighing rain is lovely as the sea-washed ruins of cities. "

"Ah, but you wouldn't like to go out into it, " said Peter Crowl. As hespoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent. 

"We do not always kiss the woman we love. "

"Speak for yourself, Denzil. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know ifNature isn't a Fad. Hallo, there goes Mortlake! Lord, a minute of thiswill soak him to the skin. "

The labour leader was walking along with bowed head. He did not seem tomind the shower. It was some seconds before he even heard Crowl'sinvitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it he shook his head. 

"I know I can't offer you a drawing-room with duchesses stuck about it, "said Peter, vexed. 

Tom turned the handle of the shop door and went in. There was nothingin the world which now galled him more than the suspicion that he wasstuck-up and wished to cut old friends. He picked his way through thenine brats who clung affectionately to his wet knees, dispersing themfinally by a jet of coppers to scramble for. Peter met him on the stairsand shook his hand lovingly and admiringly, and took him into Mrs. Crowl's bedroom. 

"Don't mind what I say, Tom. I'm only a plain man, and my tongue will saywhat comes uppermost! But it ain't from the soul, Tom, it ain't from thesoul, " said Peter, punning feebly, and letting a mirthless smile playover his sallow features. "You know Mr. Cantercot, I suppose? The Poet. "

"Oh, yes; how do you do, Tom?" cried the Poet. "Seen the _New PorkHerald_ lately? Not bad, those old times, eh?"

"No, " said Tom, "I wish I was back in them. "

"Nonsense, nonsense, " said Peter, in much concern. "Look at the good youare doing to the working man. Look how you are sweeping away the Fads. Ah, it's a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of your chuckin'yourself away on a composin'-room! Manual labour is all very well forplain men like me, with no gift but just enough brains to see into therealities of things--to understand that we've got no soul and noimmortality, and all that--and too selfish to look after anybody'scomfort but my own and mother's and the kids'. But men like you andCantercot--it ain't right that you should be peggin' away at low materialthings. Not that I think Cantercot's gospel any value to the masses. TheBeautiful is all very well for folks who've got nothing else to think of, but give me the True. You're the man for my money, Mortlake. No referenceto the funds, Tom, to which I contribute little enough, Heaven knows;though how a _place_ can know anything, Heaven alone knows. _You_ give usthe Useful, Tom; that's what the world wants more than the Beautiful. "

"Socrates said that the Useful _is_ the Beautiful, " said Denzil. 

"That may be, " said Peter, "but the Beautiful ain't the Useful. "

"Nonsense!" said Denzil. "What about Jessie--I mean Miss Dymond? There'sa combination for you. She always reminds me of Grace Darling. How _is_she, Tom?"

"She's dead!" snapped Tom. 

"What?" Denzil turned as white as a Christmas ghost. 

"It was in the papers, " said Tom; "all about her and the lifeboat. "

"Oh, you mean Grace Darling, " said Denzil, visibly relieved. "I meantMiss Dymond. "

"You needn't be so interested in her, " said Tom surlily. "She don'tappreciate it. Ah, the shower is over. I must be going. "

"No, stay a little longer, Tom, " pleaded Peter. 

"I see a lot about you in the papers, but very little of your dear oldphiz now. I can't spare the time to go and hear you. But I really mustgive myself a treat. When's your next show?"

"Oh, I am always giving shows, " said Tom, smiling a little. "But my nextbig performance is on the twenty-first of January, when that picture ofpoor Mr. Constant is to be unveiled at the Bow Break o' Day Club. Theyhave written to Gladstone and other big pots to come down. I do hope theold man accepts. A non-political gathering like this is the only occasionwe could both speak at, and I have never been on the same platform withGladstone. "

He forgot his depression and ill-temper in the prospect, and spoke withmore animation. 

"No, I should hope not, Tom, " said Peter. "What with his Fads about theBible being a Rock, and Monarchy being the right thing, he is a mostdangerous man to lead the Radicals. He never lays his axe to the root ofanything--except oak trees. "

"Mr. Cantycot!" It was Mrs. Crowl's voice that broke in upon the tirade. "There's a _gentleman_ to see you. " The astonishment Mrs. Crowl put intothe "gentleman" was delightful. It was almost as good as a week's rent toher to give vent to her feelings. The controversial couple had moved awayfrom the window when Tom entered, and had not noticed the immediateadvent of another visitor who had spent his time profitably in listeningto Mrs. Crowl before asking to see the presumable object of his visit. 

"Ask him up if it's a friend of yours, Cantercot, " said Peter. It wasWimp. Denzil was rather dubious as to the friendship, but he preferred totake Wimp diluted. "Mortlake's upstairs, " he said; "will you come up andsee him?"

Wimp had intended a duologue, but he made no objection, so he, too, stumbled through the nine brats to Mrs. Crowl's bedroom. It was a queerquartette. Wimp had hardly expected to find anybody at the house onBoxing Day, but he did not care to waste a day. Was not Grodman, too, onthe track? How lucky it was that Denzil had made the first overtures, so that he could approach him without exciting suspicion. 

Mortlake scowled when he saw the detective. He objected to the police--onprinciple. But Crowl had no idea who the visitor was, even when told hisname. He was rather pleased to meet one of Denzil's high-class friends, and welcomed him warmly. Probably he was some famous editor, which wouldaccount for his name stirring vague recollections. He summoned the eldestbrat and sent him for beer (people would have their Fads), and notwithout trepidation called down to "Mother" for glasses. "Mother"observed at night (in the same apartment) that the beer money might havepaid the week's school fees for half the family. 

"We were just talking of poor Mr. Constant's portrait, Mr. Wimp, " saidthe unconscious Crowl; "they're going to unveil it, Mortlake tells me, onthe twenty-first of next month at the Bow Break o' Day Club. "

"Ah, " said Wimp, elate at being spared the trouble of manoeuvring theconversation; "mysterious affair that, Mr. Crowl. "

"No; it's the right thing, " said Peter. "There ought to be some memorialof the man in the district where he worked and where he died, poor chap. "The cobbler brushed away a tear. 

"Yes, it's only right, " echoed Mortlake, a whit eagerly. "He was a noblefellow, a true philanthropist--the only thoroughly unselfish worker I'veever met. "

"He was that, " said Peter; "and it's a rare pattern is unselfishness. Poor fellow, poor fellow. He preached the Useful, too. I've never met hislike. Ah, I wish there was a heaven for him to go to!" He blew his noseviolently with a red pocket-handkerchief. 

"Well, he's there, if there _is_, " said Tom. 

"I hope he is, " added Wimp, fervently; "but I shouldn't like to go therethe way he did. "

"You were the last person to see him, Tom, weren't you?" said Denzil. 

"Oh, no, " answered Tom, quickly. "You remember he went out after me; atleast, so Mrs. Drabdump said at the inquest. "

"That last conversation he had with you, Tom, " said Denzil. "He didn'tsay anything to you that would lead you to suppose--"

"No, of course not!" interrupted Mortlake, impatiently. 

"Do you really think he was murdered, Tom?" said Denzil. 

"Mr. Wimp's opinion on that point is more valuable than mine, "replied Tom, testily. "It may have been suicide. Men often get sickof life--especially if they are bored, " he added meaningly. 

"Ah, but you were the last person known to be with him, " said Denzil. 

Crowl laughed. "Had you there, Tom. "

But they did not have Tom there much longer, for he departed, lookingeven worse-tempered than when he came. Wimp went soon after, and Crowland Denzil were left to their interminable argumentation concerning theUseful and the Beautiful. 

Wimp went West. He had several strings (or cords) to his bow, and heultimately found himself at Kensal Green Cemetery. Being there, he wentdown the avenues of the dead to a grave to note down the exact date of adeath. It was a day on which the dead seemed enviable. The dull, soddensky, the dripping, leafless trees, the wet, spongy soil, the reekinggrass--everything combined to make one long to be in a warm, comfortablegrave away from the leaden _ennuis_ of life. Suddenly the detective'skeen eye caught sight of a figure that made his heart throb with suddenexcitement. It was that of a woman in a grey shawl and a brown bonnet, standing before a railed-in grave. She had no umbrella. The rain plashedmournfully upon her, but left no trace on her soaking garments. Wimpcrept up behind her, but she paid no heed to him. Her eyes were loweredto the grave, which seemed to be drawing them towards it by some strangemorbid fascination. His eyes followed hers. The simple headstone bore thename, "Arthur Constant. "

Wimp tapped her suddenly on the shoulder. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Drabdump?"

Mrs. Drabdump went deadly white. She turned round, staring at Wimpwithout any recognition. 

"You remember me, surely, " he said; "I've been down once or twice to yourplace about that poor gentleman's papers. " His eye indicated the grave. 

"Lor! I remember you now, " said Mrs. Drabdump. 

"Won't you come under my umbrella? You must be drenched to the skin. "

"It don't matter, sir. I can't take no hurt. I've had the rheumatics thistwenty year. "

Mrs. Drabdump shrank from accepting Wimp's attentions, not so muchperhaps because he was a man as because he was a gentleman. Mrs. Drabdumpliked to see the fine folks keep their place, and not contaminate theirskirts by contact with the lower castes. "It's set wet, it'll rain rightinto the new year, " she announced. "And they say a bad beginnin' makes aworse endin'. " Mrs. Drabdump was one of those persons who give you theidea that they just missed being born barometers. 

"But what are you doing in this miserable spot, so far from home?"queried the detective. 

"It's Bank Holiday, " Mrs. Drabdump reminded him in tones of acutesurprise. "I always make a hexcursion on Bank Holiday. "

VIII

The New Year drew Mrs. Drabdump a new lodger. He was an old gentlemanwith a long grey beard. He rented the rooms of the late Mr. Constant, andlived a very retired life. Haunted rooms--or rooms that ought to behaunted if the ghosts of those murdered in them had any self-respect--aresupposed to fetch a lower rent in the market. The whole Irish problemmight be solved if the spirits of "Mr. Balfour's victims" would onlydepreciate the value of property to a point consistent with the supportof an agricultural population. But Mrs. Drabdump's new lodger paid somuch for his rooms that he laid himself open to a suspicion of a specialinterest in ghosts. Perhaps he was a member of the Psychical Society. The neighbourhood imagined him another mad philanthropist, but as he didnot appear to be doing any good to anybody it relented and conceded hissanity. Mortlake, who occasionally stumbled across him in the passage, did not trouble himself to think about him at all. He was too fullof other troubles and cares. Though he worked harder than ever, thespirit seemed to have gone out of him. Sometimes he forgot himself ina fine rapture of eloquence--lashing himself up into a divine resentmentof injustice or a passion of sympathy with the sufferings of hisbrethren--but mostly he plodded on in dull, mechanical fashion. He stillmade brief provincial tours, starring a day here and a day there, andeverywhere his admirers remarked how jaded and overworked he looked. There was talk of starting a subscription to give him a holiday on theContinent--a luxury obviously unobtainable on the few pounds allowedhim per week. The new lodger would doubtless have been pleased tosubscribe, for he seemed quite to like occupying Mortlake's chamber thenights he was absent, though he was thoughtful enough not to disturb thehard-worked landlady in the adjoining room by unseemly noise. Wimp wasalways a quiet man. 

Meantime the twenty-first of the month approached, and the East-end wasin excitement. Mr. Gladstone had consented to be present at the ceremonyof unveiling the portrait of Arthur Constant, presented by an unknowndonor to the Bow Break o' Day Club, and it was to be a great function. The whole affair was outside the lines of party politics, so that evenConservatives and Socialists considered themselves justified in pesteringthe committee for tickets. To say nothing of ladies! As the committeedesired to be present themselves, nine-tenths of the applications foradmission had to be refused, as is usual on these occasions. Thecommittee agreed among themselves to exclude the fair sex altogether asthe only way of disposing of their womankind, who were making speechesas long as Mr. Gladstone's. Each committeeman told his sisters, femalecousins, and aunts, that the other committeemen had insisted on divestingthe function of all grace; and what could a man do when he was in aminority of one?

Crowl, who was not a member of the Break o' Day Club, was particularlyanxious to hear the great orator whom he despised; fortunately Mortlakeremembered the cobbler's anxiety to hear himself, and on the eve of theceremony sent him a ticket. Crowl was in the first flush of possessionwhen Denzil Cantercot returned, after a sudden and unannounced absenceof three days. His clothes were muddy and tattered, his cocked hat wasdeformed, his cavalier beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot. The cobbler nearly dropped the ticket at the sight of him. "Hallo, Cantercot!" he gasped. "Why, where have you been all these days?"

"Terribly busy!" said Denzil. "Here, give me a glass of water. I'm dry asthe Sahara. "

Crowl ran inside and got the water, trying hard not to inform Mrs. Crowlof their lodger's return. "Mother" had expressed herself freely on thesubject of the poet during his absence, and not in terms which would havecommended themselves to the poet's fastidious literary sense. Indeed, shedid not hesitate to call him a sponger and a low swindler, who had runaway to avoid paying the piper. Her fool of a husband might be quite surehe would never set eyes on the scoundrel again. However, Mrs. Crowl waswrong. Here was Denzil back again. And yet Mr. Crowl felt no sense ofvictory. He had no desire to crow over his partner and to utter that"See! didn't I tell you so?" which is a greater consolation than religionin most of the misfortunes of life. Unfortunately, to get the water, Crowl had to go to the kitchen; and as he was usually such a temperateman, this desire for drink in the middle of the day attracted theattention of the lady in possession. Crowl had to explain the situation. Mrs. Crowl ran into the shop to improve it. Mr. Crowl followed in dismay, leaving a trail of spilt water in his wake. 

"You good-for-nothing, disreputable scare-crow, where have--"

"Hush, mother. Let him drink. Mr. Cantercot is thirsty. "

"Does he care if my children are hungry?"

Denzil tossed the water greedily down his throat almost at a gulp, as ifit were brandy. 

"Madam, " he said, smacking his lips, "I do care. I care intensely. Fewthings in life would grieve me more deeply than to hear that a child, adear little child--the Beautiful in a nutshell--had suffered hunger. Youwrong me. " His voice was tremulous with the sense of injury. Tears stoodin his eyes. 

"Wrong you? I've no wish to _wrong_ you, " said Mrs. Crowl. "I should liketo _hang_ you. "

"Don't talk of such ugly things, " said Denzil, touching his throatnervously. 

"Well, what have you been doin' all this time?"

"Why, what should I be doing?"

"How should I know what became of you? I thought it was another murder. "

"What!" Denzil's glass dashed to fragments on the floor. "What do youmean?"

But Mrs. Crowl was glaring too viciously at Mr. Crowl to reply. Heunderstood the message as if it were printed. It ran: "You have brokenone of my best glasses. You have annihilated threepence, or a week'sschool fees for half the family. " Peter wished she would turn thelightning upon Denzil, a conductor down whom it would run innocuously. He stooped down and picked up the pieces as carefully as if they werecuttings from the Koh-i-noor. Thus the lightning passed harmlessly overhis head and flew towards Cantercot. 

"What do I mean?" Mrs. Crowl echoed, as if there had been no interval. "Imean that it would be a good thing if you _had_ been murdered. "

"What unbeautiful ideas you have to be sure!" murmured Denzil. 

"Yes; but they'd be useful, " said Mrs. Crowl, who had not lived withPeter all these years for nothing. "And if you haven't been murdered, what _have_ you been doing?"

"My dear, my dear, " put in Crowl, deprecatingly, looking up from hisquadrupedal position like a sad dog, "you are not Cantercot's keeper. "

"Oh, ain't I?" flashed his spouse. "Who else keeps him, I should like toknow?"

Peter went on picking up the pieces of the Koh-i-noor. 

"I have no secrets from Mrs. Crowl, " Denzil explained courteously. "Ihave been working day and night bringing out a new paper. Haven't had awink of sleep for three nights. "

Peter looked up at his bloodshot eyes with respectful interest. 

"The capitalist met me in the street--an old friend of mine--I wasoverjoyed at the _rencontre_ and told him the idea I'd been brooding overfor months, and he promised to stand all the racket. "

"What sort of a paper?" said Peter. 

"Can you ask? To what do you think I've been devoting my days and nightsbut to the cultivation of the Beautiful?"

"Is that what the paper will be devoted to?"

"Yes. To the Beautiful. "

"I know, " snorted Mrs. Crowl, "with portraits of actresses. "

"Portraits? Oh, no!" said Denzil. "That would be the True, not theBeautiful. "

"And what's the name of the paper?" asked Crowl. 

"Ah, that's a secret, Peter. Like Scott, I prefer to remain anonymous. "

"Just like your Fads. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know where thefun of anonymity comes in. If I had any gifts, I should like to get thecredit. It's a right and natural feeling to my thinking. "

"Unnatural, Peter; unnatural. We're all born anonymous, and I'm forsticking close to Nature. Enough for me that I disseminate the Beautiful. Any letters come during my absence, Mrs. Crowl?"

"No, " she snapped. "But a gent named Grodman called. He said you hadn'tbeen to see him for some time, and looked annoyed to hear you'ddisappeared. How much have you let _him_ in for?"

"The man's in _my_ debt, " said Denzil, annoyed. "I wrote a book for himand he's taken all the credit for it, the rogue! My name doesn't appeareven in the Preface. What's that ticket you're looking so lovingly at, Peter?"

"That's for to-night--the unveiling of Constant's portrait. Gladstonespeaks. Awful demand for places. "

"Gladstone!" sneered Denzil. "Who wants to hear Gladstone? A man who'sdevoted his life to pulling down the pillars of Church and State. "

"A man who's devoted his whole life to propping up the crumbling Fads ofReligion and Monarchy. But, for all that, the man has his gifts, and I'mburnin' to hear him. "

"I wouldn't go out of my way an inch to hear him, " said Denzil; and wentup to his room, and when Mrs. Crowl sent him up a cup of nice strong teaat tea-time, the brat who bore it found him lying dressed on the bed, snoring unbeautifully. 

The evening wore on. It was fine frosty weather. The Whitechapel Roadswarmed with noisy life, as though it were a Saturday night. The starsflared in the sky like the lights of celestial costermongers. Everybodywas on the alert for the advent of Mr. Gladstone. He must surely comethrough the Road on his journey from the West Bow-wards. But nobody sawhim or his carriage, except those about the Hall. Probably he went bytram most of the way. He would have caught cold in an open carriage, orbobbing his head out of the window of a closed. 

"If he had only been a German prince, or a cannibal king, " said Crowl, bitterly, as he plodded towards the Club, "we should have disguised MileEnd in bunting and blue fire. But perhaps it's a compliment. He knows hisLondon, and it's no use trying to hide the facts from him. They must havequeer notions of cities, those monarchs. They must fancy everybody livesin a flutter of flags and walks about under triumphal arches, like as ifI were to stitch shoes in my Sunday clothes. " By a defiance of chronologyCrowl had them on to-day, and they seemed to accentuate the simile. 

"And why shouldn't life be fuller of the Beautiful?" said Denzil. Thepoet had brushed the reluctant mud off his garments to the extent it waswilling to go, and had washed his face, but his eyes were still bloodshotfrom the cultivation of the Beautiful. Denzil was accompanying Crowl tothe door of the Club out of good fellowship. Denzil was himselfaccompanied by Grodman, though less obtrusively. Least obtrusively was heaccompanied by his usual Scotland Yard shadows, Wimp's agents. There wasa surging nondescript crowd about the Club, so that the police, and thedoorkeeper, and the stewards could with difficulty keep out the tide ofthe ticketless, through which the current of the privileged had equaldifficulty in permeating. The streets all around were thronged withpeople longing for a glimpse of Gladstone. Mortlake drove up in a hansom(his head a self-conscious pendulum of popularity, swaying and bowing toright and left) and received all the pent-up enthusiasm. 

"Well, good-by, Cantercot, " said Crowl. 

"No, I'll see you to the door, Peter. "

They fought their way shoulder to shoulder. 

Now that Grodman had found Denzil he was not going to lose him again. Hehad only found him by accident, for he was himself bound to the unveilingceremony, to which he had been invited in view of his known devotion tothe task of unveiling the Mystery. He spoke to one of the policemenabout, who said, "Ay, ay, sir, " and he was prepared to follow Denzil, ifnecessary, and to give up the pleasure of hearing Gladstone for an acuterthrill. The arrest must be delayed no longer. 

But Denzil seemed as if he were going in on the heels of Crowl. Thiswould suit Grodman better. He could then have the two pleasures. ButDenzil was stopped halfway through the door. 

"Ticket, sir!"

Denzil drew himself up to his full height. 

"Press, " he said majestically. All the glories and grandeurs of theFourth Estate were concentrated in that haughty monosyllable. Heavenitself is full of journalists who have overawed St. Peter. But thedoorkeeper was a veritable dragon. 

"What paper, sir?"

"_New York Herald_" said Denzil, sharply. He did not relish his wordbeing distrusted. 

"_New York Herald_" said one of the bystanding stewards, scarce catchingthe sounds. "Pass him in. "

And in the twinkling of an eye Denzil had eagerly slipped inside. 

But during the brief altercation Wimp had come up. Even he could not makehis face quite impassive, and there was a suppressed intensity in theeyes and a quiver about the mouth. He went in on Denzil's heels, blockingup the doorway with Grodman. The two men were so full of their coming_coups_ that they struggled for some seconds, side by side, before theyrecognised each other. Then they shook hands heartily. 

"That was Cantercot just went in, wasn't it, Grodman?" said Wimp. 

"I didn't notice, " said Grodman, in tones of utter indifference. 

At bottom Wimp was terribly excited. He felt that his _coup_ was goingto be executed under very sensational circumstances. Everything wouldcombine to turn the eyes of the country upon him--nay, of the world, forhad not the Big Bow Mystery been discussed in every language under thesun? In these electric times the criminal receives a cosmopolitanreputation. It is a privilege he shares with few other artists. This timeWimp would be one of them. And he felt deservedly so. If the criminal hadbeen cunning to the point of genius in planning the murder, he had beenacute to the point of divination in detecting it. Never before had hepieced together so broken a chain. He could not resist the uniqueopportunity of setting a sensational scheme in a sensational framework. The dramatic instinct was strong in him; he felt like a playwright whohas constructed a strong melodramatic plot, and has the Drury Lane stagesuddenly offered him to present it on. It would be folly to deny himselfthe luxury, though the presence of Mr. Gladstone and the nature of theceremony should perhaps have given him pause. Yet, on the other hand, these were the very factors of the temptation. Wimp went in and took aseat behind Denzil. All the seats were numbered, so that everybody mighthave the satisfaction of occupying somebody else's. Denzil was in thespecial reserved places in the front row just by the central gangway;Crowl was squeezed into a corner behind a pillar near the back of thehall. Grodman had been honoured with a seat on the platform, which wasaccessible by steps on the right and left, but he kept his eye on Denzil. The picture of the poor idealist hung on the wall behind Grodman's head, covered by its curtain of brown holland. There was a subdued buzz ofexcitement about the hall, which swelled into cheers every now and againas some gentleman known to fame or Bow took his place upon the platform. It was occupied by several local M. P. 's of varying politics, a number ofother Parliamentary satellites of the great man, three or four labourleaders, a peer or two of philanthropic pretensions, a sprinkling ofToynbee and Oxford Hall men, the president and other honorary officials, some of the family and friends of the deceased, together with theinevitable percentage of persons who had no claim to be there save cheek. Gladstone was late--later than Mortlake, who was cheered to the echo whenhe arrived, some one starting "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, " as if itwere a political meeting. Gladstone came in just in time to acknowledgethe compliment. The noise of the song, trolled out from iron lungs, haddrowned the huzzahs heralding the old man's advent. The convivial choruswent to Mortlake's head, as if champagne had really preceded it. His eyesgrew moist and dim. He saw himself swimming to the Millennium on waves ofenthusiasm. Ah, how his brother toilers should be rewarded for theirtrust in him!

With his usual courtesy and consideration, Mr. Gladstone had refused toperform the actual unveiling of Arthur Constant's portrait. "That, " hesaid in his postcard, "will fall most appropriately to Mr. Mortlake, agentleman who has, I am given to understand, enjoyed the personalfriendship of the late Mr. Constant, and has cooperated with him invarious schemes for the organisation of skilled and unskilled classesof labour, as well as for the diffusion of better ideals--ideals ofself-culture and self-restraint--among the working men of Bow, who havebeen fortunate, so far as I can perceive, in the possession (if in onecase unhappily only temporary possession) of two such men of undoubtedability and honesty to direct their divided counsels and to lead themalong a road, which, though I cannot pledge myself to approve of it inall its turnings and windings, is yet not unfitted to bring them somewhatnearer to goals to which there are few of us but would extend somemeasure of hope that the working classes of this great Empire may in duecourse, yet with no unnecessary delay, be enabled to arrive. "

Mr. Gladstone's speech was an expansion of his postcard, punctuated bycheers. The only new thing in it was the graceful and touching way inwhich he revealed what had been a secret up till then--that the portraithad been painted and presented to the Bow Break o' Day Club, by LucyBrent, who in the fulness of time would have been Arthur Constant's wife. It was a painting for which he had sat to her while alive, and she hadstifled yet pampered her grief by working hard at it since his death. Thefact added the last touch of pathos to the occasion. Crowl's face washidden behind his red handkerchief; even the fire of excitement in Wimp'seye was quenched for a moment by a teardrop, as he thought of Mrs. Wimpand Wilfred. As for Grodman, there was almost a lump in his throat. Denzil Cantercot was the only unmoved man in the room. He thought theepisode quite too Beautiful, and was already weaving it into rhyme. 

At the conclusion of his speech Mr. Gladstone called upon Tom Mortlaketo unveil the portrait. Tom rose, pale and excited. He faltered as hetouched the cord. He seemed overcome with emotion. Was it the mention ofLucy Brent that had moved him to his depths?

The brown holland fell away--the dead stood revealed as he had been inlife. Every feature, painted by the hand of Love, was instinct withvitality: the fine, earnest face, the sad kindly eyes, the noble brow, seeming still a-throb with the thought of Humanity. A thrill ran throughthe room--there was a low, undefinable murmur. Oh, the pathos and thetragedy of it! Every eye was fixed, misty with emotion, upon the dead manin the picture, and the living man who stood, pale and agitated, andvisibly unable to commence his speech, at the side of the canvas. Suddenly a hand was laid upon the labour leader's shoulder, and thererang through the hall in Wimp's clear, decisive tones the words--"TomMortlake, I arrest you for the murder of Arthur Constant!"

IX

For a moment there was an acute, terrible silence. Mortlake's face wasthat of a corpse; the face of the dead man at his side was flushed withthe hues of life. To the overstrung nerves of the onlookers, the broodingeyes of the picture seemed sad and stern with menace, and charged withthe lightnings of doom. 

It was a horrible contrast. For Wimp, alone, the painted face had fuller, more tragical meanings. The audience seemed turned to stone. They sat orstood--in every variety of attitude--frozen, rigid. Arthur Constant'spicture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a hall of the dead. 

But only for a moment. Mortlake shook off the detective's hand. 

"Boys!" he cried, in accents of infinite indignation, "this is a policeconspiracy. "

His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dullexcited hubbub answered him. The little cobbler darted from behind hispillar, and leapt upon a bench. The cords of his brow were swollen withexcitement. He seemed a giant overshadowing the hall. 

"Boys!" he roared, in his best Victoria Park voice, "listen to me. Thischarge is a foul and damnable lie. "

"Bravo!" "Hear, hear!" "Hooray!" "It is!" was roared back at him from allparts of the room. Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes, excited to the last degree. 

"Boys!" Peter roared on, "you all know me. I'm a plain man, and I want toknow if it's likely a man would murder his best friend. "

"No!" in a mighty volume of sound. 

Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake's popularity. He stood on theplatform, pale and anxious as his prisoner. 

"And if he did, why didn't they prove it the first time?"

"Hear, Hear!"

"And if they want to arrest him, why couldn't they leave it till theceremony was over? Tom Mortlake's not the man to run away. "

"Tom Mortlake! Tom Mortlake! Three cheers for Tom Mortlake!" "Hip, hip, hip, hooray!"

"Three groans for the police!" "Hoo! Oo! Oo!"

Wimp's melodrama was not going well. He felt like the author to whoseears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit. He almost wished hehad not followed the curtain-raiser with his own stronger drama. Unconsciously the police, scattered about the hall, drew together. Thepeople on the platform knew not what to do. They had all risen and stoodin a densely packed mass. Even Mr. Gladstone's speech failed him incircumstances so novel. The groans died away; the cheers for Mortlakerose and swelled and fell and rose again. Sticks and umbrellas werebanged and rattled, handkerchiefs were waved, the thunder deepened. Themotley crowd still surging about the hall took up the cheers, and forhundreds of yards around people were going black in the face out of mereirresponsible enthusiasm. At last Tom waved his hand--the thunderdwindled, died. The prisoner was master of the situation. 

Grodman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair, a curiousmocking Mephistophelian glitter about his eyes, his lips wreathed into ahalf smile. There was no hurry for him to get Denzil Cantercot arrestednow. Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder. In Grodman's heartthere was a great, glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews towin in a famous match, and has heard the judge's word. He felt almostkindly to Denzil now. 

Tom Mortlake spoke. His face was set and stony. His tall figure was drawnup haughtily to its full height. He pushed the black mane back from hisforehead with a characteristic gesture. The fevered audience hung uponhis lips--the men at the back leaned eagerly forward--the reporters werebreathless with fear lest they should miss a word. What would the greatlabour leader have to say at this supreme moment?

"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen. It is to me a melancholy pleasure to havebeen honoured with the task of unveiling to-night this portrait of agreat benefactor to Bow and a true friend to the labouring classes. Except that he honoured me with his friendship while living, and that theaspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, beenidentical with his, there is little reason why this honourable dutyshould have fallen upon me. Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find aninspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth inour hearts and in this noble work of art--wrought, as Mr. Gladstone hastold us, by the hand of one who loved him. " The speaker paused a moment, his low vibrant tones faltering into silence. "If we humble working menof Bow can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficialinfluence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of usto walk in the light he has kindled in our midst--a perpetual lamp ofself-sacrifice and brotherhood. "

That was all. The room rang with cheers. Tom Mortlake resumed his seat. To Wimp the man's audacity verged on the Sublime; to Denzil on theBeautiful. Again there was a breathless hush. Mr. Gladstone's mobile facewas working with excitement. No such extraordinary scene had occurred inthe whole of his extraordinary experience. He seemed about to rise. Thecheering subsided to a painful stillness. Wimp cut the situation bylaying his hand again upon Tom's shoulder. 

"Come quietly with me, " he said. The words were almost a whisper, but inthe supreme silence they travelled to the ends of the hall. 

"Don't you go, Tom!" The trumpet tones were Peter's. The call thrilled ananswering chord of defiance in every breast, and a low ominous murmurswept through the hall. 

Tom rose, and there was silence again. "Boys, " he said, "let me go. Don'tmake any noise about it. I shall be with you again to-morrow. "

But the blood of the Break o' Day boys was at fever heat. A hurtling massof men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was chaos. Tom did not move. Half-a-dozen men headed by Peter scaled the platform. Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring round Tom'schair. The platform people scampered like mice from the centre. Somehuddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the rear. Thecommittee congratulated themselves on having had the self-denial toexclude ladies. Mr. Gladstone's satellites hurried the old man off andinto his carriage, though the fight promised to become Homeric. Grodmanstood at the side of the platform secretly more amused than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was alreadystrengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about the hallblew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside and theneighbourhood. An Irish M. P. On the platform was waving his gingham likea shillelagh in sheer excitement, forgetting his new-found respectabilityand dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair. Him a conscientiousconstable floored with a truncheon. But a shower of fists fell on thezealot's face, and he tottered back bleeding. Then the storm broke in allits fury. The upper air was black with staves, sticks, and umbrellas, mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists. Yells, and groans, and hoots, and battle-cries blent in grotesque chorus, like one ofDvorák's weird diabolical movements. Mortlake stood impassive, with armsfolded, making no further effort, and the battle raged round him as thewater swirls round some steadfast rock. A posse of police from the backfought their way steadily towards him, and charged up the heights of theplatform steps, only to be sent tumbling backwards, as their leader washurled at them like a battering-ram. Upon the top of the heap he fell, surmounting the strata of policemen. But others clambered upon them, escalading the platform. A moment more and Mortlake would have beentaken. Then the miracle happened. 

As when of old a reputable goddess _ex machinâ_ saw her favourite hero indire peril, straightway she drew down a cloud from the celestial storesof Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that hisadversary strove with the darkness, so did Crowl, the cunning cobbler, the much-daring, essay to ensure his friend's safety. He turned off thegas at the meter. 

An Arctic night--unpreceded by twilight--fell, and there dawned thesabbath of the witches. The darkness could be felt--and it left blood andbruises behind it. When the lights were turned on again, Mortlake wasgone. But several of the rioters were arrested, triumphantly. 

And through all, and over all, the face of the dead man, who had soughtto bring peace on earth, brooded. 

 * * * * *

Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese, with his headbandaged, while Denzil Cantercot told him the story of how he had rescuedTom Mortlake. He had been among the first to scale the height, and hadnever budged from Tom's side or from the forefront of the battle till hehad seen him safely outside and into a by-street. 

"I am so glad you saw that he got away safely, " said Crowl, "I wasn'tquite sure he would. "

"Yes; but I wish some cowardly fool hadn't turned off the gas. I like mento _see_ that they are beaten. "

"But it seemed--easier, " faltered Crowl. 

"Easier!" echoed Denzil, taking a deep draught of bitter. "Really, Peter, I'm sorry to find you always will take such low views. It may be easier, but it's shabby. It shocks one's sense of the Beautiful. "

Crowl ate his bread and cheese shamefacedly. 

"But what was the use of breaking your head to save him?" said Mrs. Crowl, with an unconscious pun. "He must be caught. "

"Ah, I don't see how the Useful _does_ come in, now, " said Peter, thoughtfully. "But I didn't think of that at the time. "

He swallowed his water quickly, and it went the wrong way and added tohis confusion. It also began to dawn upon him that he might be called toaccount. Let it be said at once that he wasn't. He had taken tooprominent a part. 

Meantime, Mrs. Wimp was bathing Mr. Wimp's eye, and rubbing him generallywith arnica. Wimp's melodrama had been, indeed, a sight for the gods. Only virtue was vanquished and vice triumphant. The villain had escaped, and without striking a blow. 

X

There was matter and to spare for the papers the next day. The strikingceremony--Mr. Gladstone's speech--the sensational arrest--these would ofthemselves have made excellent themes for reports and leaders. But thepersonality of the man arrested, and the Big Bow Mystery Battle--as itcame to be called--gave additional piquancy to the paragraphs and theposters. The behaviour of Mortlake put the last touch to thepicturesqueness of the position. He left the hall when the lights wentout, and walked unnoticed and unmolested through pleiads of policemento the nearest police station, where the superintendent was almost tooexcited to take any notice of his demand to be arrested. But to do himjustice, the official yielded as soon as he understood the situation. It seems inconceivable that he did not violate some red-tape regulationin so doing. To some this self-surrender was limpid proof of innocence;to others it was the damning token of despairing guilt. 

The morning papers were pleasant reading for Grodman, who chuckled ascontinuously over his morning egg, as if he had laid it. Jane was alarmedfor the sanity of her saturnine master. As her husband would have said, Grodman's grins were not Beautiful. But he made no effort to suppressthem. Not only had Wimp perpetrated a grotesque blunder, but thejournalists to a man were down on his great sensation tableau, thoughtheir denunciations did not appear in the dramatic columns. The Liberalpapers said that he had endangered Mr. Gladstone's life; the Conservativethat he had unloosed the raging elements of Bow blackguardism, and set inmotion forces which might have easily swelled to a riot, involving severedestruction of property. But "Tom Mortlake" was, after all, the thoughtswamping every other. It was, in a sense, a triumph for the man. 

But Wimp's turn came when Mortlake, who reserved his defence, was broughtup before a magistrate, and by force of the new evidence, fully committedfor trial on the charge of murdering Arthur Constant. Then men's thoughtscentred again on the Mystery, and the solution of the inexplicableproblem agitated mankind from China to Peru. 

In the middle of February, the great trial befell. It was another of theopportunities which the Chancellor of the Exchequer neglects. So stirringa drama might have easily cleared its expenses--despite the length of thecast, the salaries of the stars, and the rent of the house--in mereadvance booking. For it was a drama which (by the rights of Magna Charta)could never be repeated; a drama which ladies of fashion would have giventheir earrings to witness, even with the central figure not a woman. Andthere _was_ a woman in it anyhow, to judge by the little that hadtranspired at the magisterial examination, and the fact that the countrywas placarded with bills offering a reward for information concerning aMiss Jessie Dymond. Mortlake was defended by Sir Charles Brown-Harland, Q. C. , retained at the expense of the Mortlake Defence Fund (subscriptionsto which came also from Australia and the Continent), and set on hismettle by the fact that he was the accepted labour candidate for anEast-end constituency. Their Majesties, Victoria and the Law, wererepresented by Mr. Robert Spigot, Q. C. 

Mr. SPIGOT, Q. C, in presenting his case, said: "I propose to show thatthe prisoner murdered his friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant, in cold blood, and with the most careful premeditation; premeditationso studied, as to leave the circumstances of the death an impenetrablemystery for weeks to all the world, though, fortunately, withoutaltogether baffling the almost superhuman ingenuity of Mr. Edward Wimp, of the Scotland Yard Detective Department. I propose to show that themotives of the prisoner were jealousy and revenge; jealousy, not only ofhis friend's superior influence over the working men he himself aspiredto lead, but the more commonplace animosity engendered by the disturbingelement of a woman having relations to both. If, before my case iscomplete, it will be my painful duty to show that the murdered man wasnot the saint the world has agreed to paint him, I shall not shrink fromunveiling the truer picture, in the interests of justice, which cannotsay _nil nisi bonum_ even of the dead. I propose to show that the murderwas committed by the prisoner shortly before half-past six on the morningof December 4th, and that the prisoner having, with the remarkableingenuity which he has shown throughout, attempted to prepare an alibiby feigning to leave London by the _first_ train to Liverpool, returnedhome, got in with his latch-key through the street door, which he hadleft on the latch, unlocked his victim's bedroom with a key which hepossessed, cut the sleeping man's throat, pocketed his razor, locked thedoor again, and gave it the appearance of being bolted, went downstairs, unslipped the bolt of the big lock, closed the door behind him, and gotto Euston in time for the _second_ train to Liverpool. The fog helpedhis proceedings throughout. " Such was in sum the theory of theprosecution. The pale, defiant figure in the dock winced perceptiblyunder parts of it. 

Mrs. Drabdump was the first witness called for the prosecution. She wasquite used to legal inquisitiveness by this time, but did not appear ingood spirits. 

"On the night of December 3rd, you gave the prisoner a letter?"

"Yes, your ludship. "

"How did he behave when he read it?"

"He turned very pale and excited. He went up to the poor gentleman'sroom, and I'm afraid he quarrelled with him. He might have left his lasthours peaceful. " (Amusement. )

"What happened then?"

"Mr. Mortlake went out in a passion, and came in again in about an hour. "

"He told you he was going away to Liverpool very early the next morning?"

"No, your ludship, he said he was going to Devonport. " (Sensation. )

"What time did you get up the next morning?"

"Half-past six. "

"That is not your usual time?"

"No, I always get up at six. "

"How do you account for the extra sleepiness?"

"Misfortunes will happen. "

"It wasn't the dull, foggy weather?"

"No, my lud, else I should never get up early. " (Laughter. )

"You drink something before going to bed?"

"I like my cup o' tea. I take it strong, without sugar. It alwayssteadies my nerves. "

"Quite so. Where were you when the prisoner told you he was going toDevonport?"

"Drinkin' my tea in the kitchen. "

"What should you say if prisoner dropped something in it to make yousleep late?"

WITNESS (startled): "He ought to be shot. "

"He might have done it without your noticing it, I suppose?"

"If he was clever enough to murder the poor gentleman, he was cleverenough to try and poison me. "

The JUDGE: "The witness in her replies must confine herself to theevidence. "

Mr. SPIGOT, Q. C. : "I must submit to your lordship that it is a verylogical answer, and exactly illustrates the interdependence of theprobabilities. Now, Mrs. Drabdump, let us know what happened when youawoke at half-past six the next morning. " Thereupon Mrs. Drabdumprecapitulated the evidence (with new redundancies, but slight variations)given by her at the inquest. How she became alarmed--how she found thestreet door locked by the big lock--how she roused Grodman, and got himto burst open the door--how they found the body--all this with which thepublic was already familiar _ad nauseam_ was extorted from her afresh. 

"Look at this key (key passed to witness). Do you recognise it?"

"Yes; how did you get it? It's the key of my first-floor front. I am sureI left it sticking in the door. "

"Did you know a Miss Dymond?"

"Yes, Mr. Mortlake's sweetheart. But I knew he would never marry her, poor thing. " (Sensation. )

"Why not?"

"He was getting too grand for her. " (Amusement. )

"You don't mean anything more than that?"

"I don't know; she only came to my place once or twice. The last time Iset eyes on her must have been in October. "

"How did she appear?"

"She was very miserable, but she wouldn't let you see it. " (Laughter. )

"How has the prisoner behaved since the murder?"

"He always seemed very glum and sorry for it. "

Cross-examined: "Did not the prisoner once occupy the bedroom of Mr. Constant, and give it up to him, so that Mr. Constant might have the tworooms on the same floor?"

"Yes, but he didn't pay as much. "

"And, while occupying this front bedroom, did not the prisoner once losehis key and have another made?"

"He did; he was very careless. "

"Do you know what the prisoner and Mr. Constant spoke about on the nightof December 3rd?"

"No; I couldn't hear. "

"Then how did you know they were quarrelling?"

"They were talkin' so loud. "

Sir CHARLES BROWN-HARLAND, Q. C. (sharply): "But I'm talking loudly to younow. Should you say I was quarrelling?"

"It takes two to make a quarrel. " (Laughter. )

"Was prisoner the sort of man who, in your opinion, would commit amurder?"

"No, I never should ha' guessed it was him. "

"He always struck you as a thorough gentleman?"

"No, my lud. I knew he was only a comp. "

"You say the prisoner has seemed depressed since the murder. Might notthat have been due to the disappearance of his sweetheart?"

"No, he'd more likely be glad to get rid of her. "

"Then he wouldn't be jealous if Mr. Constant took her off his hands?"(Sensation. )

"Men are dog-in-the-mangers. "

"Never mind about men, Mrs. Drabdump. Had the prisoner ceased to care forMiss Dymond?"

"He didn't seem to think of her, my lud. When he got a letter in herhandwriting among his heap he used to throw it aside till he'd torn openthe others. "

BROWN-HARLAND, Q. C. (with a triumphant ring in his voice): "Thank you, Mrs. Drabdump. You may sit down. "

SPIGOT, Q. C. : "One moment, Mrs. Drabdump. You say the prisoner had ceasedto care for Miss Dymond. Might not this have been in consequence of hissuspecting for some time that she had relations with Mr. Constant?"

The JUDGE: "That is not a fair question. "

SPIGOT, Q. C. : "That will do, thank you, Mrs. Drabdump. "

BROWN-HARLAND, Q. C. : "No; one question more, Mrs. Drabdump. Did you eversee anything--say, when Miss Dymond came to your house--to make yoususpect anything between Mr. Constant and the prisoner's sweetheart?"

"She did meet him once when Mr. Mortlake was out. " (Sensation. )

"Where did she meet him?"

"In the passage. He was going out when she knocked and he opened thedoor. " (Amusement. )

"You didn't hear what they said?"

"I ain't a eavesdropper. They spoke friendly and went away together. "

Mr. GEORGE GRODMAN was called, and repeated his evidence at the inquest. Cross-examined, he testified to the warm friendship between Mr. Constantand the prisoner. He knew very little about Miss Dymond, having scarcelyseen her. Prisoner had never spoken to him much about her. He should notthink she was much in prisoner's thoughts. Naturally the prisoner hadbeen depressed by the death of his friend. Besides, he was overworked. Witness thought highly of Mortlake's character. It was incredible thatConstant had had improper relations of any kind with his friend'spromised wife. Grodman's evidence made a very favourable impression onthe jury; the prisoner looked his gratitude; and the prosecution feltsorry it had been necessary to call this witness. 

Inspector HOWLETT and Sergeant RUNNYMEDE had also to repeat theirevidence. Dr. ROBINSON, police surgeon, likewise retendered his evidenceas to the nature of the wound, and the approximate hour of death. Butthis time he was much more severely examined. He would not bind himselfdown to state the time within an hour or two. He thought life had beenextinct two or three hours when he arrived, so that the deed had beencommitted between seven and eight. Under gentle pressure from theprosecuting counsel, he admitted that it might possibly have been betweensix and seven. Cross-examined, he reiterated his impression in favour ofthe later hour. 

Supplementary evidence from medical experts proved as dubious anduncertain as if the court had confined itself to the original witness. Itseemed to be generally agreed that the data for determining the time ofdeath of any body were too complex and variable to admit of very preciseinference; rigor mortis and other symptoms setting in within very widelimits and differing largely in different persons. All agreed that deathfrom such a cut must have been practically instantaneous, and the theoryof suicide was rejected by all. As a whole the medical evidence tended tofix the time of death, with a high degree of probability, between thehours of six and half-past eight. The efforts of the prosecution werebent upon throwing back the time of death to as early as possible afterabout half-past five. The defence spent all its strength upon pinning theexperts to the conclusion that death could not have been earlier thanseven. Evidently the prosecution was going to fight hard for thehypothesis that Mortlake had committed the crime in the interval betweenthe first and second trains for Liverpool; while the defence wasconcentrating itself on an alibi, showing that the prisoner had travelledby the second train which left Euston Station at a quarter-past seven, sothat there could have been no possible time for the passage between Bowand Euston. It was an exciting struggle. As yet the contending forcesseemed equally matched. The evidence had gone as much for as against theprisoner. But everybody knew that worse lay behind. 

"Call Edward Wimp. "

The story EDWARD WIMP had to tell began tamely enough withthrice-threshed-out facts. But at last the new facts came. 

"In consequence of suspicions that had formed in your mind you took upyour quarters, disguised, in the late Mr. Constant's rooms?"

"I did; at the commencement of the year. My suspicions had graduallygathered against the occupants of No. 11 Glover Street, and I resolved toquash or confirm these suspicions once for all. "

"Will you tell the jury what followed?"

"Whenever the prisoner was away for the night I searched his room. Ifound the key of Mr. Constant's bedroom buried deeply in the side ofprisoner's leather sofa. I found what I imagine to be the letter hereceived on December 3rd, in the pages of a 'Bradshaw' lying under thesame sofa. There were two razors about. "

Mr. SPIGOT, Q. C. , said: "The key has already been identified by Mrs. Drabdump. The letter I now propose to read. "

It was undated, and ran as follows:--

 "Dear Tom, --This is to bid you farewell. It is best for us all. I am going a long way, dearest. Do not seek to find me, for it will be useless. Think of me as one swallowed up by the waters, and be assured that it is only to spare you shame and humiliation in the future that I tear myself from you and all the sweetness of life. Darling, there is no other way. I feel you could never marry me now. I have felt it for months. Dear Tom, you will understand what I mean. We must look facts in the face. I hope you will always be friends with Mr. Constant. Good-by, dear. God bless you! May you always be happy, and find a worthier wife than I. Perhaps when you are great, and rich, and famous, as you deserve, you will sometimes think not unkindly of one who, however faulty and unworthy of you, will at least love you till the end. --Yours, till death, "JESSIE. "

By the time this letter was finished numerous old gentlemen, with wigsor without, were observed to be polishing their glasses. Mr. Wimp'sexamination was resumed. 

"After making these discoveries what did you do?"

"I made inquiries about Miss Dymond, and found Mr. Constant had visitedher once or twice in the evening. I imagined there would be some tracesof a pecuniary connection. I was allowed by the family to inspect Mr. Constant's cheque-book, and found a paid cheque made out for £25 in thename of Miss Dymond. By inquiry at the Bank, I found it had been cashedon November l2th of last year. I then applied for a warrant against theprisoner. "

Cross-examined: "Do you suggest that the prisoner opened Mr. Constant'sbedroom with the key you found?"

"Certainly. "

BROWN-HARLAND, Q. C. (sarcastically): "And locked the door from withinwith it on leaving?"

"Certainly. "

"Will you have the goodness to explain how the trick was done?"

"It wasn't done. (Laughter. ) The prisoner probably locked the door fromthe outside. Those who broke it open naturally imagined it had beenlocked from the inside when they found the key inside. The key would, onthis theory, be on the floor as the outside locking could not have beeneffected if it had been in the lock. The first persons to enter the roomwould naturally believe it had been thrown down in the bursting of thedoor. Or it might have been left sticking very loosely inside the lock soas not to interfere with the turning of the outside key, in which case itwould also probably have been thrown to the ground. "

"Indeed. Very ingenious. And can you also explain how the prisoner couldhave bolted the door within from the outside?"

"I can. (Renewed sensation. ) There is only one way in which it waspossible--and that was, of course, a mere conjurer's illusion. To cause alocked door to appear bolted in addition, it would only be necessary forthe person on the inside of the door to wrest the staple containing thebolt from the woodwork. The bolt in Mr. Constant's bedroom workedperpendicularly. When the staple was torn off, it would simply remain atrest on the pin of the bolt instead of supporting it or keeping it fixed. A person bursting open the door and finding the staple resting on the pinand torn away from the lintel of the door, would, of course, imagine hehad torn it away, never dreaming the wresting off had been donebeforehand. " (Applause in court, which was instantly checked by theushers. ) The counsel for the defence felt he had been entrapped inattempting to be sarcastic with the redoubtable detective. Grodman seemedgreen with envy. It was the one thing he had not thought of. 

Mrs. Drabdump, Grodman, Inspector Howlett, and Sergeant Runnymede wererecalled and reëxammed by the embarrassed Sir Charles Brown-Harland asto the exact condition of the lock and the bolt and the position of thekey. It turned out as Wimp had suggested; so prepossessed were thewitnesses with the conviction that the door was locked and bolted fromthe inside when it was burst open that they were a little hazy about theexact details. The damage had been repaired, so that it was all aquestion of precise past observation. The inspector and the sergeanttestified that the key was in the lock when they saw it, though both themortice and the bolt were broken. They were not prepared to say thatWimp's theory was impossible; they would even admit it was quite possiblethat the staple of the bolt had been torn off beforehand. Mrs. Drabdumpcould give no clear account of such petty facts in view of her immediateengrossing interest in the horrible sight of the corpse. Grodman alonewas positive that the key was in the door when he burst it open. No, hedid not remember picking it up from the floor and putting it in. Andhe was certain that the staple of the bolt was _not_ broken, from theresistance he experienced in trying to shake the upper panels of thedoor. 

By the Prosecution: "Don't you think, from the comparative ease withwhich the door yielded to your onslaught, that it is highly probable thatthe pin of the bolt was not in a firmly fixed staple, but in one alreadydetached from the woodwork of the lintel?"

"The door did not yield so easily. "

"But you must be a Hercules. "

"Not quite; the bolt was old, and the woodwork crumbling; the lock wasnew and shoddy. But I have always been a strong man. "

"Very well, Mr. Grodman. I hope you will never appear at themusic-halls. " (Laughter. )

Jessie Dymond's landlady was the next witness for the prosecution. Shecorroborated Wimp's statements as to Constant's occasional visits, andnarrated how the girl had been enlisted by the dead philanthropist as acollaborator in some of his enterprises. But the most telling portion ofher evidence was the story of how, late at night, on December 3rd, theprisoner called upon her and inquired wildly about the whereabouts of hissweetheart. He said he had just received a mysterious letter from MissDymond saying she was gone. She (the landlady) replied that she couldhave told him that weeks ago, as her ungrateful lodger was gone now somethree weeks without leaving a hint behind her. In answer to his mostungentlemanly raging and raving, she told him it served him right, as heshould have looked after her better, and not kept away for so long. Shereminded him that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out, and a girl of Jessie's attractions need not pine away (as she had seemedto be pining away) for lack of appreciation. He then called her a liarand left her, and she hoped never to see his face again, though she wasnot surprised to see it in the dock. 

Mr. FITZJAMES MONTGOMERY, a bank clerk, remembered cashing the chequeproduced. He particularly remembered it, because he paid the money to avery pretty girl. She took the entire amount in gold. At this point thecase was adjourned. 

DENZIL CANTERCOT was the first witness called for the prosecution on theresumption of the trial. Pressed as to whether he had not told Mr. Wimpthat he had overheard the prisoner denouncing Mr. Constant, he could notsay. He had not actually heard the prisoner's denunciations; he mighthave given Mr. Wimp a false impression, but then Mr. Wimp was soprosaically literal. (Laughter. ) Mr. Crowl had told him something of thekind. Cross-examined, he said Jessie Dymond was a rare spirit and shealways reminded him of Joan of Arc. 

Mr. CROWL, being called, was extremely agitated. He refused to take theoath, and informed the court that the Bible was a Fad. He could not swearby anything so self-contradictory. He would affirm. He could notdeny--though he looked like wishing to--that the prisoner had at firstbeen rather mistrustful of Mr. Constant, but he was certain that thefeeling had quickly worn off. Yes, he was a great friend of the prisoner, but he didn't see why that should invalidate his testimony, especially ashe had not taken an oath. Certainly the prisoner seemed rather depressedwhen he saw him on Bank Holiday, but it was overwork on behalf of thepeople and for the demolition of the Fads. 

Several other familiars of the prisoner gave more or less reluctanttestimony as to his sometime prejudice against the amateur rival labourleader. His expressions of dislike had been strong and bitter. Theprosecution also produced a poster announcing that the prisoner wouldpreside at a great meeting of clerks on December 4th. He had not turnedup at this meeting nor sent any explanation. Finally, there was theevidence of the detectives who originally arrested him at Liverpool Docksin view of his suspicious demeanour. This completed the case for theprosecution. 

Sir CHARLES BROWN-HARLAND, Q. C. , rose with a swagger and a rustle of hissilk gown, and proceeded to set forth the theory of the defence. He saidhe did not purpose to call many witnesses. The hypothesis of theprosecution was so inherently childish and inconsequential, and sodependent upon a bundle of interdependent probabilities that it crumbledaway at the merest touch. The prisoner's character was of unblemishedintegrity, his last public appearance had been made on the same platformwith Mr. Gladstone, and his honesty and highmindedness had been vouchedfor by statesmen of the highest standing. His movements could beaccounted for from hour to hour--and those with which the prosecutioncredited him rested on no tangible evidence whatever. He was alsocredited with superhuman ingenuity and diabolical cunning of which he hadshown no previous symptom. Hypothesis was piled on hypothesis, as in theold Oriental legend, where the world rested on the elephant and theelephant on the tortoise. It might be worth while, however, to point outthat it was at least quite likely that the death of Mr. Constant had nottaken place before seven, and as the prisoner left Euston Station at 7. 15A. M. For Liverpool, he could certainly not have got there from Bow in thetime; also that it was hardly possible for the prisoner, who could provebeing at Euston Station at 5. 25 A. M. , to travel backwards and forwards toGlover Street and commit the crime all within less than two hours. "Thereal facts, " said Sir Charles, impressively, "are most simple. Theprisoner, partly from pressure of work, partly (he had no wish toconceal) from worldly ambition, had begun to neglect Miss Dymond, to whomhe was engaged to be married. The man was but human, and his head was alittle turned by his growing importance. Nevertheless, at heart he wasstill deeply attached to Miss Dymond. She, however, appears to havejumped to the conclusion that he had ceased to love her, that she wasunworthy of him, unfitted by education to take her place side by sidewith him in the new spheres to which he was mounting--that, in short, shewas a drag on his career. Being, by all accounts, a girl of remarkableforce of character, she resolved to cut the Gordian knot by leavingLondon, and, fearing lest her affianced husband's conscientiousnessshould induce him to sacrifice himself to her; dreading also, perhaps, her own weakness, she made the parting absolute, and the place of herrefuge a mystery. A theory has been suggested which drags an honouredname in the mire--a theory so superflous that I shall only allude to it. That Arthur Constant could have seduced, or had any improper relationswith his friend's betrothed is a hypothesis to which the lives of bothgive the lie. Before leaving London--or England--Miss Dymond wrote to heraunt in Devonport--her only living relative in this country--asking heras a great favour to forward an addressed letter to the prisoner, afortnight after receipt. The aunt obeyed implicitly. This was the letterwhich fell like a thunderbolt on the prisoner on the night of December3rd. All his old love returned--he was full of self-reproach and pity forthe poor girl. The letter read ominously. Perhaps she was going to put anend to herself. His first thought was to rush up to his friend, Constant, to seek his advice. Perhaps Constant knew something of the affair. Theprisoner knew the two were in not infrequent communication. It ispossible--my lord and gentlemen of the jury, I do not wish to follow themethods of the prosecution and confuse theory with fact, so I say it ispossible--that Mr. Constant had supplied her with the £25 to leave thecountry. He was like a brother to her, perhaps even acted imprudently incalling upon her, though neither dreamed of evil. It is possible that hemay have encouraged her in her abnegation and in her altruisticaspirations, perhaps even without knowing their exact drift, for does henot speak in his very last letter of the fine female characters he wasmeeting, and the influence for good he had over individual human souls?Still, this we can now never know, unless the dead speak or the absentreturn. It is also not impossible that Miss Dymond was entrusted withthe £25 for charitable purposes. But to come back to certainties. Theprisoner consulted Mr. Constant about the letter. He then ran to MissDymond's lodgings in Stepney Green, knowing beforehand his trouble wouldbe futile. The letter bore the postmark of Devonport. He knew the girlhad an aunt there; possibly she might have gone to her. He could nottelegraph, for he was ignorant of the address. He consulted his'Bradshaw, ' and resolved to leave by the 5. 30 A. M. From Paddington, and told his landlady so. He left the letter in the 'Bradshaw, ' whichultimately got thrust among a pile of papers under the sofa, so that hehad to get another. He was careless and disorderly, and the key found byMr. Wimp in his sofa, which he was absurdly supposed to have hidden thereafter the murder, must have lain there for some years, having been lostthere in the days when he occupied the bedroom afterwards rented by Mr. Constant. For it was his own sofa, removed from that room, and thesuction of sofas was well known. Afraid to miss his train, he did notundress on that distressful night. Meantime the thought occurred to himthat Jessie was too clever a girl to leave so easy a trail, and he jumpedto the conclusion that she would be going to her married brother inAmerica, and had gone to Devonport merely to bid her aunt farewell. Hedetermined therefore to get to Liverpool, without wasting time atDevonport, to institute inquiries. Not suspecting the delay in thetransit of the letter, he thought he might yet stop her, even at thelanding-stage or on the tender. Unfortunately his cab went slowly in thefog, he missed the first train, and wandered about broodingdisconsolately in the mist till the second. At Liverpool his suspicious, excited demeanour procured his momentary arrest. Since then the thoughtof the lost girl has haunted and broken him. That is the whole, theplain, and the sufficing story. "

The effective witnesses for the defence were, indeed, few. It is so hardto prove a negative. There was Jessie's aunt, who bore out the statementof the counsel for the defence. There were the porters who saw him leaveEuston by the 7. 15 train for Liverpool, and arrive just too late for the5. 15; there was the cabman (2138), who drove him to Euston just in time, he (witness) thought, to catch the 5. 15 A. M. Under cross-examination, thecabman got a little confused; he was asked whether, if he really pickedup the prisoner at Bow Railway Station at about 4. 30, he ought not tohave caught the first train at Euston. He said the fog made him driverather slowly, but admitted the mist was transparent enough to warrantfull speed. He also admitted being a strong trade unionist, SPIGOT, Q. C. , artfully extorting the admission as if it were of the utmostsignificance. Finally, there were numerous witnesses--of all sorts andconditions--to the prisoner's high character, as well as to ArthurConstant's blameless and moral life. 

In his closing speech on the third day of the trial, Sir CHARLES pointedout with great exhaustiveness and cogency the flimsiness of the case forthe prosecution, the number of hypotheses it involved, and their mutualinterdependence. Mrs. Drabdump was a witness whose evidence must beaccepted with extreme caution. The jury must remember that she was unableto dissociate her observations from her inferences, and thought that theprisoner and Mr. Constant were quarrelling merely because they wereagitated. He dissected her evidence, and showed that it entirely bore outthe story of the defence. He asked the jury to bear in mind that nopositive evidence (whether of cabmen or others) had been given of thevarious and complicated movements attributed to the prisoner on themorning of December 4th, between the hours of 5. 25 and 7. 15 A. M. , andthat the most important witness on the theory of the prosecution--hemeant, of course, Miss Dymond--had not been produced. Even if she weredead, and her body were found, no countenance would be given to thetheory of the prosecution, for the mere conviction that her lover haddeserted her would be a sufficient explanation of her suicide. Beyond theambiguous letter, no tittle of evidence of her dishonour--on which thebulk of the case against the prisoner rested--had been adduced. As forthe motive of political jealousy that had been a mere passing cloud. Thetwo men had become fast friends. As to the circumstances of the allegedcrime, the medical evidence was on the whole in favour of the time ofdeath being late; and the prisoner had left London at a quarter-pastseven. The drugging theory was absurd, and as for the too clever boltand lock theories, Mr. Grodman, a trained scientific observer, hadpooh-poohed them. He would solemnly exhort the jury to remember that ifthey condemned the prisoner they would not only send an innocent man toan ignominious death on the flimsiest circumstantial evidence, but theywould deprive the working men of this country of one of their truestfriends and their ablest leader. 

The conclusion of Sir Charles's vigorous speech was greeted withirrepressible applause. 

Mr. SPIGOT, Q. C. , in closing the case for the prosecution, asked thejury to return a verdict against the prisoner for as malicious andpremeditated a crime as ever disgraced the annals of any civilisedcountry. His cleverness and education had only been utilised for thedevil's ends, while his reputation had been used as a cloak. Everythingpointed strongly to the prisoner's guilt. On receiving Miss Dymond'sletter announcing her shame, and (probably) her intention to commitsuicide, he had hastened upstairs to denounce Constant. He had thenrushed to the girl's lodgings, and, finding his worst fears confirmed, planned at once his diabolically ingenious scheme of revenge. He told hislandlady he was going to Devonport, so that if he bungled, the policewould be put temporarily off his track. His real destination wasLiverpool, for he intended to leave the country. Lest, however, his planshould break down here, too, he arranged an ingenious alibi by beingdriven to Euston for the 5. 15 train to Liverpool. The cabman would notknow he did not intend to go by it, but meant to return to 11 GloverStreet, there to perpetrate this foul crime, interruption to which he hadpossibly barred by drugging his landlady. His presence at Liverpool(whither he really went by the second train) would corroborate thecabman's story. That night he had not undressed nor gone to bed; he hadplotted out his devilish scheme till it was perfect; the fog came as anunexpected ally to cover his movements. Jealousy, outraged affection, thedesire for revenge, the lust for political power--these were human. Theymight pity the criminal, they could not find him innocent of the crime. 

Mr. Justice CROGIE, summing up, began dead against the prisoner. Reviewing the evidence, he pointed out that plausible hypotheses neatlydove-tailed did not necessarily weaken one another, the fitting so welltogether of the whole rather making for the truth of the parts. Besides, the case for the prosecution was as far from being all hypothesis as thecase for the defence was from excluding hypotheses. The key, the letter, the reluctance to produce the letter, the heated interview with Constant, the misstatement about the prisoner's destination, the flight toLiverpool, the false tale about searching for a "him, " the denunciationsof Constant, all these were facts. On the other hand, there were variouslacunæ and hypotheses in the case for the defence. Even conceding thesomewhat dubious alibi afforded by the prisoner's presence at Euston at5. 25 A. M. , there was no attempt to account for his movements between thatand 7. 15 A. M. It was as possible that he returned to Bow as that helingered about Euston. There was nothing in the medical evidence to makehis guilt impossible. Nor was there anything inherently impossible inConstant's yielding to the sudden temptation of a beautiful girl, nor ina working girl deeming herself deserted, temporarily succumbing to thefascinations of a gentleman and regretting it bitterly afterwards. Whathad become of the girl was a mystery. Hers might have been one of thosenameless corpses which the tide swirls up on slimy river banks. The jurymust remember, too, that the relation might not have actually passed intodishonour, it might have been just grave enough to smite the girl'sconscience, and to induce her to behave as she had done. It was enoughthat her letter should have excited the jealousy of the prisoner. Therewas one other point which he would like to impress on the jury, and whichthe counsel for the prosecution had not sufficiently insisted upon. Thiswas that the prisoner's guiltiness was the only plausible solution thathad ever been advanced of the Bow Mystery. The medical evidence agreedthat Mr. Constant did not die by his own hand. Some one must thereforehave murdered him. The number of people who could have had any possiblereason or opportunity to murder him was extremely small. The prisoner hadboth reason and opportunity. By what logicians called the method ofexclusion, suspicion would attach to him on even slight evidence. Theactual evidence was strong and plausible, and now that Mr. Wimp'singenious theory had enabled them to understand how the door could havebeen apparently locked and bolted from within, the last difficulty andthe last argument for suicide had been removed. The prisoner's guilt wasas clear as circumstantial evidence could make it. If they let him gofree, the Bow Mystery might henceforward be placed among the archives ofunavenged assassinations. Having thus well-nigh hung the prisoner, thejudge wound up by insisting on the high probability of the story for thedefence, though that, too, was dependent in important details upon theprisoner's mere private statements to his counsel. The jury, being bythis time sufficiently muddled by his impartiality, were dismissed, withthe exhortation to allow due weight to every fact and probability indetermining their righteous verdict. 

The minutes ran into hours, but the jury did not return. The shadows ofnight fell across the reeking, fevered court before they announced theirverdict--

"Guilty!"

The judge put on his black cap. 

The great reception arranged outside was a fiasco; the evening banquetwas indefinitely postponed. Wimp had won; Grodman felt like a whippedcur. 

XI

"So you were right, " Denzil could not help saying as he greeted Grodman aweek afterwards. "I shall _not_ live to tell the story of how youdiscovered the Bow murderer. "

"Sit down, " growled Grodman; "perhaps you will after all. " There was adangerous gleam in his eyes. Denzil was sorry he had spoken. 

"I sent for you, " Grodman said, "to tell you that on the night Wimparrested Mortlake I had made preparations for your arrest. "

Denzil gasped, "What for?"

"My dear Denzil, there is a little law in this country invented for theconfusion of the poetic. The greatest exponent of the Beautiful is onlyallowed the same number of wives as the greengrocer. I do not blameyou for not being satisfied with Jane--she is a good servant but a badmistress--but it was cruel to Kitty not to inform her that Jane had aprior right in you, and unjust to Jane not to let her know of thecontract with Kitty. "

"They both know it now well enough, curse 'em, " said the poet. 

"Yes; your secrets are like your situations--you can't keep 'em long. Mypoor poet, I pity you--betwixt the devil and the deep sea. "

"They're a pair of harpies, each holding over me the Damocles sword of anarrest for bigamy. Neither loves me. "

"I should think they would come in very useful to you. You plant one inmy house to tell my secrets to Wimp, and you plant one in Wimp's house totell Wimp's secrets to me, I suppose. Out with some, then. "

"Upon my honour, you wrong me. Jane brought _me_ here, not I Jane. As forKitty, I never had such a shock in my life as at finding her installed inWimp's house. "

"She thought it safer to have the law handy for your arrest. Besides, sheprobably desired to occupy a parallel position to Jane's. She must dosomething for a living; _you_ wouldn't do anything for hers. And so youcouldn't go anywhere without meeting a wife! Ha! ha! ha! Serve you right, my polygamous poet. "

"But why should _you_ arrest me?"

"Revenge, Denzil. I have been the best friend you ever had in this cold, prosaic world. You have eaten my bread, drunk my claret, written my book, smoked my cigars, and pocketed my money. And yet, when you have animportant piece of information bearing on a mystery about which I amthinking day and night, you calmly go and sell it to Wimp. "

"I did-didn't, " stammered Denzil. 

"Liar! Do you think Kitty has any secrets from me? As soon as Idiscovered your two marriages I determined to have you arrested for--yourtreachery. But when I found you had, as I thought, put Wimp on the wrongscent, when I felt sure that by arresting Mortlake he was going to make agreater ass of himself than even nature had been able to do, then Iforgave you. I let you walk about the earth--and drink--freely. Now it isWimp who crows--everybody pats him on the back--they call him the mysteryman of the Scotland Yard tribe. Poor Tom Mortlake will be hanged, and allthrough your telling Wimp about Jessie Dymond!"

"It was you yourself, " said Denzil, sullenly. "Everybody was giving itup. But you said 'Let us find out all that Arthur Constant did in thelast few months of his life. ' Wimp couldn't miss stumbling on Jessiesooner or later. I'd have throttled Constant, if I had known he'd touchedher, " he wound up with irrelevant indignation. 

Grodman winced at the idea that he himself had worked _ad majoremgloriam_ of Wimp. And yet, had not Mrs. Wimp let out as much at theChristmas dinner?

"What's past is past, " he said gruffly. "But if Tom Mortlake hangs, yougo to Portland. "

"How can I help Tom hanging?"

"Help the agitation as much as you can. Write letters under all sorts ofnames to all the papers. Get everybody you know to sign the greatpetition. Find out where Jessie Dymond is--the girl who holds the proofof Mortlake's innocence. "

"You really believe him innocent?"

"Don't be satirical, Denzil. Haven't I taken the chair at all themeetings? Am I not the most copious correspondent of the Press?"

"I thought it was only to spite Wimp. "

"Rubbish. It's to save poor Tom. He no more murdered Arthur Constantthan--you did!" He laughed an unpleasant laugh. 

Denzil bade him farewell, frigid with fear. 

Grodman was up to his ears in letters and telegrams. Somehow he hadbecome the leader of the rescue party--suggestions, subscriptionscame from all sides. The suggestions were burnt, the subscriptionsacknowledged in the papers and used for hunting up the missing girl. LucyBrent headed the list with a hundred pounds. It was a fine testimonyto her faith in her dead lover's honour. 

The release of the Jury had unloosed "The Greater Jury, " which alwaysnow sits upon the smaller. Every means was taken to nullify the valueof the "palladium of British liberty. " The foreman and the jurors wereinterviewed, the judge was judged, and by those who were no judges. TheHome Secretary (who had done nothing beyond accepting office under theCrown) was vituperated, and sundry provincial persons wroteconfidentially to the Queen. Arthur Constant's backsliding cheeredmany by convincing them that others were as bad as themselves; andwell-to-do tradesmen saw in Mortlake's wickedness the pernicious effectsof Socialism. A dozen new theories were afloat. Constant had committedsuicide by Esoteric Buddhism, as witness his devotion to Mme. Blavatsky, or he had been murdered by his Mahatma or victimised by Hypnotism, Mesmerism, Somnambulism, and other weird abstractions. Grodman's greatpoint was--Jessie Dymond must be produced, dead or alive. The electriccurrent scoured the civilised world in search of her. What wonder if theshrewder sort divined that the indomitable detective had fixed his lasthope on the girl's guilt? If Jessie had wrongs why should she not haveavenged them herself? Did she not always remind the poet of Joan of Arc?

Another week passed; the shadow of the gallows crept over the days; on, on, remorselessly drawing nearer, as the last ray of hope sank below thehorizon. The Home Secretary remained inflexible; the great petitionsdischarged their signatures at him in vain. He was a Conservative, sternly conscientious; and the mere insinuation that his obstinacy wasdue to the politics of the condemned only hardened him against thetemptation of a cheap reputation for magnanimity. He would not even granta respite, to increase the chances of the discovery of Jessie Dymond. Inthe last of the three weeks there was a final monster meeting of protest. Grodman again took the chair, and several distinguished faddists werepresent, as well as numerous respectable members of society. The HomeSecretary acknowledged the receipt of their resolutions. The Trade Unionswere divided in their allegiance; some whispered of faith and hope, others of financial defalcations. The former essayed to organise aprocession and an indignation meeting on the Sunday preceding the Tuesdayfixed for the execution, but it fell through on a rumour of confession. The Monday papers contained a last masterly letter from Grodman exposingthe weakness of the evidence, but they knew nothing of a confession. Theprisoner was mute and disdainful, professing little regard for a lifeempty of love and burdened with self-reproach. He refused to seeclergymen. He was accorded an interview with Miss Brent in the presenceof a gaoler, and solemnly asseverated his respect for her dead lover'smemory. Monday buzzed with rumours; the evening papers chronicled themhour by hour. A poignant anxiety was abroad. The girl would be found. Some miracle would happen. A reprieve would arrive. The sentence would becommuted. But the short day darkened into night even as Mortlake's shortday was darkening. And the shadow of the gallows crept on and on, andseemed to mingle with the twilight. 

Crowl stood at the door of his shop, unable to work. His big grey eyeswere heavy with unshed tears. The dingy wintry road seemed one vastcemetery; the street lamps twinkled like corpse-lights. The confusedsounds of the street life reached his ear as from another world. He didnot see the people who flitted to and fro amid the gathering shadows ofthe cold, dreary night. One ghastly vision flashed and faded and flashedupon the background of the duskiness. 

Denzil stood beside him, smoking in silence. A cold fear was at hisheart. That terrible Grodman! As the hangman's cord was tightening roundMortlake, he felt the convict's chains tightening round himself. And yetthere was one gleam of hope, feeble as the yellow flicker of the gas-lampacross the way. Grodman had obtained an interview with the condemned latethat afternoon, and the parting had been painful, but the evening paper, that in its turn had obtained an interview with the ex-detective, announced on its placard

 "GRODMAN STILL CONFIDENT"

and the thousands who yet pinned their faith on this extraordinary manrefused to extinguish the last sparks of hope. Denzil had bought thepaper and scanned it eagerly, but there was nothing save the vagueassurance that the indefatigable Grodman was still almost patheticallyexpectant of the miracle. Denzil did not share the expectation; hemeditated flight. 

"Peter, " he said at last, "I'm afraid it's all over. "

Crowl nodded, heart-broken. "All over!" he repeated, "and to think thathe dies--and it is--all over!"

He looked despairingly at the blank winter sky, where leaden clouds shutout the stars. "Poor, poor young fellow! To-night alive and thinking. To-morrow night a clod, with no more sense or motion than a bit ofleather! No compensation nowhere for being cut off innocent in the prideof youth and strength! A man who has always preached the Useful day andnight, and toiled and suffered for his fellows. Where's the justice ofit, where's the justice of it?" he demanded fiercely. Again his wet eyeswandered upwards towards heaven, that heaven away from which the soul ofa dead saint at the Antipodes was speeding into infinite space. 

"Well, where was the justice for Arthur Constant if he, too, wasinnocent?" said Denzil. "Really, Peter, I don't see why you should takeit for granted that Tom is so dreadfully injured. Your horny-handedlabour leaders are, after all, men of no aesthetic refinement, with nosense of the Beautiful; you cannot expect them to be exempt from thecoarser forms of crime. Humanity must look to far other leaders--to theseers and the poets!"

"Cantercot, if you say Tom's guilty I'll knock you down. " The littlecobbler turned upon his tall friend like a roused lion. Then he added, "I beg your pardon, Cantercot, I don't mean that. After all, I've nogrounds. The judge is an honest man, and with gifts I can't lay claim to. But I believe in Tom with all my heart. And if Tom is guilty I believe inthe Cause of the People with all my heart all the same. The Fads aredoomed to death, they may be reprieved, but they must die at last. "

He drew a deep sigh, and looked along the dreary Road. It was quite darknow, but by the light of the lamps and the gas in the shop windows thedull, monotonous Road lay revealed in all its sordid, familiar outlines;with its long stretches of chill pavement, its unlovely architecture, andits endless stream of prosaic pedestrians. 

A sudden consciousness of the futility of his existence pierced thelittle cobbler like an icy wind. He saw his own life, and a hundredmillion lives like his, swelling and breaking like bubbles on a darkocean, unheeded, uncared for. 

A newsboy passed along, clamouring "The Bow murderer, preparaitions forthe hexecution!"

A terrible shudder shook the cobbler's frame. His eyes ranged sightlesslyafter the boy; the merciful tears filled them at last. 

"The Cause of the People, " he murmured brokenly, "I believe in the Causeof the People. There is nothing else. "

"Peter, come in to tea, you'll catch cold, " said Mrs. Crowl. 

Denzil went in to tea and Peter followed. 

 * * * * *

Meantime, round the house of the Home Secretary, who was in town, anever-augmenting crowd was gathered, eager to catch the first whisper of areprieve. 

The house was guarded by a cordon of police, for there was noinconsiderable danger of a popular riot. At times a section of the crowdgroaned and hooted. Once a volley of stones was discharged at thewindows. The newsboys were busy vending their special editions, and thereporters struggled through the crowd, clutching descriptive pencils, andready to rush off to telegraph offices should anything "extra special"occur. Telegraph boys were coming up every now and again with threats, messages, petitions, and exhortations from all parts of the country tothe unfortunate Home Secretary, who was striving to keep his aching headcool as he went through the voluminous evidence for the last time andpondered over the more important letters which "The Greater Jury" hadcontributed to the obscuration of the problem. Grodman's letter in thatmorning's paper shook him most; under his scientific analysis thecircumstantial chain seemed forged of painted cardboard. Then the poorman read the judge's summing up, and the chain became tempered steel. Thenoise of the crowd outside broke upon his ear in his study like the roarof a distant ocean. The more the rabble hooted him, the more he essayedto hold scrupulously the scales of life and death. And the crowd grewand grew, as men came away from their work. There were many that lovedthe man who lay in the jaws of death, and a spirit of mad revolt surgedin their breasts. And the sky was grey, and the bleak night deepened, andthe shadow of the gallows crept on. 

Suddenly a strange inarticulate murmur spread through the crowd, a vaguewhisper of no one knew what. Something had happened. Somebody wascoming. A second later and one of the outskirts of the throng wasagitated, and a convulsive cheer went up from it, and was taken upinfectiously all along the street. The crowd parted--a hansom dashedthrough the centre. "Grodman! Grodman!" shouted those who recognised theoccupant. "Grodman! Hurrah!" Grodman was outwardly calm and pale, but his eyes glittered; he waved his hand encouragingly as the hansomdashed up to the door, cleaving the turbulent crowd as a canoe cleavesthe waters. Grodman sprang out, the constables at the portal made way forhim respectfully. He knocked imperatively, the door was openedcautiously; a boy rushed up and delivered a telegram; Grodman forced hisway in, gave his name, and insisted on seeing the Home Secretary on amatter of life and death. Those near the door heard his words andcheered, and the crowd divined the good omen, and the air throbbed withcannonades of joyous sound. The cheers rang in Grodman's ears as the doorslammed behind him. The reporters struggled to the front. An excited knotof working men pressed round the arrested hansom; they took the horseout. A dozen enthusiasts struggled for the honour of placing themselvesbetween the shafts. And the crowd awaited Grodman. 

XII

Grodman was ushered into the conscientious Minister's study. The doughtychief of the agitation was, perhaps, the one man who could not be denied. As he entered, the Home Secretary's face seemed lit up with relief. At asign from his master, the amanuensis who had brought in the last telegramtook it back with him into the outer room where he worked. Needless tosay not a tithe of the Minister's correspondence ever came under his owneyes. 

"You have a valid reason for troubling me, I suppose, Mr. Grodman?" saidthe Home Secretary, almost cheerfully. "Of course it is about Mortlake?"

"It is; and I have the best of all reasons. "

"Take a seat. Proceed. "

"Pray do not consider me impertinent, but have you ever given anyattention to the science of evidence?"

"How do you mean?" asked the Home Secretary, rather puzzled, adding, witha melancholy smile, "I have had to lately. Of course, I've never been acriminal lawyer, like some of my predecessors. But I should hardly speakof it as a science; I look upon it as a question of common-sense. "

"Pardon me, sir. It is the most subtle and difficult of all the sciences. It is, indeed, rather the science of the sciences. What is the whole ofInductive Logic, as laid down, say, by Bacon and Mill, but an attemptto appraise the value of evidence, the said evidence being the trailsleft by the Creator, so to speak? The Creator has--I say it in allreverence--drawn a myriad red herrings across the track, but the truescientist refuses to be baffled by superficial appearances in detectingthe secrets of Nature. The vulgar herd catches at the gross apparentfact, but the man of insight knows that what lies on the surface doeslie. "

"Very interesting, Mr. Grodman, but really--"

"Bear with me, sir. The science of evidence being thus so extremelysubtle, and demanding the most acute and trained observation of facts, the most comprehensive understanding of human psychology, is naturallygiven over to professors who have not the remotest idea that 'things arenot what they seem, ' and that everything is other than it appears; toprofessors, most of whom by their year-long devotion to the shop-counteror the desk, have acquired an intimate acquaintance with all the infiniteshades and complexities of things and human nature. When twelve of theseprofessors are put in a box, it is called a jury. When one of theseprofessors is put in a box by himself, he is called a witness. Theretailing of evidence--the observation of the facts--is given over topeople who go through their lives without eyes; the appreciation ofevidence--the judging of these facts--is surrendered to people who maypossibly be adepts in weighing out pounds of sugar. Apart from theirsheer inability to fulfil either function--to observe, or to judge--theirobservation and their judgment alike are vitiated by all sorts ofirrelevant prejudices. "

"You are attacking trial by jury. "

"Not necessarily. I am prepared to accept that scientifically, on theground that, as there are, as a rule, only two alternatives, the balanceof probability is slightly in favour of the true decision being come to. Then, in cases where experts like myself have got up the evidence, thejury can be made to see through trained eyes. "

The Home Secretary tapped impatiently with his foot. 

"I can't listen to abstract theorising, " he said. "Have you any freshconcrete evidence?"

"Sir, everything depends on our getting down to the root of the matter. What percentage of average evidence should you think is thorough, plain, simple, unvarnished fact, 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing butthe truth'?"

"Fifty?" said the Minister, humouring him a little. 

"Not five. I say nothing of lapses of memory, of inborn defects ofobservational power--though the suspiciously precise recollection ofdates and events possessed by ordinary witnesses in important trialstaking place years after the occurrences involved, is one of the mostamazing things in the curiosities of modern jurisprudence. I defy you, sir, to tell me what you had for dinner last Monday, or what exactly youwere saying and doing at five o'clock last Tuesday afternoon. Nobodywhose life does not run in mechanical grooves can do anything of thesort; unless, of course, the facts have been very impressive. But this bythe way. The great obstacle to veracious observation is the element ofprepossession in all vision. Has it ever struck you, sir, that we never_see_ any one more than once, if that? The first time we meet a man wemay possibly see him as he is; the second time our vision is coloured andmodified by the memory of the first. Do our friends appear to us as theyappear to strangers? Do our rooms, our furniture, our pipes strike oureye as they would strike the eye of an outsider, looking on them for thefirst time? Can a mother see her babe's ugliness, or a lover hismistress's shortcomings, though they stare everybody else in the face?Can we see ourselves as others see us? No; habit, prepossession changesall. The mind is a large factor of every so-called external fact. The eyesees, sometimes, what it wishes to see, more often what it expects tosee. You follow me, sir?"

The Home Secretary nodded his head less impatiently. He was beginning tobe interested. The hubbub from without broke faintly upon their ears. 

"To give you a definite example. Mr. Wimp says that when I burst open thedoor of Mr. Constant's room on the morning of December 4th, and saw thatthe staple of the bolt had been wrested by the pin from the lintel, Ijumped at once to the conclusion that I had broken the bolt. Now I admitthat this was so, only in things like this you do not seem to _conclude_, you jump so fast that you _see_, or seem to. On the other hand, when you_see_ a _standing_ ring of fire produced by whirling a burning stick, youdo _not_ believe in its continuous existence. It is the same whenwitnessing a legerdemain performance. Seeing is not always believing, despite the proverb; but believing is often seeing. It is not to thepoint that in that little matter of the door Wimp was as hopelessly andincurably wrong as he has been in everything all along. The door _was_securely bolted. Still I confess that I should have seen that I hadbroken the bolt in forcing the door, even if it had been brokenbeforehand. Never once since December 4th did this possibility occurto me, till Wimp with perverted ingenuity suggested it. If this is thecase with a trained observer, one moreover fully conscious of thisineradicable tendency of the human mind, how must it be with an untrainedobserver?"

"Come to the point, come to the point, " said the Home Secretary, puttingout his hand as if it itched to touch the bell on the writing-table. 

"Such as, " went on Grodman, imperturbably, "such as--Mrs. Drabdump. Thatworthy person is unable, by repeated violent knocking, to arouse herlodger who yet desires to be aroused; she becomes alarmed, she rushesacross to get my assistance; I burst open the door--what do you think thegood lady expected to see?"

"Mr. Constant murdered, I suppose, " murmured the Home Secretary, wonderingly. 

"Exactly. And so she saw it. And what should you think was the conditionof Arthur Constant when the door yielded to my violent exertions and flewopen?"

"Why, was he not dead?" gasped the Home Secretary, his heart flutteringviolently. 

"Dead? A young, healthy fellow like that! When the door flew open, ArthurConstant was sleeping the sleep of the just. It was a deep, a very deepsleep, of course, else the blows at his door would long since haveawakened him. But all the while Mrs. Drabdump's fancy was picturing herlodger cold and stark, the poor young fellow was lying in bed in a nicewarm sleep. "

"You mean to say you found Arthur Constant alive?"

"As you were last night. "

The Minister was silent, striving confusedly to take in the situation. Outside the crowd was cheering again. It was probably to pass the time. 

"Then, when was he murdered?"

"Immediately afterwards. "

"By whom?"

"Well, that is, if you will pardon me, not a very intelligent question. Science and common-sense are in accord for once. Try the method ofexhaustion. It must have been either by Mrs. Drabdump or myself. "

"You mean to say that Mrs. Drabdump--!"

"Poor dear Mrs. Drabdump, you don't deserve this of your Home Secretary!The idea of that good lady!"

"It was _you_!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Home Secretary. There is nothing to be alarmedat. It was a solitary experiment, and I intend it to remain so. " Thenoise without grew louder. "Three cheers for Grodman! Hip, hip, hip, hooray, " fell faintly on their ears. 

But the Minister, pallid and deeply moved, touched the bell. The HomeSecretary's home secretary appeared. He looked at the great man'sagitated face with suppressed surprise. 

"Thank you for calling in your amanuensis, " said Grodman. "I intended toask you to lend me his services. I suppose he can write shorthand. "

The Minister nodded, speechless. 

"That is well. I intend this statement to form the basis of an appendixto the twenty-fifth edition--sort of silver wedding--of my book, _Criminals I have Caught_. Mr. Denzil Cantercot, who, by the will I havemade to-day, is appointed my literary executor, will have the task ofworking it up with literary and dramatic touches after the model of theother chapters of my book. I have every confidence he will be able to dome as much justice, from a literary point of view, as you, sir, no doubtwill from a legal. I feel certain he will succeed in catching the styleof the other chapters to perfection. "

"Templeton, " whispered the Home Secretary, "this man may be a lunatic. The effort to solve the Big Bow Mystery may have addled his brain. Still, " he added aloud, "it will be as well for you to take down hisstatement in shorthand. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Grodman, heartily. "Ready, Mr. Templeton? Heregoes. My career till I left the Scotland Yard Detective Department isknown to all the world. Is that too fast for you, Mr. Templeton? Alittle? Well, I'll go slower; but pull me up if I forget to keep thebrake on. When I retired, I discovered that I was a bachelor. But it wastoo late to marry. Time hung heavy on my hands. The preparation of mybook, _Criminals I have Caught_, kept me occupied for some months. Whenit was published, I had nothing more to do but think. I had plenty ofmoney, and it was safely invested; there was no call for speculation. Thefuture was meaningless to me; I regretted I had not elected to die inharness. As idle old men must, I lived in the past. I went over and overagain my ancient exploits; I re-read my book. And as I thought andthought, away from the excitement of the actual hunt, and seeing thefacts in a truer perspective, so it grew daily clearer to me thatcriminals were more fools than rogues. Every crime I had traced, however cleverly perpetrated, was from the point of view of penetrabilitya weak failure. Traces and trails were left on all sides--ragged edges, rough-hewn corners; in short, the job was botched, artistic completenessunattained. To the vulgar, my feats might seem marvellous--the averageman is mystified to grasp how you detect the letter 'e' in a simplecryptogram--to myself they were as commonplace as the crimes theyunveiled. To me now, with my lifelong study of the science of evidence, it seemed possible to commit not merely one but a thousand crimes thatshould be absolutely undiscoverable. And yet criminals would go onsinning, and giving themselves away, in the same old grooves--nooriginality, no dash, no individual insight, no fresh conception! Onewould imagine there were an Academy of crime with forty thousandarmchairs. And gradually, as I pondered and brooded over the thought, there came upon me the desire to commit a crime that should baffledetection. I could invent hundreds of such crimes, and please myself byimagining them done; but would they really work out in practice?Evidently the sole performer of my experiment must be myself; thesubject--whom or what? Accident should determine. I itched to commencewith murder--to tackle the stiffest problems first, and I burned tostartle and baffle the world--especially the world of which I had ceasedto be. Outwardly I was calm, and spoke to the people about me as usual. Inwardly I was on fire with a consuming scientific passion. I sportedwith my pet theories, and fitted them mentally on every one I met. Everyfriend or acquaintance I sat and gossiped with, I was plotting how tomurder without leaving a clue. There is not one of my friends oracquaintances I have not done away with in thought. There is no publicman--have no fear, my dear Home Secretary--I have not planned toassassinate secretly, mysteriously, unintelligibly, undiscoverably. Ah, how I could give the stock criminals points--with their second-handmotives, their conventional conceptions, their commonplace details, theirlack of artistic feeling and restraint. "

The crowd had again started cheering. Impatient as the watchers were, they felt that no news was good news. The longer the interview accordedby the Home Secretary to the chairman of the Defence Committee, thegreater the hope his obduracy was melting. The idol of the people wouldbe saved, and "Grodman" and "Tom Mortlake" were mingled in the exultantplaudits. 

"The late Arthur Constant, " continued the great criminologist, "came tolive nearly opposite me. I cultivated his acquaintance--he was a lovableyoung fellow, an excellent subject for experiment. I do not know when Ihave ever taken to a man more. From the moment I first set eyes on him, there was a peculiar sympathy between us. We were drawn to each other. Ifelt instinctively he would be the man. I loved to hear him speakenthusiastically of the Brotherhood of Man--I, who knew the brotherhoodof man was to the ape, the serpent, and the tiger--and he seemed to finda pleasure in stealing a moment's chat with me from his engrossingself-appointed duties. It is a pity humanity should have been robbed ofso valuable a life. But it had to be. At a quarter to ten on the night ofDecember 3rd he came to me. Naturally I said nothing about this visitat the inquest or the trial. His object was to consult me mysteriouslyabout some girl. He said he had privately lent her money--which she wasto repay at her convenience. What the money was for he did not know, except that it was somehow connected with an act of abnegation in whichhe had vaguely encouraged her. The girl had since disappeared, and hewas in distress about her. He would not tell me who it was--of coursenow, sir, you know as well as I it was Jessie Dymond--but asked foradvice as to how to set about finding her. He mentioned that Mortlakewas leaving for Devonport by the first train on the next day. Of old Ishould have connected these two facts and sought the thread; now, as hespoke, all my thoughts were dyed red. He was suffering perceptibly fromtoothache, and in answer to my sympathetic inquiries told me it had beenallowing him very little sleep. Everything combined to invite the trialof one of my favourite theories. I spoke to him in a fatherly way, andwhen I had tendered some vague advice about the girl, I made him promiseto secure a night's rest (before he faced the arduous tram-men's meetingin the morning) by taking a sleeping draught. I gave him a quantity ofsulfonal in a phial. It is a new drug, which produces protracted sleepwithout disturbing digestion, and which I use myself. He promisedfaithfully to take the draught; and I also exhorted him earnestly to boltand bar and lock himself in so as to stop up every chink or aperture bywhich the cold air of the winter's night might creep into the room. Iremonstrated with him on the careless manner he treated his body, and helaughed in his good-humoured, gentle way, and promised to obey me in allthings. And he did. That Mrs. Drabdump, failing to rouse him, would cry'Murder!' I took for certain. She is built that way. As even Sir CharlesBrown-Harland remarked, she habitually takes her prepossessions forfacts, her inferences for observations. She forecasts the future in grey. Most women of Mrs. Drabdump's class would have behaved as she did. Shehappened to be a peculiarly favourable specimen for working on by'suggestion, ' but I would have undertaken to produce the same effect onalmost any woman. The key to the Big Bow Mystery is feminine psychology. The only uncertain link in the chain was, Would Mrs. Drabdump rush acrossto get _me_ to break open the door? Women always rush for a man. I waswell-nigh the nearest, and certainly the most authoritative man in thestreet, and I took it for granted she would. "

"But suppose she hadn't?" the Home Secretary could not help asking. 

"Then the murder wouldn't have happened, that's all. In due course ArthurConstant would have awoke, or somebody else breaking open the door wouldhave found him sleeping; no harm done, nobody any the wiser. I couldhardly sleep myself that night. The thought of the extraordinary crimeI was about to commit--a burning curiosity to know whether Wimp woulddetect _the modus operandi_--the prospect of sharing the feelings ofmurderers with whom I had been in contact all my life without being intouch with the terrible joys of their inner life--the fear lest I shouldbe too fast asleep to hear Mrs. Drabdump's knock--these things agitatedme and disturbed my rest. I lay tossing on my bed, planning every detailof poor Constant's end. The hours dragged slowly and wretchedly ontowards the misty dawn. I was racked with suspense. Was I to bedisappointed after all? At last the welcome sound came--the rat-tat-tatof murder. The echoes of that knock are yet in my ear. 'Come over andkill him!' I put my night-capped head out of the window and told her towait for me. I dressed hurriedly, took my razor, and went across to 11Glover Street. As I broke open the door of the bedroom in which ArthurConstant lay sleeping, his head resting on his hands, I cried, 'My God!'as if I saw some awful vision. A mist as of blood swam before Mrs. Drabdump's eyes. She cowered back, for an instant (I divined rather thansaw the action) she shut off the dreaded sight with her hands. In thatinstant I had made my cut--precisely, scientifically--made so deep a cutand drawn out the weapon so sharply that there was scarce a drop of bloodon it; then there came from the throat a jet of blood which Mrs. Drabdump, conscious only of the horrid gash, saw but vaguely. I coveredup the face quickly with a handkerchief to hide any convulsivedistortion. But as the medical evidence (in this detail accurate)testified, death was instantaneous. I pocketed the razor and the emptysulfonal phial. With a woman like Mrs. Drabdump to watch me, I could doanything I pleased. I got her to draw my attention to the fact that boththe windows were fastened. Some fool, by the by, thought there was adiscrepancy in the evidence because the police found only one windowfastened, forgetting that, in my innocence I took care not to refastenthe window I had opened to call for aid. Naturally I did not call for aidbefore a considerable time had elapsed. There was Mrs. Drabdump to quiet, and the excuse of making notes--as an old hand. My object was to gaintime. I wanted the body to be fairly cold and stiff before beingdiscovered, though there was not much danger here; for, as you saw by themedical evidence, there is no telling the time of death to an hour ortwo. The frank way in which I said the death was very recent disarmed allsuspicion, and even Dr. Robinson was unconsciously worked upon, inadjudging the time of death, by the knowledge (query here, Mr. Templeton)that it had preceded my advent on the scene. 

"Before leaving Mrs. Drabdump, there is just one point I should like tosay a word about. You have listened so patiently, sir, to my lectures onthe science of sciences that you will not refuse to hear the last. A gooddeal of importance has been attached to Mrs. Drabdump's oversleepingherself by half an hour. It happens that this (like the innocent fogwhich has also been made responsible for much) is a purely accidentaland irrelevant circumstance. In all works on inductive logic it isthoroughly recognised that only some of the circumstances of a phenomenonare of its essence and casually interconnected; there is always a certainproportion of heterogeneous accompaniments which have no intimaterelation whatever with the phenomenon. Yet, so crude is as yet thecomprehension of the science of evidence, that _every_ feature of thephenomenon under investigation is made equally important, and sought tobe linked with the chain of evidence. To attempt to explain everything isalways the mark of the tyro. The fog and Mrs. Drabdump's oversleepingherself were mere accidents. There are always these irrelevantaccompaniments, and the true scientist allows for this element of (so tospeak) chemically unrelated detail. Even I never counted on theunfortunate series of accidental phenomena which have led to Mortlake'simplication in a network of suspicion. On the other hand, the fact thatmy servant, Jane, who usually goes about ten, left a few minutes earlieron the night of December 3rd, so that she didn't know of Constant'svisit, was a relevant accident. In fact, just as the art of the artist orthe editor consists largely in knowing what to leave out, so does the artof the scientific detector of crime consist in knowing what details toignore. In short, to explain everything is to explain too much. And toomuch is worse than too little. 

"To return to my experiment. My success exceeded my wildest dreams. Nonehad an inkling of the truth. The insolubility of the Big Bow Mysteryteased the acutest minds in Europe and the civilised world. That a mancould have been murdered in a thoroughly inaccessible room savoured ofthe ages of magic. The redoubtable Wimp, who had been blazoned as mysuccessor, fell back on the theory of suicide. The mystery would haveslept till my death, but--I fear--for my own ingenuity. I tried to standoutside myself, and to look at the crime with the eyes of another, or ofmy old self. I found the work of art so perfect as to leave only onesublimely simple solution. The very terms of the problem were soinconceivable that, had I not been the murderer, I should have suspectedmyself, in conjunction, of course, with Mrs. Drabdump. The first personsto enter the room would have seemed to me guilty. I wrote at once (in adisguised hand and over the signature of 'One who looks through his ownspectacles') to the _Pell Mell Press_ to suggest this. By associatingmyself thus with Mrs. Drabdump I made it difficult for people todissociate the two who entered the room together. To dash a half-truth inthe world's eyes is the surest way of blinding it altogether. Thispseudonymous letter of mine I contradicted (in my own name) the next day, and in the course of the long letter which I was tempted to write, Iadduced fresh evidence against the theory of suicide. I was disgustedwith the open verdict, and wanted men to be up and doing and trying tofind me out. I enjoyed the hunt more. 

"Unfortunately, Wimp, set on the chase again by my own letter, by dint ofpersistent blundering, blundered into a track which--by a devilish tissueof coincidences I had neither foreseen nor dreamt of--seemed to the worldthe true. Mortlake was arrested and condemned. Wimp had apparentlycrowned his reputation. This was too much. I had taken all this troublemerely to put a feather in Wimp's cap, whereas I had expected to shakehis reputation by it. It was bad enough that an innocent man shouldsuffer; but that Wimp should achieve a reputation he did not deserve, andover-shadow all his predecessors by dint of a colossal mistake, thisseemed to me intolerable. I have moved heaven and earth to get theverdict set aside, and to save the prisoner; I have exposed the weaknessof the evidence; I have had the world searched for the missing girl; Ihave petitioned and agitated. In vain. I have failed. Now I play my lastcard. As the overweening Wimp could not be allowed to go down toposterity as the solver of this terrible mystery, I decided that thecondemned man might just as well profit by his exposure. That is thereason I make the exposure to-night, before it is too late to saveMortlake. "

"So that is the reason?" said the Home Secretary, with a suspicion ofmockery in his tones. 

"The sole reason. "

Even as he spoke, a deeper roar than ever penetrated the study. 

"A Reprieve! Hooray! Hooray!" The whole street seemed to rock withearthquake and the names of Grodman and Mortlake to be thrown up in afiery jet. "A Reprieve! A Reprieve!" And then the very windows rattledwith cheers for the Minister. And even above that roar rose the shrillvoices of the newsboys, "Reprieve of Mortlake! Mortlake Reprieved!"Grodman looked wonderingly towards the street. "How do they know?" hemurmured. 

"Those evening papers are amazing, " said the Minister, drily. "But Isuppose they had everything ready in type for the contingency. " He turnedto his secretary. 

"Templeton, have you got down every word of Mr. Grodman's confession?"

"Every word, sir. "

"Then bring in the cable you received just as Mr. Grodman entered thehouse. "

Templeton went back into the outer room and brought back the cablegramthat had been lying on the Minister's writing-table when Grodman came in. The Home Secretary silently handed it to his visitor. It was from theChief of Police of Melbourne, announcing that Jessie Dymond had justarrived in that city in a sailing vessel, ignorant of all that hadoccurred, and had been immediately despatched back to England, havingmade a statement entirely corroborating the theory of the defence. 

"Pending further inquiries into this, " said the Home Secretary, notwithout appreciation of the grim humour of the situation as he glanced atGrodman's ashen cheeks, "I have reprieved the prisoner. Mr. Templeton wasabout to despatch the messenger to the governor of Newgate as you enteredthis room. Mr. Wimp's card-castle would have tumbled to pieces withoutyour assistance. Your still undiscoverable crime would have shaken hisreputation as you intended. "

A sudden explosion shook the room and blent with the cheers of thepopulace. Grodman had shot himself--very scientifically--in the heart. Hefell at the Home Secretary's feet, stone dead. 

Some of the working men who had been standing waiting by the shafts ofthe hansom helped to bear the stretcher. 

 * * * * *

MERELY MARY ANN

I

Sometimes Lancelot's bell rang up Mrs. Leadbatter herself, but far moreoften merely Mary Ann. 

The first time Lancelot saw Mary Ann she was cleaning the steps. Heavoided treading upon her, being kind to animals. For the moment she wasmerely a quadruped, whose head was never lifted to the stars. Her fadedprint dress showed like the quivering hide of some crouching animal. There were strange irregular splashes of pink in the hide, standing outin bright contrast with the neutral background. These were scraps of theoriginal material neatly patched in. 

The cold, damp steps gave Lancelot a shudder, for the air was raw. Hepassed by the prostrate figure as quickly as he could, and hastened tothrow himself into the easy chair before the red fire. 

There was a lamp-post before the door, so he knew the house from itsneighbours. Baker's Terrace as a whole was a defeated aspiration aftergentility. The more auspicious houses were marked by white stones, thesteps being scrubbed and hearth-stoned almost daily; the gloomierdoorsteps were black, except on Sundays. Thus variety was achieved byhouses otherwise as monotonous and prosaic as a batch of fourpennyloaves. This was not the reason why the little South London side-streetwas called Baker's Terrace, though it might well seem so; for Bakerwas the name of the builder, a worthy gentleman whose years and virtuesmay still be deciphered on a doddering, round-shouldered stone in adeceased cemetery not far from the scene of his triumphs. 

The second time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he did not remember having seen herbefore. This time she was a biped, and wore a white cap. Besides, hehardly glanced at her. He was in a bad temper, and Beethoven was barkingterribly at the intruder who stood quaking in the doorway, so that thecrockery clattered on the tea-tray she bore. With a smothered oathLancelot caught up the fiery little spaniel and rammed him into thepocket of his dressing-gown, where he quivered into silence like a struckgong. While the girl was laying his breakfast, Lancelot, who was lookingmoodily at the pattern of the carpet as if anxious to improve upon it, was vaguely conscious of relief in being spared his landlady'sconversation. For Mrs. Leadbatter was a garrulous body, who sufferedfrom the delusion that small-talk is a form of politeness, and that herconversation was part of the "all inclusive" her lodgers stipulated for. The disease was hereditary, her father having been a barber, andremarkable for the coolness with which, even as a small boy whosefunction was lathering and nothing more, he exchanged views about theweather with his victims. 

The third time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he noticed that she was ratherpretty. She had a slight, well-built figure, not far from tall, smallshapely features, and something of a complexion. This did not displeasehim: she was a little aesthetic touch amid the depressing furniture. 

"Don't be afraid, Polly, " he said more kindly. "The little devil won'tbite. He's all bark. Call him Beethoven and throw him a bit of sugar. "

The girl threw Beethoven the piece of sugar, but did not venture on thename. It seemed to her a long name for such a little dog. As she timidlytook the sugar from the basin by the aid of the tongs, Lancelot saw howcoarse and red her hand was. It gave him the same sense of repugnance andrefrigescence as the cold, damp steps. Something he was about to sayfroze on his lips. He did not look at Mary Ann for some days; by whichtime Beethoven had conquered his distrust of her, though she was stilldistrustful of Beethoven, drawing her skirts tightly about her as if hewere a rat. What forced Mary Ann again upon Lancelot's moroseconsciousness was a glint of winter sunshine that settled on her lightbrown hair. He said, "By the way, Susan, tell your mistress--or is ityour mother?"

Mary Ann shook her head but did not speak. 

"Oh, you are not Miss Leadbatter?"

"No; Mary Ann. "

She spoke humbly; her eyes were shy and would not meet his. He winced ashe heard the name, though her voice was not unmusical. 

"Ah, Mary Ann! and I've been calling you Jane all along, Mary Ann what?"

She seemed confused and flushed a little. 

"Mary Ann!" she murmured. 

"Merely Mary Ann?"

"Yessir. "

He smiled. "Seems a sort of white Topsy, " he was thinking. 

She stood still, holding in her hand the table-cloth she had just folded. Her eyes were downcast, and the glint of sunshine had leapt upon the longlashes. 

"Well, Mary Ann, tell your mistress there is a piano coming. It willstand over there--you'll have to move the sideboard somewhere else. "

"A piano!" Mary Ann opened her eyes, and Lancelot saw that they werelarge and pathetic. He could not see the colour for the glint of sunshinethat touched them with false fire. 

"Yes; I suppose it will have to come up through the window, thesestaircases are so beastly narrow. Do you never have a stout person in thehouse, I wonder?"

"Oh, yes, sir. We had a lodger here last year as was quite a fat man. "

"And did he come up through the window by a pulley?"

He smiled at the image, and expected to see Mary Ann smile in response. He was disappointed when she did not; it was not only that her stoliditymade his humour seem feeble--he half wanted to see how she looked whenshe smiled. 

"Oh, dear, no, " said Mary Ann; "he lived on the ground floor!"

"Oh!" murmured Lancelot, feeling the last sparkle taken from his humour. He was damped to the skin by Mary Ann's platitudinarian style ofconversation. Despite its prettiness, her face was dulness incarnate. 

"Anyhow, remember to take in the piano if I'm out, " he said tartly. "Isuppose you've _seen_ a piano--you'll know it from a kangaroo?"

"Yessir, " breathed Mary Ann. 

"Oh, come, that's something. There is some civilisation in Baker'sTerrace after all. But are you quite sure?" he went on, the teasinginstinct getting the better of him. "Because, you know, you've never seena kangaroo. "

Mary Ann's face lit up a little. "Oh, yes, I have, sir; it came to thevillage fair when I was a girl. "

"Oh, indeed!" said Lancelot, a little staggered; "what did it come therefor--to buy a new pouch?"

"No, sir; in a circus. "

"Ah, in a circus. Then, perhaps, you can _play_ the piano, too. "

Mary Ann got very red. "No, sir; missus never showed me how to do that. "

Lancelot surrendered himself to a roar of laughter. "This is a realoriginal, " he said to himself, just a touch of pity blending with hisamusement. 

"I suppose, though, you'd be willing to lend a hand occasionally?" hecould not resist saying. 

"Missus says I must do anything I'm asked, " she said, in distress, thetears welling to her eyes. And a merciless bell mercifully sounding froman upper room, she hurried out. 

How much Mary Ann did, Lancelot never rightly knew, any more than he knewthe number of lodgers in the house, or who cooked his chops in themysterious regions below stairs. Sometimes he trod on the toes of bootsoutside doors and vaguely connected them with human beings, peremptoryand exacting as himself. To Mary Ann each of those pairs of boots was apersonality, with individual hours of rising and retiring, breakfastingand supping, going out and coming in, and special idiosyncrasies of dietand disposition. The population of 5 Baker's Terrace was nine, mostlybell-ringers. Life was one ceaseless round of multifarious duties; withsix hours of blessed unconsciousness, if sleep were punctual. All theweek long Mary Ann was toiling up and down the stairs or sweeping them, making beds or puddings, polishing boots or fire-irons. Holidays were notin Mary Ann's calendar; and if Sunday ever found her on her knees, it wasonly when she was scrubbing out the kitchen. All work and no play makesJack a dull boy; it had not, apparently, made Mary Ann a bright girl. 

The piano duly came in through the window like a burglar. It was a goodinstrument, but hired. Under Lancelot's fingers it sang like a bird andgrowled like a beast. When the piano was done growling Lancelot usuallystarted. He paced up and down the room, swearing audibly. Then he wouldsit down at the table and cover ruled paper with hieroglyphics for hourstogether. His movements were erratic to the verge of mystery. He had nofixed hours for anything; to Mary Ann he was hopeless. At any givenmoment he might be playing on the piano, or writing on the curiouslyruled paper, or stamping about the room, or sitting limp with despair inthe one easy chair, or drinking whisky and water, or smoking a blackmeerschaum, or reading a book, or lying in bed, or driving away in ahansom, or walking about Heaven alone knew where or why. Even Mrs. Leadbatter, whose experience of life was wider than Mary Ann's, considered his vagaries almost unchristian, though to the highest degreegentlemanly. Sometimes, too, he sported the swallow-tail and the starchedbreast-plate, which was a wonder to Mary Ann, who knew that waiters wereconnected only with the most stylish establishments. Baker's Terrace didnot wear evening dress. 

Mary Ann liked him best in black and white. She thought he looked likethe pictures in the young ladies' novelettes, which sometimes caught hereye as she passed newsvendors' shops on errands. Not that she was read inthis literature--she had no time for reading. But, even when clothed inrough tweeds, Lancelot had for Mary Ann an aristocratic halo; in hisdressing-gown he savoured of the grand Turk. His hands were masterful:the fingers tapering, the nails pedantically polished. He had fair hair, with moustache to match; his brow was high and white, and his grey eyescould flash fire. When he drew himself up to his full height, hethreatened the gas globes. Never had No. 5 Baker's Terrace boasted ofsuch a tenant. Altogether, Lancelot loomed large to Mary Ann; she dazzledhim with his own boots in humble response, and went about sad after areprimand for putting his papers in order. Her whole theory of lifeoscillated in the presence of a being whose views could so run counter toher strongest instincts. And yet, though the universe seemed tumblingabout her ears when he told her she must not move a scrap of manuscript, howsoever wildly it lay about the floor or under the bed, she did not fora moment question his sanity. She obeyed him like a dog; uncomprehending, but trustful. But, after all, this was only of a piece with the rest ofher life. There was nothing she questioned. Life stood at her bedsideevery morning in the cold dawn, bearing a day heaped high with duties;and she jumped cheerfully out of her warm bed and took them up one byone, without question or murmur. They were life. Life had no othermeaning any more than it has for the omnibus hack, which cannot conceiveexistence outside shafts, and devoid of the intermittent flick of a whippoint. The comparison is somewhat unjust; for Mary Ann did not farenearly so well as the omnibus hack, having to make her meals off suchscraps as even the lodgers sent back. Mrs. Leadbatter was extremelyeconomical, as much so with the provisions in her charge as with thoseshe bought for herself. She sedulously sent up remainders till they wereexpressly countermanded. Less economical by nature, and hungrier byhabit, Mary Ann had much trouble in restraining herself fromsurreptitious pickings. Her conscience was rarely worsted; still therewas a taint of dishonesty in her soul, else had the stairs been less ofan ethical battle-ground for her. Lancelot's advent only made herhungrier; somehow the thought of nibbling at his provisions was toosacrilegious to be entertained. And yet--so queerly are we and lifecompounded--she was probably less unhappy at this period than Lancelot, who would come home in the vilest of tempers, and tramp the room withthunder on his white brow. Sometimes he and the piano and Beethoven wouldall be growling together, at other times they would all three be mute;Lancelot crouching in the twilight with his head in his hands, andBeethoven moping in the corner, and the closed piano looming in thebackground like a coffin of dead music. 

One February evening--an evening of sleet and mist--Lancelot, who hadgone out in evening dress, returned unexpectedly, bringing with him forthe first time a visitor. He was so perturbed that he forgot to use hislatch-key, and Mary Ann, who opened the door, heard him say angrily, "Well, I can't slam the door in your face, but I will tell you in yourface I don't think it at all gentlemanly of you to force yourself upon melike this. "

"My dear Lancelot, when did I ever set up to be a gentleman? You knowthat was always your part of the contract. " And a swarthy, thick-setyoung man with a big nose lowered the dripping umbrella he had beenholding over Lancelot, and stepped from the gloom of the street into thefuscous cheerfulness of the ill-lit passage. 

By this time Beethoven, who had been left at home, was in full ebullitionupstairs, and darted at the intruder the moment his calves appeared. Beethoven barked with short sharp snaps, as became a biliousliver-coloured Blenheim spaniel. 

"Like master like dog, " said the swarthy young man, defending himself atthe point of the umbrella. "Really your animal is more intelligent thanthe over-rated common or garden dog, which makes no distinction betweenpeople calling in the small hours and people calling in broad daylightunder the obvious patronage of its own master. This beast of yours isevidently more in sympathy with its liege lord. Down, Fido, down! Iwonder they allow you to keep such noisy creatures--but stay! I wasforgetting you keep a piano. After that, I suppose, nothing matters. "

Lancelot made no reply, but surprised Beethoven into silence by kickinghim out of the way. He lit the gas with a neatly written sheet of musicwhich he rammed into the fire Mary Ann had been keeping up, then assilently he indicated the easy chair. 

"Thank you, " said the swarthy young man, taking it. "I would rather seeyou in it, but as there's only one I know you wouldn't be feeling agentleman; and that would make us both uncomfortable. "

"'Pon my word, Peter, " Lancelot burst forth, "you're enough to provoke asaint. "

"'Pon my word, Lancelot, " replied Peter, imperturbably, "you're more thanenough to provoke a sinner. Why, what have you to be ashamed of? You'vegot one of the cosiest dens in London and one of the comfortablestchairs. Why, it's twice as jolly as the garret we shared at Leipsic--upthe ninety stairs. "

"We're not in Germany now. I don't want to receive visitors, " answeredLancelot, sulkily. 

"A visitor! you call me a visitor! Lancelot, it's plain you were nottelling the truth when you said just now you had forgiven me. "

"I had forgiven--and forgotten you. "

"Come, that's unkind. It's scarcely three years since I threw up mycareer as a genius, and you know why I left you, old man. When the firstfever of youthful revolt was over, I woke to see things in their truelight. I saw how mean it was of me to help to eat up your wretchedthousand pounds. Neither of us saw the situation nakedly at first--it wassicklied o'er with Quixotic foolishness. You see, you had the advantageof me. Your governor was a gentleman. He says: 'Very well, if you won'tgo to Cambridge, if you refuse to enter the Church as the younger son ofa blue-blooded but impecunious baronet should, and to step into theliving which is fattening for you, then I must refuse to take any furtherresponsibility for your future. Here is a thousand pounds; it is themoney I had set aside for your college course. Use it for your musicaltomfoolery if you insist, and then--get what living you can. ' Which wassevere but dignified, unpaternal yet patrician. But what does _my_governor do? That cantankerous, pig-headed old Philistine--God blesshim!--he's got no sense of the respect a father owes to his offspring. Not an atom. You're simply a branch to be run on the lines of the oldbusiness or be shut up altogether. And, by the way, Lancelot, he hasn'taltered a jot since those days when--as you remember--the City orstarvation was his pleasant alternative. Of course I preferredstarvation--one usually does at nineteen; especially if one knows there'sa scion of aristocracy waiting outside to elope with him to Leipsic. "

"But you told me you were going back to your dad, because you found youhad mistaken your vocation. "

"Gospel truth also! My Heavens, shall I ever forget the blank horror thatgrew upon me when I came to understand that music was a science morebarbarous than the mathematics that floored me at school, that the lifeof a musical student, instead of being a delicious whirl of waltz tunes, was 'one dem'd grind, ' that seemed to grind out all the soul of thedivine art and leave nothing but horrid technicalities about consecutivefifths and suspensions on the dominant? I dare say most people stillthink of the musician as a being who lives in an enchanted world ofsound, rather than as a person greatly occupied with tedious feats ofpenmanship; just as I myself still think of a _prima ballerina_ not as ahard-working gymnast but as a fairy, whose existence is all bouquets andlime-light. "

"But you had a pretty talent for the piano, " said Lancelot, in milderaccents. "No one forced you to learn composition. You could have learntanything for the paltry fifteen pounds exacted by the Conservatoire--fromthe German flute to the grand organ; from singing to scoring band parts. "

"No, thank you. _Aut Cæsar aut nihil_. You remember what I always used tosay, 'Either Beethoven--' (The spaniel pricked up his ears)--'or bust. 'If I could not be a great musician it was hardly worth while enduring theprivations of one, especially at another man's expense. So I did theProdigal Son dodge, as you know, and out of the proceeds sent you myyear's exes in that cheque you with your damnable pride sent me backagain. And now, old fellow, that I have you face to face at last, can youoffer the faintest scintilla of a shadow of a reason for refusing to takethat cheque? No, you can't! Nothing but simple beastly stuckuppishness. I saw through you at once; all your heroics were a fraud. I was not yourfriend, but your protégé--something to practise your chivalry on. Youdropped your cloak, and I saw your feet of clay. Well, I tell youstraight, I made up my mind at once to be bad friends with you for life;only when I saw your fiery old phiz at Brahmson's I felt a sort ofsomething tugging inside my greatcoat like a thief after my pocket-book, and I kinder knew, as the Americans say, that in half an hour I should besitting beneath your hospitable roof. "

"I beg your pardon--you will have some whisky?" He rang the bellviolently. 

"Don't be a fool--you know I didn't mean that. Well, don't let usquarrel. I have forgiven you for your youthful bounty, and you haveforgiven me for chucking it up; and now we are going to drink to theVaterland, " he added, as Mary Ann appeared with suspicious alacrity. 

"Do you know, " he went on, when they had taken the first sip of renewedamity dissolved in whisky, "I think I showed more musical soul than youin refusing to trammel my inspiration with the dull rules invented byfools. I suppose you have mastered them all, eh?" He picked up somesheets of manuscript. "Great Scot! How you must have schooled yourself toscribble all this--you, with your restless nature--full scores, too! Ihope you don't offer this sort of thing to Brahmson. "

"I certainly went there with that intention, " admitted Lancelot. "Ithought I'd catch Brahmson himself in the evening--he's never in when Icall in the morning. "

Peter groaned. 

"Quixotic as ever! You can't have been long in London then?"

"A year. "

"I suppose you'd jump down my throat if I were to ask you how much isleft of that--" he hesitated, then turned the sentence facetiously--"ofthose twenty thousand shillings you were cut off with?"

"Let this vile den answer. "

"Don't disparage the den; it's not so bad. "

"You are right--I may come to worse. I've been an awful ass. You know howlucky I was while at the Conservatoire--no, you don't. How should you?Well, I carried off some distinctions and a lot of conceit, and came overhere thinking Europe would be at my feet in a month. I was only sorry myfather died before I could twit him with my triumph. That's candid, isn'tit?"

"Yes; you're not such a prig after all, " mused Peter. "I saw the oldman's death in the paper--your brother Lionel became the bart. "

"Yes, poor beggar, I don't hate him half so much as I did. He reminds meof a man invited to dinner which is nothing but flowers and serviettesand silver plate. "

"I'd pawn the plate, anyhow, " said Peter, with a little laugh. 

"He can't touch anything, I tell you; everything's tied up. "

"Ah, well, he'll get tied up, too. He'll marry an American heiress. "

"Confound him! I'd rather see the house extinct first. "

"Hoity, toity! She'll be quite as good as any of you. "

"I can't discuss this with you, Peter, " said Lancelot, gently but firmly. "If there is a word I hate more than the word heiress, it is the wordAmerican. "

"But why? They're both very good words and better things. "

"They both smack of the most vulgar thing in the world--money, " saidLancelot, walking hotly about the room. "In America there's no otherstandard. To make your pile, to strike ile--oh, how I shudder to hearthese idioms! And can any one hear the word heiress without immediatelythinking of matrimony? Phaugh! It's a prostitution. "

"What is? You're not very coherent, my friend. "

"Very well, I am incoherent. If a great old family can only bolster upits greatness by alliances with the daughters of oil-strikers, then letthe family perish with honour. "

"But the daughters of oil-strikers are sometimes very charming creatures. They are polished with their fathers' oil. "

"You are right. They reek of it. Pah! I pray to Heaven Lionel will eitherwed a lady or die a bachelor. "

"Yes; but what do you call a lady?" persisted Peter. 

Lancelot uttered an impatient snarl, and rang the bell violently. Peterstared in silence. Mary Ann appeared. 

"How often am I to tell you to leave my matches on the mantel-shelf?"snapped Lancelot. "You seem to delight to hide them away, as if I hadtime to play parlour games with you. "

Mary Ann silently went to the mantel-piece, handed him the matches, andleft the room without a word. 

"I say, Lancelot, adversity doesn't seem to have agreed with you, " saidPeter, severely. "That poor girl's eyes were quite wet when she went out. Why didn't you speak? I could have given you heaps of lights, and youmight even have sacrificed another scrap of that precious manuscript. "

"Well, she has got a knack of hiding my matches all the same, " saidLancelot, somewhat shamefacedly. "Besides, I hate her for being calledMary Ann. It's the last terror of cheap apartments. If she only hadanother name like a human being, I'd gladly call her Miss something. Iwent so far as to ask her, and she stared at me in a dazed, stupid, sillyway, as if I'd asked her to marry me. I suppose the fact is she's beencalled Mary Ann so long and so often that she's forgotten her father'sname--if she ever had any. I must do her the justice, though, to say sheanswers to the name of Mary Ann in every sense of the phrase. "

"She didn't seem at all bad-looking, anyway, " said Peter. 

"Every man to his taste!" growled Lancelot. "She's as _platt_ anduninteresting as a wooden sabot. "

"There's many a pretty foot in a sabot, " retorted Peter, with an air ofphilosophy. 

"You think that's clever, but it's simply silly. How does that factaffect this particular sabot?"

"I've put my foot in it, " groaned Peter, comically. 

"Besides, she might be a houri from heaven, " said Lancelot; "but a houriin a patched print frock--" He shuddered and struck a match. 

"I don't know exactly what houris from heaven are, but I have a kind offeeling any sort of frock would be out of harmony--!"

Lancelot lit his pipe. 

"If you begin to say that sort of thing we must smoke, " he said, laughingbetween the puffs. "I can offer you lots of tobacco--I'm sorry I've gotno cigars. Wait till you see Mrs. Leadbatter--my landlady--then you'lltalk about houris. Poverty may not be a crime, but it seems to makepeople awful bores. Wonder if it'll have that effect on me? _Ach Himmel!_how that woman bores me. No, there's no denying it--there's my pouch, oldman--I hate the poor; their virtues are only a shade more vulgar thantheir vices. This Leadbatter creature is honest after her lights--shesends me up the most ridiculous leavings--and I only hate her the morefor it. "

"I suppose she works Mary Ann's fingers to the bone from the samemistaken sense of duty, " said Peter, acutely. "Thanks; think I'll try oneof my cigars. I filled my case, I fancy, before I came out. Yes, here itis; won't _you_ try one?"

"No, thanks, I prefer my pipe. "

"It's the same old meerschaum, I see, " said Peter. 

"The same old meerschaum, " repeated Lancelot, with a little sigh. 

Peter lit a cigar, and they sat and puffed in silence. 

"Dear me!" said Peter, suddenly; "I can almost fancy we're back in ourGerman garret, up the ninety stairs, can't you?"

"No, " said Lancelot, sadly, looking round as if in search of something;"I miss the dreams. "

"And I, " said Peter, striving to speak cheerfully, "I see a dog toomuch. "

"Yes, " said Lancelot, with a melancholy laugh. "When you funked becominga Beethoven, I got a dog and called him after you. "

"What? you called him Peter?"

"No, Beethoven!"

"Beethoven! Really?"

"Really. Here, Beethoven!"

The spaniel shook himself, and perked his wee nose up wistfully towardsLancelot's face. 

Peter laughed, with a little catch in his voice. He didn't know whetherhe was pleased, or touched, or angry. 

"You started to tell me about those twenty thousand shillings, " he said. 

"Didn't I tell you? On the expectations of my triumph, I livedextravagantly, like a fool, joined a club, and took up my quarters there. When I began to realise the struggle that lay before me, I took chambers;then I took rooms; now I'm in lodgings. The more I realised it, the lessrent I paid. I only go to the club for my letters now. I won't have themcome here. I'm living incognito. "

"That's taking fame by the forelock, indeed! Then by what name must I askfor you next time? For I'm not to be shaken off. "

"Lancelot. "

"Lancelot what?"

"Only Lancelot! Mr. Lancelot. "

"Why, that's like your Mary Ann!"

"So it is!" he laughed, more bitterly than cordially; "it never struck mebefore. Yes, we are a pair. "

"How did you stumble on this place?"

"I didn't stumble. Deliberate, intelligent selection. You see, it's thenext best thing to Piccadilly. You just cross Waterloo Bridge, and thereyou are at the centre, five minutes from all the clubs. The natives havenot yet risen to the idea. "

"You mean the rent, " laughed Peter. "You're as canny and careful as aScotch professor. I think it's simply grand the way you've beaten outthose shillings, in defiance of your natural instincts. I should havemelted them years ago. I believe you _have_ got some musical genius afterall. "

"You over-rate my abilities, " said Lancelot, with the whimsicalexpression that sometimes flashed across his face even in his mostunamiable moments. "You must deduct the thalers I made in exhibitions. As for living in cheap lodgings, I am not at all certain it's an economy, for every now and again it occurs to you that you are saving an awfullot, and you take a hansom on the strength of it. "

"Well, I haven't torn up that cheque yet--"

"Peter!" said Lancelot, his flash of gaiety dying away, "I tell you thesethings as a friend, not as a beggar. If you look upon me as the second, Icease to be the first. "

"But, man, I owe you the money; and if it will enable you to hold out alittle longer--why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't you--?"

"You don't owe me the money at all; I made no bargain with you; I am nota moneylender. "

"_Pack dick sum Henker!_" growled Peter, with a comical grimace. "_Wasfür_ a casuist! What a swindler you'd make! I wonder you have the faceto deny the debt. Well, and how did you leave Frau Sauer-Kraut?" he said, deeming it prudent to sheer off the subject. 

"Fat as a Christmas turkey. "

"Or a German sausage. The extraordinary things that woman stuffed herselfwith!--chunks of fat, stewed apples, Kartoffel salad--all mixed up in oneplate, as in a dustbin. "

"Don't! You make my gorge rise. _Ach Himmel!_ to think that this nationshould be musical! O Music, heavenly maid, how much garlic I have enduredfor thy sake!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Peter, putting down his whisky that he might throwhimself freely back in the easy chair and roar. 

"O that garlic!" he said, panting. "No wonder they smoked so much inLeipsic. Even so they couldn't keep the reek out of the staircases. Still, it's a great country is Germany. Our house does a tremendousbusiness in German patents. "

"A great country? A land of barbarians rather. How can a people becivilised that eats jam with its meat?"

"Bravo, Lancelot! You're in lovely form to-night. You seem to go ahundred miles out of your way to come the truly British. First it wasoil--now it's jam. There was that aristocratic flash in your eye, too, that look of supreme disdain which brings on riots in Trafalgar Square. Behind the patriotic, the national note, 'How can a people be civilisedthat eats jam with its meat?' I heard the deeper, the oligarchic accent, 'How can a people be enfranchised that eats meat with its fingers?' Ah, you are right! How you do hate the poor! What bores they are! Youaristocrats--the products of centuries of culture, comfort, andcocksureness--will never rid yourselves of your conviction that you arethe backbone of England--no, not though that backbone were picked cleanof every scrap of flesh by the rats of Radicalism. "

"What in the devil are you talking about now?" demanded Lancelot. "Youseem to me to go a hundred miles out of _your_ way to twit me with mypoverty and my breeding. One would almost think you were anxious toconvince me of the poverty of _your_ breeding. "

"Oh, a thousand pardons!" ejaculated Peter, blushing violently. "But goodheavens, old chap! There's your hot temper again. You surely wouldn'tsuspect _me_, of all people in the world, of meaning anything personal?I'm talking of you as a class. Contempt is in your blood--and quiteright! We're such snobs, we deserve it. Why d'ye think I ever took to youas a boy at school? Was it because you scribbled inaccurate sonatas and Ihad myself a talent for knocking tunes off the piano? Not a bit of it. Ithought it was, perhaps, but that was only one of my many youthfulerrors. No, I liked you because your father was an old English baronet, and mine was a merchant who trafficked mainly in things Teutonic. Andthat's why I like you still. 'Pon my soul it is. You gratify my historicsense--like an old building. You are picturesque. You stand to me for allthe good old ideals--including the pride which we are beginning to see isdeuced unchristian. Mind you, it's a curious kind of pride when one looksinto it. Apparently it's based on the fact that your family has lived onthe nation for generations. And yet you won't take my cheque--which isyour own. Now don't swear--I know one mustn't analyse things, or theworld would come to pieces, so I always vote Tory. "

"Then I shall have to turn Radical, " grumbled Lancelot. 

"Certainly you will, when you have had a little more experience ofpoverty, " retorted Peter. "There, there, old man! forgive me. I only doit to annoy you. Fact is, your outbursts of temper attract me. They arepleasant to look back upon when the storm is over. Yes, my dear Lancelot, you are like the king you look--you can do no wrong. You are picturesque. Pass the whisky. "

Lancelot smiled, his handsome brow serene once more. He murmured, "Don'ttalk rot, " but inwardly he was not displeased at Peter's allegiance, halfmocking though he knew it. 

"Therefore, my dear chap, " resumed Peter, sipping his whisky and water, "to return to our lambs, I bow to your patrician prejudices in favour offorks. But your patriotic prejudices are on a different level. There, Iam on the same ground as you, and I vow I see nothing inherently superiorin the British combination of beef and beetroot, to the German amalgamof lamb and jam. "

"Damn lamb and jam!" burst forth Lancelot, adding, with his whimsicallook: "There's rhyme, as well as reason. How on earth did we get on thistack?"

"I don't know, " said Peter, smiling. "We were talking about FrauSauer-Kraut, I think. And did you board with her all the time?"

"Yes, and I was always hungry. Till the last, I never learnt to stomachher mixtures. But it was really too much trouble to go down the ninetystairs to a restaurant. It was much easier to be hungry. "

"And did you ever get a reform in the hours of washing the floor?"

"Ha! ha! ha! No, they always waited till I was going to bed. I supposethey thought I liked damp. They never got over my morning tub, you know. And that, too, sprang a leak after you left, and helped spontaneously towash the floor. "

"Shows the fallacy of cleanliness, " said Peter, "and the inferiority ofBritish ideals. They never bathed in their lives, yet they looked thepink of health. "

"Yes, --their complexion was high, --like the fish. "

"Ha! ha! Yes, the fish! That was a great luxury, I remember. About once amonth. "

"Of course, the town is so inland, " said Lancelot. 

"I see--it took such a long time coming. Ha! ha! ha! And the HerrProfessor--is he still a bachelor?"

As the Herr Professor was a septuagenarian and a misogamist, even inPeter's time, his question tickled Lancelot. Altogether the two young mengrew quite jolly, recalling a hundred oddities, and reknitting theirfriendship at the expense of the Fatherland. 

"But was there ever a more madcap expedition than ours?" exclaimed Peter. "Most boys start out to be pirates--"

"And some do become music-publishers, " Lancelot finished grimly, suddenlyreminded of a grievance. 

"Ha! ha! ha! Poor fellow!" laughed Peter. "Then you _have_ found them outalready. "

"Does any one ever find them in?" flashed Lancelot. "I suppose they doexist and are occasionally seen of mortal eyes. I suppose wives andfriends and mothers gaze on them with no sense of special privilege, unconscious of their invisibility to the profane eyes of mere musicians. "

"My dear fellow, the mere musicians are as plentiful as niggers on thesea-shore. A publisher might spend his whole day receiving regiments ofunappreciated geniuses. Bond Street would be impassable. You look at thepublisher too much from your own standpoint. "

"I tell you I don't look at him from any standpoint. That's what Icomplain of. He's encircled with a prickly hedge of clerks. 'You willhear from us. ' 'It shall have our best consideration. We have noknowledge of the Ms. In question. ' Yes, Peter, two valuable quartets haveI lost, messing about with these villains. "

"I tell you what. I'll give you an introduction to Brahmson. I knowhim--privately. "

"No, thank you, Peter. "

"Why not?"

"Because you know him. "

"I couldn't give you an introduction if I didn't. This is silly of you, Lancelot. "

"If Brahmson can't see any merits in my music, I don't want you to openhis eyes. I'll stand on my own bottom. And what's more, Peter, I tell youonce for all"--his voice was low and menacing--"if you try any anonymous_deus ex machinâ_ tricks on me in some sly, roundabout fashion, don't youflatter yourself I shan't recognise your hand. I shall, and, by God, itshall never grasp mine again. "

"I suppose you think that's very noble and sublime, " said Peter, coolly. "You don't suppose if I could do you a turn I'd hesitate for fear ofexcommunication? I know you're like Beethoven there--your bark is worsethan your bite. "

"Very well; try. You'll find my teeth nastier than you bargain for. "

"I'm not going to try. If you want to go to the dogs--go. Why should Iput out a hand to stop you?"

These amenities having reëstablished them in their mutual esteem, theychatted lazily and spasmodically till past midnight, with more smoke thanfire in the conversation. 

At last Peter began to go, and in course of time actually did take up hisumbrella. Not long after, Lancelot conducted him softly down the dark, silent stairs, holding his bedroom candle-stick in his hand, for Mrs. Leadbatter always turned out the hall lamp on her way to bed. The oldphrases came to the young men's lips as their hands met in a last heartygrip. 

"_Lebt wohl!_" said Lancelot. 

"_Auf Wiedersehen!_" replied Peter, threateningly. 

Lancelot stood at the hall door looking for a moment after hisfriend--the friend he had tried to cast out of his heart as a recreant. The mist had cleared--the stars glittered countless in the frosty heaven;a golden crescent-moon hung low; the lights and shadows lay almostpoetically upon the little street. A rush of tender thoughts whelmed themusician's soul. He saw again the dear old garret, up the ninety stairs, in the Hotel Cologne, where he had lived with his dreams; he heard thepianos and violins going in every room in happy incongruity, publishingto all the prowess of the players; dirty, picturesque old Leipsic rosebefore him; he was walking again in the _Hainstrasse_, in the shadow ofthe quaint, tall houses. Yes, life was sweet after all; he was a cowardto lose heart so soon; fame would yet be his; fame and love--the love ofa noble woman that fame earns; some gracious creature, breathing sweetrefinements, cradled in an ancient home, such as he had left for ever. 

The sentimentality of the Fatherland seemed to have crept into his soul;a divinely sweet, sad melody was throbbing in his brain. How glad he washe had met Peter again!

From a neighbouring steeple came a harsh, resonant clang, "One. "

It roused him from his dream. He shivered a little, closed the door, bolted it and put up the chain, and turned, half sighing, to take uphis bedroom candle again. Then his heart stood still for a moment. Afigure--a girl's figure--was coming towards him from the kitchen stairs. As she came into the dim light he saw that it was merely Mary Ann. 

She looked half drowsed. Her cap was off, her hair tangled loosely overher forehead. In her disarray she looked prettier than he had everremembered her. There was something provoking about the large, dreamyeyes, the red lips that parted at the unexpected sight of him. 

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Not gone to bed yet?"

"No, sir. I had to stay up to wash up a lot of crockery. The second floorfront had some friends to supper late. Missus says she won't stand itagain. "

"Poor thing!" He patted her soft cheek--it grew hot and rosy under hisfingers, but was not withdrawn. Mary Ann made no sign of resentment. Inhis mood of tenderness to all creation his rough words to her recurred tohim. 

"You mustn't mind what I said about the matches, " he murmured. "When I amin a bad temper I say anything. Remember now for the future, will you?"

"Yessir. "

Her face--its blushes flickered over strangely by thecandle-light--seemed to look up at him invitingly. 

"That's a good girl. " And bending down he kissed her on the lips. 

"Good night, " he murmured. 

Mary Ann made some startled, gurgling sound in reply. 

Five minutes afterwards Lancelot was in bed, denouncing himself as avulgar beast. 

"I must have drunk too much whisky, " he said to himself, angrily. "Goodheavens! Fancy sinking to Mary Ann. If Peter had only seen--There wasinfinitely more poetry in that red-cheeked _Mädchen_, and yet I never--Itis true-there is something sordid about the atmosphere that subtlypermeates you, that drags you down to it. Mary Ann! A transpontinedrudge! whose lips are fresh from the coalman's and the butcher's. Phaugh!"

The fancy seized hold of his imagination. He could not shake it off, he could not sleep till he had got out of bed and sponged his lipsvigorously. 

Meanwhile Mary Ann was lying on her bed, dressed, doing her best to keepher meaningless, half-hysterical sobs from her mistress's keen ear. 

II

It was a long time before Mary Ann came so prominently into the centre ofLancelot's consciousness again. She remained somewhere in the outerperiphery of his thought--nowhere near the bull's-eye, so to speak--as avague automaton that worked when he pulled a bell-rope. Infinitely moreimportant things were troubling him; the visit of Peter had somehow put akeener edge on his blunted self-confidence; he had started a grand opera, and worked at it furiously in all the intervals left him by hisengrossing pursuit after a publisher. Sometimes he would look up from hishieroglyphics and see Mary Ann at his side surveying him curiously, andthen he would start, and remember he had rung her up, and try to rememberwhat for. And Mary Ann would turn red, as if the fault was hers. 

But the publisher was the one thing that was never out of Lancelot'smind, though he drove Lancelot himself nearly out of it. He was like anarrow stuck in the aforesaid bull's-eye, and, the target being conscious, he rankled sorely. Lancelot discovered that the publisher kept a "musicaladviser, " whose advice appeared to consist of the famous monosyllable, "Don't. " The publisher generally published all the musical adviser's ownworks, his advice having apparently been neglected when it was most worthtaking; at least so Lancelot thought, when he had skimmed through a setof Lancers by one of these worthies. 

"I shall give up being a musician, " he said to himself, grimly. "I shallbecome a musical adviser. "

Once, half by accident, he actually saw a publisher. "My dear sir, " saidthe great man, "what is the use of bringing quartets and full scores tome? You should have taken them to Brahmson; he's the very man you want. You know his address, of course--just down the street. "

Lancelot did not like to say that it was Brahmson's clerks that hadrecommended him here; so he replied, "But you publish operas, oratorios, cantatas!"

"Ah, yes!--h'm--things that have been played at the bigFestivals--composers of prestige--quite a different thing, sir, quitea different thing. There's no sale for these things--none at all, sir--public never heard of you. Now, if you were to write somesongs--nice catchy tunes--high class, you know, with pretty words--"

Now Lancelot by this time was aware of the publisher's wily ways; hecould almost have constructed an Ollendorffian dialogue, entitled"Between a Music Publisher and a Composer. " So he opened his portfolioagain and said, "I have brought some. "

"Well, send--send them in, " stammered the publisher, almost disconcerted. "They shall have our best consideration. "

"Oh, but you might just as well look over them at once, " said Lancelot, firmly, uncoiling them. "It won't take you five minutes--just let me playone to you. The tunes are rather more original than the average, I canpromise you; and yet I think they have a lilt that--"

"I really can't spare the time now. If you leave them, we will do ourbest. "

"Listen to this bit!" said Lancelot, desperately. And dashing at a pianothat stood handy, he played a couple of bars. "That's quite a newmodulation. "

"That's all very well, " said the publisher; "but how do you suppose I'mgoing to sell a thing with an accompaniment like that? Look here, andhere! Why, it's all accidentals. "

"That's the best part of the song, " explained Lancelot; "a sort ofundercurrent of emotion that brings out the full pathos of the words. Note the elegant and novel harmonies. " He played another bar or two, singing the words softly. 

"Yes; but if you think you'll get young ladies to play that, you've got agood deal to learn, " said the publisher, gruffly. "This is the sort ofaccompaniment that goes down, " and seating himself at the piano for amoment (somewhat to Lancelot's astonishment, for he had gradually formeda theory that music publishers did not really know the staff from afive-barred gate), he rattled off the melody with his right hand, pounding away monotonously with his left at a few elementary chords. 

Lancelot looked dismayed. 

"That's the kind of thing you'll have to produce, young man, " said thepublisher, feeling that he had at last resumed his natural supremacy, "ifyou want to get your songs published. Elegant harmonies are all verywell, but who's to play them?"

"And do you mean to say that a musician in this God-forsaken country musthave no chords but tonics and dominants?" ejaculated Lancelot, hotly. 

"The less he has of any other the better, " said the great man, drily. "Ihaven't said a word about the melody itself, which is quite out of theordinary compass, and makes demands upon the singer's vocalisation whichare not likely to make a demand for the song. What you have to remember, my dear sir, if you wish to achieve success, is that music, if it is tosell, must appeal to the average amateur young person. The averageamateur young person is the main prop of music in this country. "

Lancelot snatched up his song and tied the strings of his portfolio verytightly, as if he were clenching his lips. 

"If I stay here any longer I shall swear, " he said. "Good afternoon. "

He went out with a fire at his heart that made him insensitive to thefrost without. He walked a mile out of his way mechanically, then, perceiving his stupidity, avenged it by jumping into a hansom. He darednot think how low his funds were running. When he got home he forgot tohave his tea, crouching in dumb misery in his easy chair, while the coalsin the grate faded like the sunset from red to grey, and the dusk oftwilight deepened into the gloom of night, relieved only by a gleamfrom the street lamp. 

The noise of the door opening made him look up. 

"Beg pardon, sir. I didn't yer ye come in. "

It was Mary Ann's timid accents. Lancelot's head drooped again on hisbreast. He did not answer. 

"You've bin and let your fire go out, sir. "

"Don't bother!" he grumbled. He felt a morbid satisfaction in thisaggravation of discomfort, almost symbolic as it was of his sunkfortunes. 

"Oh, but it'll freeze 'ard to-night, sir. Let me make it up. " Taking hissullen silence for consent she ran downstairs and reappeared with somesticks. Soon there were signs of life, which Mary Ann assiduouslyencouraged by blowing at the embers with her mouth. Lancelot looked on indull apathy, but as the fire rekindled and the little flames leapt up andmade Mary Ann's flushed face the one spot of colour and warmth in thecold dark room, Lancelot's torpidity vanished suddenly. The sensuousfascination seized him afresh, and ere he was aware of it he was liftingthe pretty face by the chin. 

"I'm so sorry to be so troublesome, Mary Ann. There, you shall give me akiss to show you bear no malice. "

The warm lips obediently met his, and for a moment Lancelot forgot hisworries while he held her soft cheek against his. 

This time the shock of returning recollection was not so violent asbefore. He sat up in his chair, but his right arm still twinednegligently round her neck, the fingers patting the warm face. "A fellowmust have something to divert his mind, " he thought, "or he'd go mad. Andthere's no harm done--the poor thing takes it as a kindness, I'm sure. Isuppose _her_ life's dull enough. We're a pair. " He felt her shouldersheaving a little, as if she were gulping down something. At last shesaid: "You ain't troublesome. I ought to ha' yerd ye come in. "

He released her suddenly. Her words broke the spell. The vulgar accentgave him a shudder. 

"Don't you _hear_ a bell ringing?" he said with dual significance. 

"Nosir, " said Mary Ann, ingenuously. "I'd yer it in a moment if therewas. I yer it in my dreams, I'm so used to it. One night I dreamt themissus was boxin' my yers and askin' me if I was deaf and I said to'er--"

"Can't you say 'her'?" cried Lancelot, cutting her short impatiently. 

"Her, " said Mary Ann. 

"Then why do you say ''er'?"

"Missus told me to. She said my own way was all wrong. "

"Oh, indeed!" said Lancelot. "It's missus that has corrupted you, is it?And pray what used you to say?"

"She, " said Mary Ann. 

Lancelot was taken aback. "She!" he repeated. 

"Yessir, " said Mary Ann, with a dawning suspicion that her own vocabularywas going to be vindicated; "whenever I said 'she' she made me say ''er, 'and whenever I said 'her' she made me say 'she. ' When I said 'her and me'she made me say 'me and she, ' and when I said 'I got it from she, ' shemade me say 'I got it from ''er. '"

"Bravo! A very lucid exposition, " said Lancelot, laughing. "Did she setyou right in any other particulars?"

"Eessir--I mean yessir, " replied Mary Ann, the forbidden words flying toher lips like prisoned skylarks suddenly set free. "I used to say, 'Gie Ithek there broom, oo't?' 'Arten thee goin' to?' 'Her did say to I. ' 'I begoin' on to bed. ' 'Look at--'"

"Enough! Enough! What a memory you've got! Now I understand. You're acountry girl. "

"Eessir, " said Mary Ann, her face lighting up. "I mean yessir. "

"Well, that redeems you a little, " thought Lancelot, with his whimsicallook. "So it's missus, is it, who's taught you Cockneyese? My instinctwas not so unsound, after all. I dare say you'll turn out somethingnobler than a Cockney drudge. " He finished aloud, "I hope you wenta-milking. "

"Eessir, sometimes; and I drove back the milk-trunk in the cart, and Irode down on a pony to the second pasture to count the sheep and theheifers. "

"Then you are a farmer's daughter?"

"Eessir. But my feyther--I mean my father--had only two little fieldswhen he was alive, but we had a nice garden, with plum trees, and rosebushes, and gillyflowers--"

"Better and better, " murmured Lancelot, smiling. And, indeed, the imageof Mary Ann skimming the meads on a pony in the sunshine, was morepleasant to contemplate than that of Mary Ann whitening the wintry steps. "What a complexion you must have had to start with!" he cried aloud, surveying the not unenviable remains of it. "Well, and what else did youdo?"

Mary Ann opened her lips. It was delightful to see how the dull veil, asof London fog, had been lifted from her face; her eyes sparkled. 

Then, "Oh, there's the ground-floor bell, " she cried, movinginstinctively toward the door. 

"Nonsense; I hear no bell, " said Lancelot. 

"I told you I always _hear_ it, " said Mary Ann, hesitating and blushingdelicately before the critical word. 

"Oh, well, run along then. Stop a moment--I must give you another kissfor talking so nicely. There! And--stop a moment--bring me up somecoffee, please, when the ground floor is satisfied. "

"Eessir--I mean yessir. What must I say?" she added, pausing troubled onthe threshold. 

"Say, 'Yes, Lancelot, '" he answered recklessly. 

"Yessir, " and Mary Ann disappeared. 

It was ten endless minutes before she reappeared with the coffee. Thewhole of the second five minutes Lancelot paced his room feverishly, cursing the ground floor, and stamping as if to bring down its ceiling. He was curious to know more of Mary Ann's history. 

But it proved meagre enough. Her mother died when Mary Ann was a child;her father when she was still a mere girl. His affairs were found inhopeless confusion, and Mary Ann was considered lucky to be taken intothe house of the well-to-do Mrs. Leadbatter, of London, the elder sisterof a young woman who had nursed the vicar's wife. Mrs. Leadbatter hadpromised the vicar to train up the girl in the way a domestic should go. 

"And when I am old enough she is going to pay me wages as well, "concluded Mary Ann, with an air of importance. 

"Indeed--how old were you when you left the village?"

"Fourteen. "

"And how old are you now?"

Mary Ann looked confused. "I don't quite know, " she murmured. 

"Oh, come, " said Lancelot laughingly; "is this your country simplicity?You're quite young enough to tell how old you are. "

The tears came into Mary Ann's eyes. 

"I can't, Mr. Lancelot, " she protested earnestly; "I forgot tocount--I'll ask missus. "

"And whatever she tells you, you'll be, " he said, amused at herunshakable loyalty. 

"Yessir, " said Mary Ann. 

"And so you are quite alone in the world?"

"Yessir--but I've got my canary. They sold everything when my fatherdied, but the vicar's wife she bought my canary back for me because Icried so. And I brought it to London and it hangs in my bedroom. And thevicar, he was so kind to me, he did give me a lot of advice, and Mrs. Amersham, who kept the chandler's shop, she did give me ninepence, all inthreepenny bits. "

"And you never had any brothers or sisters?"

"There was our Sally, but she died before mother. "

"Nobody else?"

"There's my big brother Tom--but I mustn't tell you about him. "

"Mustn't tell me about him? Why not?"

"He's so wicked. "

The answer was so unexpected that Lancelot could not help laughing, andMary Ann flushed to the roots of her hair. 

"Why, what has he done?" said Lancelot, composing his mouth to gravity. 

"I don't know; I was only six. Father told me it was something verydreadful, and Tom had to run away to America, and I mustn't mention himany more. And mother was crying, and I cried because Tom used to give metickey-backs and go black-berrying with me and our little Sally; andeverybody else in the village they seemed glad, because they had said soall along, because Tom would never go to church, even when a little boy. "

"I suppose then _you_ went to church regularly?"

"Yessir. When I was at home, I mean. "

"Every Sunday?"

Mary Ann hung her head. "Once I went meechin', " she said in low tones. "Some boys and girls they wanted me to go nutting, and I wanted to gotoo, but I didn't know how to get away, and they told me to cough veryloud when the sermon began, so I did, and coughed on and on till at lastthe vicar glowed at father, and father had to send me out of church. "

Lancelot laughed heartily. "Then you didn't like the sermon. "

"It wasn't that, sir. The sun was shining that beautiful outside, and Inever minded the sermon, only I did get tired of sitting still. But Inever done it again--our little Sally, she died soon after. "

Lancelot checked his laughter. "Poor little fool!" he thought. Then tobrighten her up again he asked cheerily, "And what else did you do on thefarm?"

"Oh, please sir, missus will be wanting me now. "

"Bother missus. I want some more milk, " he said, emptying the milk-juginto the slop-basin. "Run down and get some. "

Mary Ann was startled by the splendour of the deed. She took the jugsilently and disappeared. 

When she returned he said: "Well, you haven't told me half yet. I supposeyou kept bees?"

"Oh, yes, and I fed the pigs. "

"Hang the pigs! Let's hear something more romantic. "

"There was the calves to suckle sometimes, when the mother died or wassold. "

"Calves! H'm! H'm! Well, but how could you do that?"

"Dipped my fingers in milk, and let the calves suck 'em. The sillycreatures thought it was their mother's teats. Like this. "

With a happy inspiration she put her fingers into the slop-basin, andheld them up dripping. 

Lancelot groaned. It was not only that his improved Mary Ann was againsinking to earth, unable to soar in the romantic æther where he wouldfain have seen her volant; it was not only that the coarseness of hernature had power to drag her down, it was the coarseness of her red, chapped hands that was thrust once again and violently upon his reluctantconsciousness. 

Then, like Mary Ann, he had an inspiration. 

"How would you like a pair of gloves, Mary Ann?"

He had struck the latent feminine. Her eyes gleamed. "Oh, sir!" was allshe could say. Then a swift shade of disappointment darkened the eagerlittle face. 

"But I never goes out, " she cried. 

"I never _go_ out, " he corrected, shuddering. 

"I never _go_ out, " said Mary Ann, her lip twitching. 

"That doesn't matter. I want you to wear them indoors. "

"But there's nobody to see 'em indoors!"

"I shall see them, " he reminded her. 

"But they'll get dirty. "

"No they won't. You shall only wear them when you come to me. If I buyyou a nice pair of gloves, will you promise to put them on every time Iring for you?"

"But what'll missus say?"

"Missus won't see them. The moment you come in, you'll put them on, andjust before going out--you'll take them off! See!"

"Yessir. Then nobody'll see me looking so grand but you. "

"That's it. And wouldn't you rather look grand for me than for anybodyelse?"

"Of course I would, sir, " said Mary Ann, earnestly, with a gratefullittle sigh. 

So Lancelot measured her wrist, feeling her pulse beat madly. She reallyhad a very little hand, though to his sensitive vision the roughness ofthe skin seemed to swell it to a size demanding a boxing glove. He boughther six pairs of tan kid, in a beautiful cardboard box. He could illafford the gift, and made one of his whimsical grimaces when he got thebill. The young lady who served him looked infinitely more genteel thanMary Ann. He wondered what she would think if she knew for whom he wasbuying these dainty articles. Perhaps her feelings would be so outragedshe would refuse to participate in the transaction. But the young ladywas happily unconscious; she had her best smile for the handsome, aristocratic young gentleman, and mentioned his moustache later to herbosom-friend in the next department. 

And thus Mary Ann and Lancelot became the joint owners of a secret, andcoplayers in a little comedy. When Mary Ann came into the room, she wouldput whatever she was carrying on a chair, gravely extract her gloves fromher pocket, and draw them on, Lancelot pretending not to know she was inthe room, though he had just said, "Come in. " After allowing her a minutehe would look up. In the course of a week this became mechanical, so thathe lost the semi-ludicrous sense of secrecy which he felt at first, aswell as the little pathetic emotion inspired by her absoluteunconsciousness that the performance was not intended for her owngratification. Nevertheless, though he could now endure to see Mary Annhandling the sugar tongs, he remained cold to her for some weeks. He hadkissed her again in the flush of her joy at the sight of the gloves, butafter that there was a reaction. He rarely went to the club now (therewas no one with whom he was in correspondence except music publishers, and they didn't reply), but he dropped in there once soon after the gloveepisode, looked over the papers in the smoking-room, and chatted with apopular composer and one or two men he knew. It was while the waiter washolding out the coffee-tray to him that Mary Ann flashed upon hisconsciousness. The thought of her seemed so incongruous with the sobermagnificence, the massive respectability that surrounded him, thecheerful, marble hearth reddened with leaping flame, the luxuriouslounges, the well-groomed old gentlemen smoking eighteenpenny cheroots, the suave, noiseless satellites, that Lancelot felt a sudden pang ofbewildered shame. Why, the very waiter who stood bent before him woulddisdain her. He took his coffee hastily, with a sense of personalunworthiness. This feeling soon evaporated, but it left less ofresentment against Mary Ann which made him inexplicable to her. Fortunately, her habit of acceptance saved her some tears, though sheshed others. And there remained always the gloves. When she was puttingthem on she always felt she was slipping her hands in his. 

And then there was yet a further consolation. 

For the gloves had also a subtle effect on Lancelot. They gave him asense of responsibility. Vaguely resentful as he felt against Mary Ann(in the intervals of his more definite resentment against publishers), he also felt that he could not stop at the gloves. He had startedrefining her, and he must go on till she was, so to speak, all gloves. Hemust cover up her coarse speech, as he had covered up her coarse hands. He owed that to the gloves; it was the least he could do for them. So, whenever Mary Ann made a mistake, Lancelot corrected her. He found thesegrammatical dialogues not uninteresting, and a vent for his ill-humouragainst publishers to boot. Very often his verbal corrections soundedastonishingly like reprimands. Here, again, Mary Ann was forearmed by herfeeling that she deserved them. She would have been proud had she knownhow much Mr. Lancelot was satisfied with her aspirates, which came quitenatural. She had only dropped her "h's" temporarily, as one drops countryfriends in coming to London. Curiously enough, Mary Ann did not regardthe new locutions and pronunciations as superseding the old. They were anew language; she knew two others, her mother-tongue and her missus'stongue. She would as little have thought of using her new linguisticacquirements in the kitchen as of wearing her gloves there. They were forLancelot's ears only, as her gloves were for his eyes. 

All this time Lancelot was displaying prodigious musical activity, somuch so that the cost of ruled paper became a consideration. There was noform of composition he did not essay, none by which he made a shilling. Once he felt himself the prey of a splendid inspiration, and sat up allnight writing at fever pitch, surrounded with celestial harmonies, audible to him alone; the little room resounded with the thunder of amighty orchestra, in which every instrument sang to him individually--thepiccolo, the flute, the oboes, the clarionets, filling the air with asilver spray of notes; the drums throbbing, the trumpets shrilling, thefour horns pealing with long stately notes, the trombones and bassoonsvibrating, the violins and violas sobbing in linked sweetness, the 'celloand the contra-bass moaning their under-chant. And then, in the morning, when the first rough sketch was written, the glory faded. He threw downhis pen, and called himself an ass for wasting his time on what nobodywould ever look at. Then he laid his head on the table, overwrought, fullof an infinite pity for himself. A sudden longing seized him for some oneto love him, to caress his hair, to smooth his hot forehead. This moodpassed too; he smoothed the slumbering Beethoven instead. After a whilehe went into his bedroom, and sluiced his face and hands in ice-coldwater, and rang the bell for breakfast. 

There was a knock at the door in response. 

"Come in!" he said gently--his emotions had left him tired to the pointof tenderness. And then he waited a minute while Mary Ann was drawing onher gloves. 

"Did you ring, sir?" said a wheezy voice, at last. Mrs. Leadbatter hadgot tired of waiting. 

Lancelot started violently--Mrs. Leadbatter had latterly left himentirely to Mary Ann. "It's my hastmer, " she had explained to himapologetically, meeting him casually in the passage. "I can't trollop upand down stairs as I used to when I fust took this house five-an'-twentyyear ago, and pore Mr. Leadbatter--" and here followed reminiscenceslong since in their hundredth edition. 

"Yes; let me have some coffee--very hot--please, " said Lancelot, lessgently. The woman's voice jarred upon him; and her features were notredeeming. 

"Lawd, sir, I 'ope that gas 'asn't been burnin' all night, sir, " shesaid, as she was going out. 

"It has, " he said shortly. 

"You'll hexcoose me, sir, but I didn't bargen for that. I'm only apore, honest, 'ard-workin' widder, and I noticed the last gas bill was'eavier then hever since that black winter that took pore Mr. Leadbatterto 'is grave. Fair is fair, and I shall 'ave to reckon it a hextry, withthe rate gone up sevenpence a thousand and my Rosie leavin' a finenurse-maid's place in Bayswater at the end of the month to come 'ome and'elp 'er mother, 'cos my hastmer--"

"Will you please shut the door after you?" interrupted Lancelot, bitinghis lip with irritation. And Mrs. Leadbatter, who was standing in theaperture with no immediate intention of departing, could find no reparteebeyond slamming the door as hard as she could. 

This little passage of arms strangely softened Lancelot to Mary Ann. Itmade him realise faintly what her life must be. 

"I should go mad and smash all the crockery!" he cried aloud. He feltquite tender again towards the uncomplaining girl. 

Presently there was another knock. Lancelot growled, half prepared torenew the battle, and to give Mrs. Leadbatter a piece of his mind on thesubject. But it was merely Mary Ann. 

Shaken in his routine, he looked on steadily while Mary Ann drew on hergloves; and this in turn confused Mary Ann. Her hand trembled. 

"Let me help you, " he said. 

And there was Lancelot buttoning Mary Ann's glove just as if her namewere Guinevere! And neither saw the absurdity of wasting time upon anoperation which would have to be undone in two minutes. Then Mary Ann, her eyes full of soft light, went to the sideboard and took out theprosaic elements of breakfast. 

When she returned, to put them back, Lancelot was astonished to see hercarrying a cage--a plain square cage, made of white tin wire. 

"What's that?" he gasped. 

"Please, Mr. Lancelot, I want to ask you to do me a favour. " She droppedher eyelashes timidly. 

"Yes, Mary Ann, " he said briskly. "But what have you got there?"

"It's only my canary, sir. Would you--please, sir, would you mind?"--thendesperately, "I want to hang it up here, sir!"

"Here?" he repeated in frank astonishment. "Why?"

"Please, sir, I--I--it's sunnier here, sir, and I--I think it must bepining away. It hardly ever sings in my bedroom. "

"Well, but, " he began--then seeing the tears gathering on her eyelids, hefinished with laughing good-nature--"as long as Mrs. Leadbatter doesn'treckon it an extra. "

"Oh, no, sir, " said Mary Ann, seriously. "I'll tell her. Besides, shewill be glad, because she don't like the canary--she says its singingdisturbs her. Her room is next to mine, you know, Mr. Lancelot. "

"But you said it doesn't sing much. "

"Please, sir, I--I mean in summer, " explained Mary Ann, in rosyconfusion; "and--and--it'll soon be summer, sir. "

"Sw--e-e-t!" burst forth the canary, suddenly, as if encouraged by MaryAnn's opinion. 

It was a pretty little bird--one golden yellow from beak to tail, asthough it had been dipped in sunshine. 

"You see, sir, " she cried eagerly, "it's beginning already. "

"Yes, " said Lancelot, grimly; "but so is Beethoven. "

"I'll hang it high up--in the window, " said Mary Ann, "where the dogcan't get at it. "

"Well, I won't take any responsibilities, " murmured Lancelot, resignedly. 

"No, sir, I'll attend to that, " said Mary Ann, vaguely. 

After the installation of the canary Lancelot found himself slipping moreand more into a continuous matter-of-course flirtation; more and moreforgetting the slavey in the candid young creature who had, at moments, strange dancing lights in her awakened eyes, strange flashes of witcheryin her ingenuous expression. And yet he made a desultory struggle againstwhat a secret voice was always whispering was a degradation. He knew shehad no real place in his life; he scarce thought of her save when shecame bodily before his eyes with her pretty face and her trustful glance. 

He felt no temptation to write sonatas on her eyebrow--to borrow Peter'svariation, for the use of musicians, of Shakespeare's "write sonnets onhis mistress's eyebrow"--and, indeed, he knew she could be no fitmistress for him--this starveling drudge, with passive passions, meek, accepting, with well-nigh every spark of spontaneity choked out of her. The women of his dreams were quite other--beautiful, voluptuous, full ofthe joy of life, tremulous with poetry and lofty thought, with darkamorous orbs that flashed responsive to his magic melodies. They hoveredabout him as he wrote and played--Venuses rising from the seas of hismusic. And then--with his eyes full of the divine tears of youth, withhis brain a hive of winged dreams--he would turn and kiss merely MaryAnn! Such is the pitiful breed of mortals. 

And after every such fall, he thought more contemptuously of MaryAnn. Idealise her as he might, see all that was best in her as hetried to, she remained common and commonplace enough. Her ingenuousness, while from one point of view it was charming, from another was but apleasant synonym for silliness. And it might not be ingenuousness--orsilliness--after all! For, was Mary Ann as innocent as she looked? Theguilelessness of the dove might very well cover the wisdom of theserpent. The instinct--the repugnance that made him sponge off her firstkiss from his lips--was probably a true instinct. How was it possible agirl of that class should escape the sordid attentions of street swains?Even when she was in the country she was well-nigh of wooable age, thelikely cynosure of neighbouring ploughboys' eyes. And what of the otherlodgers!

A finer instinct--that of a gentleman--kept him from putting anyquestions to Mary Ann. Indeed, his own delicacy repudiated the imagesthat strove to find entry in his brain, even as his fastidiousness shrankfrom realising the unlovely details of Mary Ann's daily duties--thesethings disgusted him more with himself than with her. And yet he foundhimself acquiring a new and illogical interest in the boots he metoutside doors. Early one morning he went halfway up the second flight ofstairs--a strange region where his own boots had never before trod--butcame down ashamed and with fluttering heart as if he had gone up to stealboots instead of to survey them. He might have asked Mary Ann or her"missus" who the other tenants were, but he shrank from the topic. Theirhours were not his, and he only once chanced on a fellow-man in thepassage, and then he was not sure it was not the tax-collector. Besides, he was not really interested--it was only a flicker of idle curiosity asto the actual psychology of Mary Ann. That he did not really care heproved to himself by kissing her next time. He accepted her as shewas--because she was there. She brightened his troubled life a little, and he was quite sure he brightened hers. So he drifted on, not worryinghimself to mean any definite harm to her. He had quite enough worry withthose music publishers. 

The financial outlook was, indeed, becoming terrifying. He was glad therewas nobody to question him, for he did not care to face the facts. Peter's threat of becoming a regular visitor had been nullified by hisfather despatching him to Germany to buy up some more Teutonic patents. "Wonderful are the ways of Providence!" he had written to Lancelot. "If Ihad not flown in the old man's face and picked up a little German hereyears ago, I should not be half so useful to him now. . . . I shall pay aflying visit to Leipsic--not on business. "

But at last Peter returned, Mrs. Leadbatter panting to the door to lethim in one afternoon without troubling to ask Lancelot if he was "athome. " He burst upon the musician, and found him in the mostundisguisable dumps. 

"Why didn't you answer my letter, you impolite old bear?" Peter asked, warding off Beethoven with his umbrella. 

"I was busy, " Lancelot replied pettishly. 

"Busy writing rubbish. Haven't you got 'Ops. ' enough? I bet you haven'thad anything published yet. "

"I am working at a grand opera, " he said in dry, mechanical tones. "Ihave hopes of getting it put on. Gasco, the _impresario_, is a member ofmy club, and he thinks of running a season in the autumn. I had a talkwith him yesterday. "

"I hope I shall live to see it, " said Peter, sceptically. 

"I hope you will, " said Lancelot, sharply. 

"None of my family ever lived beyond ninety, " said Peter, shaking hishead dolefully; "and then, my heart is not so good as it might be. "

"It certainly isn't!" cried poor Lancelot. "But everybody hits a chapwhen he's down. "

He turned his head away, striving to swallow the lump that would rise tohis throat. He had a sense of infinite wretchedness and loneliness. 

"Oh, poor old chap; is it so bad as all that?" Peter's somewhat stridentvoice had grown tender as a woman's. He laid his hand affectionately onLancelot's tumbled hair. "You know I believe in you with all my soul. Inever doubted your genius for a moment. Don't I know too well that's whatkeeps you back? Come, come, old fellow. Can't I persuade you to writerot? One must keep the pot boiling, you know. You turn out a dozenpopular ballads, and the coin'll follow your music as the rats did thepied piper's. Then, if you have any ambition left, you kick away theladder by which you mounted, and stand on the heights of art. "

"Never!" cried Lancelot. "It would degrade me in my own eyes. I'd ratherstarve; and you can't shake them off--the first impression is everything;they would always be remembered against me, " he added after a pause. 

"Motives mixed, " reflected Peter. "That's a good sign. " Aloud he said, "Well, you think it over. This is a practical world, old man; it wasn'tmade for dreamers. And one of the first dreams that you've got to wakefrom is the dream that anybody connected with the stage can be relied onfrom one day to the next. They gas for the sake of gassing, or they tellyou pleasant lies out of mere goodwill, just as they call for yourdrinks. Their promises are beautiful bubbles, on a basis of soft soap, and made to 'bust. '"

"You grow quite eloquent, " said Lancelot, with a wan smile. 

"Eloquent! There's more in me than you've yet found out. Now then! Giveus your hand that you'll chuck art, and we'll drink to your popularballad--hundredth thousand edition, no drawing-room should be withoutit. "

Lancelot flushed. "I was just going to have some tea. I think it's fiveo'clock, " he murmured. 

"The very thing I'm dying for, " cried Peter, energetically; "I'm asparched as a pea. " Inwardly he was shocked to find the stream of whiskyrun dry. 

So Lancelot rang the bell, and Mary Ann came up with the tea-tray in thetwilight. 

"We'll have a light, " cried Peter, and struck one of his own with ashadowy underthought of saving Mary Ann from a possible scolding, in caseLancelot's matches should be again unapparent. Then he uttered a comicexclamation of astonishment. Mary Ann was putting on a pair of gloves! Inhis surprise he dropped the match. 

Mary Ann was equally startled by the unexpected sight of a stranger, butwhen he struck his second match her hands were bare and red. 

"What in Heaven's name were you putting on gloves for, my girl?" saidPeter, amused. 

Lancelot stared fixedly at the fire, trying to keep the blood fromflooding his cheeks. He wondered that the ridiculousness of the wholething had never struck him in its full force before. Was it possiblehe could have made such an ass of himself?

"Please, sir, I've got to go out, and I'm in a hurry, " said Mary Ann. 

Lancelot felt intense relief. An instant after his brow wrinkled itself. "Oho!" he thought. "So this is Miss Simpleton, is it?"

"Then why did you take them off again?" retorted Peter. 

Mary Ann's repartee was to burst into tears and leave the room. 

"Now I've offended her, " said Peter. "Did you see how she tossed herpretty head?"

"Ingenious minx, " thought Lancelot. 

"She's left the tray on a chair by the, door, " went on Peter. "What anodd girl! Does she always carry on like this?"

"She's got such a lot to do. I suppose she sometimes gets a bit queer inher head, " said Lancelot, conceiving he was somehow safeguarding MaryAnn's honour by the explanation. 

"I don't think that, " answered Peter. "She did seem dull and stupid whenI was here last. But I had a good stare at her just now, and she seemsrather bright. Why, her accent is quite refined--she must have picked itup from you. "

"Nonsense, nonsense, " exclaimed Lancelot, testily. 

The little danger--or rather the great danger of being made to appearridiculous--which he had just passed through, contributed to rouse himfrom his torpor. He exerted himself to turn the conversation, and wasquite lively over tea. 

"Sw--eet! Sw--w--w--w--eet!" suddenly broke into the conversation. 

"More mysteries!" cried Peter. "What's that?"

"Only a canary. "

"What, another musical instrument! Isn't Beethoven jealous? I wonder hedoesn't consume his rival in his wrath. But I never knew you likedbirds. "

"I don't particularly. It isn't mine. "

"Whose is it?"

Lancelot answered briskly: "Mary Ann's. She asked to be allowed to keepit here. It seems it won't sing in her attic; it pines away. "

"And do you believe that?"

"Why not? It doesn't sing much even here. "

"Let me look at it--ah, it's a plain Norwich yellow. If you wanted asinging canary you should have come to me; I'd have given you one 'madein Germany'--one of our patents--they train them to sing tunes and thatputs up the price. "

"Thank you, but this one disturbs me sufficiently. "

"Then why do you put up with it?"

"Why do I put up with that Christmas number supplement over themantel-piece? It's part of the furniture. I was asked to let it be hereand I couldn't be rude. "

"No, it's not in your nature. What a bore it must be to feed it! Let mesee, I suppose you give it canary seed biscuits--I hope you don't giveit butter. "

"Don't be an ass!" roared Lancelot. "You don't imagine I bother my headwhether it eats butter or--or marmalade. "

"Who feeds it then?"

"Mary Ann, of course. "

"She comes in and feeds it?"

"Certainly. "

"Several times a day?"

"I suppose so. "

"Lancelot, " said Peter, solemnly. "Mary Ann's mashed on you. "

Lancelot shrank before Peter's remark as a burglar from a policeman'sbull's-eye. The bull's-eye seemed to cast a new light on Mary Ann, too, but he felt too unpleasantly dazzled to consider that for the moment; hiswhole thought was to get out of the line of light. 

"Nonsense!" he answered; "why, I'm hardly ever in when she feeds it, andI believe it eats all day long--gets supplied in the morning like acoal-scuttle. Besides, she comes in to dust and all that when shepleases. And I do wish you wouldn't use that word 'mashed. ' I loathe it. "

Indeed, he writhed under the thought of being coupled with Mary Ann. Thething sounded so ugly--so squalid. In the actual, it was not sounpleasant, but looked at from the outside--unsympathetically--itwas hopelessly vulgar, incurably plebeian. He shuddered. 

"I don't know, " said Peter. "It's a very expressive word, is 'mashed. 'But I will make allowance for your poetical feelings and give up theword--except in its literal sense, of course. I'm sure you wouldn'tobject to mashing a music publisher!"

Lancelot laughed with false heartiness. "Oh, but if I'm to write thosepopular ballads, you say he'll become my best friend. "

"Of course he will, " cried Peter, eagerly sniffing at the red herringLancelot had thrown across the track. "You stand out for a royalty onevery copy, so that if you strike ile--oh, I beg your pardon, that'sanother of the phrases you object to, isn't it?"

"Don't be a fool, " said Lancelot, laughing on. "You know I only object tothat in connection with English peers marrying the daughters of men whohave done it. "

"Oh, is that it? I wish you'd publish an expurgated dictionary with mostof the words left out, and exact definitions of the conditions underwhich one may use the remainder. But I've got on a siding. What was Italking about?"

"Royalty, " muttered Lancelot, languidly. 

"Royalty? No. You mentioned the aristocracy, I think. " Then he burst intoa hearty laugh. "Oh, yes--on that ballad. Now, look here! I've broughta ballad with me, just to show you--a thing that is going like wildfire. "

"Not _Good-night and Good-by_, I hope, " laughed Lancelot. 

"Yes--the very one!" cried Peter, astonished. 

"_Himmel!_" groaned Lancelot, in comic despair. 

"You know it already?" inquired Peter, eagerly. 

"No; only I can't open a paper without seeing the advertisement and thesickly sentimental refrain. "

"You see how famous it is, anyway, " said Peter. "And if you want tostrike--er--to make a hit you'll just take that song and do a deliberateimitation of it. "

"Wha-a-a-t!" gasped Lancelot. 

"My dear chap, they all do it. When the public cotton to a thing, theycan't have enough of it. "

"But I can write my own rot, surely. "

"In the face of all this litter of 'Ops. ' I daren't dispute that for amoment. But it isn't enough to write rot--the public want a particularkind of rot. Now just play that over--oblige me. " He laid both hands onLancelot's shoulders in amicable appeal. 

Lancelot shrugged them, but seated himself at the piano, played theintroductory chords, and commenced singing the words in his pleasantbaritone. 

Suddenly Beethoven ran towards the door, howling. 

Lancelot ceased playing and looked approvingly at the animal. 

"By Jove! he wants to go out. What an ear for music that animal's got. "

Peter smiled grimly. "It's long enough. I suppose that's why you call himBeethoven. "

"Not at all. Beethoven had no ear--at least not in his latest period--hewas deaf. Lucky devil! That is, if this sort of thing was brought roundon barrel-organs. "

"Never mind, old man! Finish the thing. "

"But consider Beethoven's feelings!"

"Hang Beethoven!"

"Poor Beethoven. Come here, my poor maligned musical critic! Would theygive you a bad name and hang you? Now you must be very quiet. Put yourpaws into those lovely long ears of yours, if it gets too horrible. Youhave been used to high-class music, I know, but this is the sort of thingthat England expects every man to do, so the sooner you get used to it, the better. " He ran his fingers along the keys. "There, Peter, he'sgrowling already. I'm sure he'll start again, the moment I strike thetheme. "

"Let him! We'll take it as a spaniel obligato. "

"Oh, but his accompaniments are too staccato. He has no sense of time. "

"Why don't you teach him, then, to wag his tail like the pendulum of ametronome? He'd be more use to you that way than setting up to be amusician, which Nature never meant him for--his hair's not long enough. But go ahead, old man, Beethoven's behaving himself now. "

Indeed, as if he were satisfied with his protest, the little beastremained quiet, while his lord and master went through the piece. He didnot even interrupt at the refrain:--

 "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night. "

"I must say it's not so awful as I expected, " said Lancelot, candidly;"it's not at all bad--for a waltz. "

"There, you see!" cried Peter, eagerly; "the public are not such foolsafter all. "

"Still, the words are the most maudlin twaddle!" said Lancelot, as if hefound some consolation in the fact. 

"Yes, but I didn't write _them_!" replied Peter, quickly. Then he grewred and laughed an embarrassed laugh. "I didn't mean to tell you, oldman. But there--the cat's out. That's what took me to Brahmson's thatafternoon we met! And I harmonised it myself, mind you, every crotchet. Ipicked up enough at the Conservatoire for that. You know lots of fellowsonly do the tune--they give out all the other work. "

"So you are the great Keeley Lesterre, eh?" said Lancelot, in amusedastonishment. 

"Yes; I have to do it under another name. I don't want to grieve the oldman. You see, I promised him to reform, when he took me back to hisheart and business. "

"Is that strictly honourable, Peter?" said Lancelot, shaking his head. 

"Oh, well! I couldn't give it up altogether, but I do practically stickto the contract--it's all overtime, you know. It doesn't interfere a bitwith business. Besides, as you'd say, it isn't music, " he said slyly. "And just because I don't want it I make a heap of coin out of it--that'swhy I'm so vexed at your keeping me still in your debt. "

Lancelot frowned. "Then you had no difficulty in getting published?" heasked. 

"I don't say that. It was bribery and corruption so far as my first songwas concerned. I tipped a professional to go down and tell Brahmson hewas going to take it up. You know, of course, well-known singers gethalf-a-guinea from the publisher every time they sing a song. "

"No; do they?" said Lancelot. "How mean of them!"

"Business, my boy. It pays the publisher to give it them. Look at theadvertisement!"

"But suppose a really fine song was published, and the publisher refusedto pay this blood-money?"

"Then I suppose they'd sing some other song, and let that moulder on thefoolish publisher's shelves. "

"Great Heavens!" said Lancelot, jumping up from the piano in wildexcitement. "Then a musician's reputation is really at the mercy of amercenary crew of singers, who respect neither art nor themselves. Oh, yes, we are indeed a musical people!"

"Easy there! Several of 'em are pals of mine, and I'll get them to takeup those ballads of yours as soon as you write 'em. "

"Let them go to the devil with their ballads!" roared Lancelot, and witha sweep of his arm whirled _Good-night_ and _Good-by_ into the air. Peterpicked it up and wrote something on it with a stylographic pen which heproduced from his waistcoat pocket. 

"There!" he said, "that'll make you remember it's your own property--andmine--that you are treating so disrespectfully. "

"I beg your pardon, old chap, " said Lancelot, rebuked and remorseful. 

"Don't mention it, " replied Peter. "And whenever you decide to becomerich and famous--there's your model. "

"Never! Never! Never!" cried Lancelot, when Peter went at ten. "My poorBeethoven! What you must have suffered! Never mind, I'll play you yourmoonlight sonata. "

He touched the keys gently and his sorrows and his temptations faded fromhim. He glided into Bach, and then into Chopin and Mendelssohn, and atlast drifted into dreamy improvisation, his fingers moving almost ofthemselves, his eyes half closed, seeing only inward visions. 

And then, all at once, he awoke with a start, for Beethoven was barkingtowards the door, with pricked-up ears and rigid tail. 

"Sh! You little beggar, " he murmured, becoming conscious that the hourwas late, and that he himself had been noisy at unbeseeming hours. "What's the matter with you?" And, with a sudden thought, he threw openthe door. 

It was merely Mary Ann. 

Her face--flashed so unexpectedly upon him--had the piquancy of a vision, but its expression was one of confusion and guilt; there were tears onher cheeks; in her hand was a bedroom candle-stick. 

She turned quickly, and began to mount the stairs. Lancelot put his handon her shoulder, and turned her face towards him and said in an imperiouswhisper:--

"Now then, what's up? What are you crying about?"

"I ain't--I mean I'm _not_ crying, " said Mary Ann, with a sob in herbreath. 

"Come, come, don't fib. What's the matter?"

"I'm not crying, it's only the music, " she murmured. 

"The music, " he echoed, bewildered. 

"Yessir. The music always makes me cry--but you can't call it crying--itfeels so nice. "

"Oh, then you've been listening!"

"Yessir. " Her eyes drooped in humiliation. 

"But you ought to have been in bed, " he said. "You get little enoughsleep as it is. "

"It's better than sleep, " she answered. 

The simple phrase vibrated through him, like a beautiful minor chord. Hesmoothed her hair tenderly. 

"Poor child!" he said. 

There was an instant's silence. It was past midnight, and the house waspainfully still. They stood upon the dusky landing, across which a bar oflight streamed from his half-open door, and only Beethoven's eyes wereupon them. But Lancelot felt no impulse to fondle her, only just to layhis hand on her hair, as in benediction and pity. 

"So you liked what I was playing, " he said, not without a pang ofpersonal pleasure. 

"Yessir; I never heard you play that before. "

"So you often listen!"

"I can hear you, even in the kitchen. Oh, it's just lovely! I don't carewhat I have to do then, if it's grates or plates or steps. The music goesand goes, and I feel back in the country again, and standing, as I usedto love to stand of an evening, by the stile, under the big elm, andwatch how the sunset did redden the white birches, and fade in the water. Oh, it was so nice in the springtime, with the hawthorn that grew on theother bank, and the bluebells--"

The pretty face was full of dreamy tenderness, the eyes lit upwitchingly. She pulled herself up suddenly, and stole a shy glance ather auditor. 

"Yes, yes, go on, " he said; "tell me all you feel about the music. "

"And there's one song you sometimes play that makes me feel floating onand on like a great white swan. "

She hummed a few bars of the _Gondel-Lied_--flawlessly. 

"Dear me! you have an ear!" he said, pinching it. "And how did you likewhat I was playing just now?" he went on, growing curious to know how hisown improvisations struck her. 

"Oh, I liked it so much, " she whispered back, enthusiastically;"because it reminded me of my favourite one--every moment I did think--Ithought--you were going to come into that. "

The whimsical sparkle leapt into his eyes. "And I thought I was sooriginal, " he murmured. 

"But what I liked best, " she began, then checked herself, as if suddenlyremembering she had never made a spontaneous remark before, and lackingcourage to establish a precedent. 

"Yes--what you liked best?" he said encouragingly. 

"That song you sang this afternoon, " she said shyly. 

"What song? I sang no song, " he said, puzzled for a moment. 

"Oh, yes! That one about--

 "'Kiss me, dear love, good-night. '

"I was going upstairs but it made me stop just here--and cry. "

He made his comic grimace. 

"So it was you Beethoven was barking at! And I thought he had an ear! AndI thought you had an ear! But no! You're both Philistines after all. Heigho!"

She looked sad. "Oughtn't I to ha' liked it?" she asked anxiously. 

"Oh, yes, " he said reassuringly; "it's very popular. No drawing-room iswithout it. "

She detected the ironic ring in his voice. "It wasn't so much the music, "she began apologetically. 

"Now--now you're going to spoil yourself, " he said. "Be natural. "

"But it wasn't, " she protested. "It was the words--"

"That's worse, " he murmured below his breath. 

"They reminded me of my mother as she laid dying. "

"Ah!" said Lancelot. 

"Yes, sir, mother was a long time dying--it was when I was a little girland I used to nurse her--I fancy it was our little Sally's death thatkilled her, she took to her bed after the funeral and never left it tillshe went to her own, " said Mary Ann, with unconscious flippancy. "Sheused to look up to the ceiling and say that she was going to littleSallie, and I remember I was such a silly then, I brought mother flowersand apples and bits of cake to take to Sally with my love. I put them onher pillow, but the flowers faded and the cake got mouldy--mother wassuch a long time dying--and at last I ate the apples myself, I was sotired of waiting. Wasn't I silly?" And Mary Ann laughed a little laughwith tears in it. Then growing grave again, she added: "And at last, whenmother was really on the point of death, she forgot all about littleSally and said she was going to meet Tom. And I remember thinking she wasgoing to America--I didn't know people talk nonsense before they die. "

"They do--a great deal of it, unfortunately, " said Lancelot, lightly, trying to disguise from himself that his eyes were moist. He seemed torealise now what she was--a child; a child who, simpler than mostchildren to start with, had grown only in body, whose soul had beenstunted by uncounted years of dull and monotonous drudgery. The bloodburnt in his veins as he thought of the cruelty of circumstance and theheartless honesty of her mistress. He made up his mind for the secondtime to give Mrs. Leadbatter a piece of his mind in the morning. 

"Well, go to bed now, my poor child, " he said, "or you'll get no rest atall. "

"Yessir. "

She went obediently up a couple of stairs, then turned her headappealingly towards him. The tears still glimmered on her eyelashes. Foran instant he thought she was expecting her kiss, but she only wanted toexplain anxiously once again, "That was why I liked that song, 'Kiss me, good-night, dear love. ' It was what my mother--"

"Yes, yes, I understand, " he broke in, half amused, though somehow thewords did not seem so full of maudlin pathos to him now. "And there--" hedrew her head towards him--"Kiss _me_, good-night--"

He did not complete the quotation; indeed, her lips were already drawntoo close to his. But, ere he released her, the long-repressed thoughthad found expression. 

"You don't kiss anybody but me?" he said half playfully. 

"Oh, no, sir, " said Mary Ann, earnestly. 

"What!" more lightly still. "Haven't you got half a dozen young men?"

Mary Ann shook her head, more regretfully than resentfully. "I told you Inever go out--except for little errands. "

She had told him, but his attention had been so concentrated on theungrammatical form in which she had conveyed the information, that thefact itself had made no impression. Now his anger against Mrs. Leadbatterdwindled. After all, she was wise in not giving Mary Ann the run of theLondon streets. 

"But"--he hesitated. "How about the--the milkman--and the--the othergentlemen?"

"Please, sir, " said Mary Ann, "I don't like them. "

After that no man could help expressing his sense of her good taste. 

"Then you won't kiss anybody but me, " he said, as he let her go for thelast time. He had a Quixotic sub-consciousness that he was saving herfrom his kind by making her promise formally. 

"How could I, Mr. Lancelot?" And the brimming eyes shone with soft light. "I never shall--never. "

It sounded like a troth. 

He went back to the room and shut the door, but could not shut out herimage. The picture she had unwittingly supplied of herself tookpossession of his imagination: he saw her almost as a dream-figure--thevirginal figure he knew--standing by the stream in the sunset, amid theelms and silver birches, with daisies in her hands and bluebells at herfeet, inhaling the delicate scent that wafted from the white hawthornbushes, and watching the water glide along till it seemed gradually towash away the fading colours of the sunset that glorified it. And as hedwelt on the vision he felt harmonies and phrases stirring and singing inhis brain, like a choir of awakened birds. Quickly he seized paper andwrote down the theme that flowed out at the point of his pen--a reveriefull of the haunting magic of quiet waters and woodland sunsets and thegracious innocence of maidenhood. When it was done he felt he must giveit a distinctive name. He cast about for one, pondering and rejectingtitles innumerable. Countless lines of poetry ran through his head, fromwhich he sought to pick a word or two as one plucks a violet from a posy. At last a half-tender, half-whimsical look came into his face, andpicking his pen out of his hair, he wrote merely--"Marianne. "

It was only natural that Mary Ann should be unable to maintainherself--or be maintained--at this idyllic level. But her fall wasaggravated by two circumstances, neither of which had any particularbusiness to occur. The first was an intimation from the misogamist GermanProfessor that he had persuaded another of his old pupils to include aprize-symphony by Lancelot in the programme of a Crystal Palace Concert. This was of itself sufficient to turn Lancelot's head away from all butthoughts of Fame, even if Mary Ann had not been luckless enough to beagain discovered cleaning the steps--and without gloves. Against such aspectacle the veriest idealist is powerless. If Mary Ann did notimmediately revert to the category of quadrupeds in which she hadstarted, it was only because of Lancelot's supplementary knowledge of thecreature. But as he passed her by, solicitous as before not to tread uponher, he felt as if all the cold water in her pail were pouring down theback of his neck. 

Nevertheless, the effect of both of these turns of fortune was transient. The symphony was duly performed, and dismissed in the papers aspromising, if over-ambitious; the only tangible result was a suggestionfrom the popular composer, who was a member of his club, that Lancelotshould collaborate with him in a comic opera, for the production of whichhe had facilities. The composer confessed he had a fluent gift of tune, but had no liking for the drudgery of orchestration, and, as Lancelot waswell up in these tedious technicalities, the two might strike apartnership to mutual advantage. 

Lancelot felt insulted, but retained enough mastery of himself to replythat he would think it over. As he gave no signs of life or thought, thepopular composer then wrote to him at length on the subject, offering himfifty pounds for the job, half of it on account. Lancelot was in sorestraits when he got the letter, for his stock of money was dwindling tovanishing point, and he dallied with the temptation sufficiently to takethe letter home with him. But his spirit was not yet broken, and theletter, crumpled like a rag, was picked up by Mary Ann and straightenedout, and carefully placed upon the mantel-shelf. 

Time did something of a similar service for Mary Ann herself, pickingher up from the crumpled attitude in which Lancelot had detected her onthe doorstep, straightening her out again, and replacing her upon hersemi-poetic pedestal. But, as with the cream-laid note-paper, thewrinklings could not be effaced entirely; which was more serious for MaryAnn. 

Not that Mary Ann was conscious of these diverse humours in Lancelot. Unconscious of changes in herself she could not conceive herself relatedto his variations of mood; still less did she realise the inwardstruggle, of which she was the cause. She was vaguely aware that he hadexternal worries, for all his grandeur, and if he was by turns brusque, affectionate, indifferent, playful, brutal, charming, callous, demonstrative, she no more connected herself with these vicissitudes thanwith the caprices of the weather. If her sun smiled once a day it wasenough. How should she know that his indifference was often a victoryover himself, as his amativeness was a defeat?

If any excuse could be found for Lancelot, it would be that which headministered to his conscience morning and evening like a soothing syrup. His position was grown so desperate that Mary Ann almost stood betweenhim and suicide. Continued disappointment made his soul sick; his proudheart fed on itself. He would bite his lips till the blood came, vowingnever to give in. And not only would he not move an inch from his ideal, he would rather die than gratify Peter by falling back on him; he wouldnever even accept that cheque which was virtually his own. 

It was wonderful how, in his stoniest moments, the sight of Mary Ann'scandid face, eloquent with dumb devotion, softened and melted him. Hewould take her gloved hand and press it silently. And Mary Ann never knewone iota of his inmost thought! He could not bring himself to that;indeed, she never for a moment appeared to him in the light of anintelligent being; at her best she was a sweet, simple, loving child. Andhe scarce spoke to her at all now--theirs was a silent communion--he hadno heart to converse with her as he had done. The piano too was almostsilent; the canary sang less and less, though spring was coming, andglints of sunshine stole between the wires of its cage; even Beethovensometimes failed to bark when there was a knock at the street door. 

And at last there came a day when--for the first time in hislife--Lancelot inspected his wardrobe, and hunted together his odds andends of jewelry. From this significant task he was aroused by hearingMrs. Leadbatter coughing in his sitting-room. 

He went in with an interrogative look. 

"Oh, my chest!" said Mrs. Leadbatter, patting it. "It's no use my denyin'of it, sir, I'm done up. It's as much as I can do to crawl up to the topto bed. I'm thinkin' I shall have to make up a bed in the kitchen. Itonly shows 'ow right I was to send for my Rosie, though quite the lady, and where will you find a nattier nursemaid in all Bayswater?"

"Nowhere, " assented Lancelot, automatically. 

"Oh, I didn't know you'd noticed her running in to see 'er pore oldmother of a Sunday arternoon, " said Mrs. Leadbatter, highly gratified. "Well, sir, I won't say anything about the hextry gas, though a poorwidder and sevenpence hextry on the thousand, but I'm thinkin' if youwould give my Rosie a lesson once a week on that there pianner, it wouldbe a kind of set-off, for you know, sir, the policeman tells me yourwinder is a landmark to 'im on the foggiest nights. "

Lancelot flushed, then wrinkled his brows. This was a new ideaaltogether. Mrs. Leadbatter stood waiting for his reply, with adeferential smile tempered by asthmatic contortions. 

"But have you got a piano of your own?"

"Oh, no, sir, " cried Mrs. Leadbatter, almost reproachfully. 

"Well; but how is your Rosie to practise? One lesson a week is of verylittle use anyway, but unless she practises a good deal it'll only be awaste of time. "

"Ah, you don't know my Rosie, " said Mrs. Leadbatter, shaking her headwith sceptical pride. "You mustn't judge by other gels--the way that gelpicks up things is--well, I'll just tell you what 'er school-teacher, Miss Whiteman said. She says--"

"My good lady, " interrupted Lancelot, "I practised six hours a daymyself. "

"Yes, but it don't come so natural to a man, " said Mrs. Leadbatter, unshaken. "And it don't look natural neither to see a man playin' thepianner--it's like seein' him knittin'. "

But Lancelot was knitting his brows in a way that was exceedinglynatural. "I may as well tell you at once that what you propose isimpossible. First of all, because I am doubtful whether I shall remainin these rooms; and secondly, because I am giving up the pianoimmediately. I only have it on hire, and I--I--" He felt himselfblushing. 

"Oh, what a pity!" interrupted Mrs. Leadbatter. "You might as well let mego on payin' the hinstalments, instead of lettin' all you've paid go fornothing. Rosie ain't got much time, but I could allow 'er a 'our a day ifit was my own pianner. "

Lancelot explained "hire" did not mean the "hire system. " But the idea ofacquiring the piano, having once fired Mrs. Leadbatter's brain, could notbe extinguished. The unexpected conclusion arrived at was that she was topurchase the piano on the hire system, allowing it to stand in Lancelot'sroom, and that five shillings a week should be taken off his rent inreturn for six lessons of an hour each, one of the hours counterbalancingthe gas grievance. Reviewing the bargain, when Mrs. Leadbatter was gone, Lancelot did not think it at all bad for him. 

"Use of the piano. Gas, " he murmured, with a pathetic smile, recallingthe advertisements he had read before lighting on Mrs. Leadbatter's. "Andfive shillings a week--it's a considerable relief! There's no loss ofdignity either--for nobody will know. But I wonder what the governorwould have said!"

The thought shook him with silent laughter; a spectator might havefancied he was sobbing. 

But, after the lessons began, it might almost be said it was only when aspectator was present that he was not sobbing. For Rosie, who was anawkward, ungraceful young person, proved to be the dullest and mostbutter-fingered pupil ever invented for the torture of teachers; atleast, so Lancelot thought, but then he had never had any other pupils, and was not patient. It must be admitted, though, that Rosie giggledperpetually, apparently finding endless humour in her own mistakes. Butthe climax of the horror was the attendance of Mrs. Leadbatter at thelessons, for, to Lancelot's consternation, she took it for granted thather presence was part of the contract. She marched into the room in herbest cap, and sat, smiling, in the easy chair, wheezing complacently andbeating time with her foot. Occasionally she would supplement Lancelot'scritical observations. 

"It ain't as I fears to trust 'er with you, sir, " she also remarked aboutthree times a week, "for I knows, sir, you're a gentleman. But it's theneighbours; they never can mind their own business. I told 'em you wasgoing to give my Rosie lessons, and you know, sir, that they _will_ talkof what don't concern 'em. And, after all, sir, it's an hour, and anhour is sixty minutes, ain't it, sir?"

And Lancelot, groaning inwardly, and unable to deny this chronometry, felt that an ironic Providence was punishing him for his attentions toMary Ann. 

And yet he only felt more tenderly towards Mary Ann. Contrasted withthese two vulgar females, whom he came to conceive as her oppressors, sitting in gauds and finery, and taking lessons which had better befittedtheir Cinderella--the figure of Mary Ann definitely reassumed some of itsantediluvian poetry, if we may apply the adjective to that catastrophicwashing of the steps. And Mary Ann herself had grown gloomier--once ortwice he thought she had been crying, though he was too numbed andapathetic to ask, and was incapable of suspecting that Rosie had anythingto do with her tears. He hardly noticed that Rosie had taken to feedingthe canary; the question of how he should feed himself was becoming everyday more and more menacing. He saw starvation slowly closing in upon himlike the walls of a torture-chamber. He had grown quite familiar with thepawn-shop now, though he still slipped in as though his goods werestolen. 

And at last there came a moment when Lancelot felt he could bear it nolonger. And then he suddenly saw daylight. Why should he teach onlyRosie? Nay, why should he teach Rosie at all? If he _was_ reduced togiving lessons--and after all it was no degradation to do so, noabandonment of his artistic ideal, rather a solution of the difficulty sosimple that he wondered it had not occurred to him before--why should hegive them at so wretched a price? He would get another pupil, otherpupils, who would enable him to dispense with the few shillings he madeby Rosie. He would not ask anybody to recommend him pupils--there was noneed for his acquaintances to know, and if he asked Peter, Peter wouldprobably play him some philanthropic trick. No, he would advertise. 

After he had spent his last gold breast-pin in advertisements, herealised that to get pianoforte pupils in London was as easy as to getsongs published. By the time he quite realised it, it was May, and thenhe sat down to realise his future. 

The future was sublimely simple--as simple as his wardrobe had grown. All his clothes were on his back. In a week or two he would be on thestreets; for a poor widow could not be expected to lodge, partially board(with use of the piano, gas), an absolutely penniless young gentleman, though he combined the blood of twenty county families with the genius ofa pleiad of tone poets. 

There was only one bright spot in the prospect. Rosie's lessons wouldcome to an end. 

What he would do when he got on the streets was not so clear as therest of this prophetic vision. He might take to a barrel-organ--but thatwould be a cruel waste of his artistic touch. Perhaps he would die on adoorstep, like the professor of many languages, whose starvation wasrecorded in that very morning's paper. 

Thus, driven by the saturnine necessity that sneers at our punyresolutions, Lancelot began to meditate surrender. For surrender of somesort must be--either of life or ideal. After so steadfast and protracteda struggle--oh, it was cruel, it was terrible; how noble, how high-mindedhe had been; and this was how the fates dealt with him--but at thatmoment--

"Sw--eet, " went the canary, and filled the room with its rapturousdemi-semi-quavers, its throat swelling, its little body throbbing withjoy of the sunshine. And then Lancelot remembered--not the joy of thesunshine, not the joy of life--no, merely Mary Ann. 

Noble! high-minded! No, let Peter think that, let posterity think that. But he could not cozen himself thus! He had fallen--horribly, vulgarly. How absurd of him to set himself up as a saint, a martyr, an idealist! Hecould not divide himself into two compartments like that and pretend thatonly one counted in his character. Who was he to talk of dying for art?No, he was but an everyday man. He wanted Mary Ann--yes, he might as welladmit that to himself now. It was no use humbugging himself any longer. Why should he give her up? She was his discovery, his treasure-trove, his property. 

And if he could stoop to her, why should he not stoop to popular work, todevilling, to anything that would rid him of these sordid cares? Bah!away with all pretences!

Was not this shamefaced pawning as vulgar, as wounding to the artist'ssoul as the turning out of tawdry melodies?

Yes, he would escape from Mrs. Leadbatter and her Rosie; he would writeto that popular composer--he had noticed his letter lying on themantel-piece the other day--and accept the fifty pounds, and whatever hedid he could do anonymously, so that Peter wouldn't know, after all; hewould escape from this wretched den and take a flat far away, somewherewhere nobody knew him, and there he would sit and work, with Mary Ann forhis housekeeper. Poor Mary Ann! How glad she would be when he told her!The tears came into his eyes as he thought of her naïve delight. He wouldrescue her from this horrid, monotonous slavery, and--happy thought--hewould have her to give lessons to instead of Rosie. 

Yes, he would refine her; prune away all that reminded him of her wildgrowth, so that it might no longer humiliate him to think to what acompanion he had sunk. How happy they would be! Of course the world wouldcensure him if it knew, but the world was stupid and prosaic, andmeasured all things by its coarse rule of thumb. It was the best thingthat could happen to Mary Ann--the best thing in the world. And then theworld _wouldn't_ know. 

"Sw--eet, " went the canary. "Sw--eet. "

This time the joy of the bird penetrated to his own soul--the joy oflife, the joy of the sunshine. He rang the bell violently, as though hewere sounding a clarion of defiance, the trumpet of youth. 

Mary Ann knocked at the door, came in, and began to draw on her gloves. 

He was in a mad mood--the incongruity struck him so that he burst into aroar of laughter. 

Mary Ann paused, flushed, and bit her lip. The touch of resentment he hadnever noted before gave her a novel charm, spicing her simplicity. 

He came over to her and took her half-bare hands. No, they were not soterrible, after all. Perhaps she had awakened to her iniquities, and hadbeen trying to wash them white. His last hesitation as to her worthinessto live with him vanished. 

"Mary Ann, " he said, "I'm going to leave these rooms. "

The flush deepened, but the anger faded. She was a child again--her bigeyes full of tears. He felt her hands tremble in his. 

"Mary Ann, " he went on, "how would you like me to take you with me?"

"Do you mean it, sir?" she asked eagerly. 

"Yes, dear. " It was the first time he had used the word. The bloodthrobbed madly in her ears. "If you will come with me--and be mylittle housekeeper--we will go away to some nice spot, and be quitealone together--in the country if you like, amid the foxglove andthe meadowsweet, or by the green waters, where you shall stand in thesunset and dream; and I will teach you music and the piano"--her eyesdilated--"and you shall not do any of this wretched nasty work any more. What do you say?"

"Sw--eet, sw--eet, " said the canary, in thrilling jubilation. 

Her happiness was choking her--she could not speak. 

"And we will take the canary, too--unless I say good-by to you as well. "

"Oh, no, you mustn't leave us here!"

"And then, " he said slowly, "it will not be good-by--nor good-night. Doyou understand?"

"Yes, yes, " she breathed, and her face shone. 

"But think, think, Mary Ann, " he said, a sudden pang of compunctionshooting through his breast. He released her hands. "_Do_ youunderstand?"

"I understand--I shall be with you, always. "

He replied uneasily, "I shall look after you--always. "

"Yes, yes, " she breathed. Her bosom heaved. "Always. "

Then his very first impression of her as "a sort of white Topsy" recurredto him suddenly and flashed into speech. 

"Mary Ann, I don't believe you know how you came into the world. I daresay you 'specs you growed. "

"No, sir, " said Mary Ann, gravely; "God made me. "

That shook him strangely for a moment. But the canary sang on:--

"Sw-eet. Sw-w-w-w-w-eet. "

III

And so it was settled. He wrote the long-delayed answer to the popularcomposer, found him still willing to give out his orchestration, and theymet by appointment at the club. 

"I've got hold of a splendid book, " said the popular composer. "Awfullyclever; jolly original. Bound to go--from the French, you know. Haven'thad time to set to work on it--old engagement to run over to Monte Carlofor a few days--but I'll leave you the book; you might care to look overit. And--I say--if any catchy tunes suggest themselves as you go along, you might just jot them down, you know. Not worth while losing an idea;eh, my boy! Ha! ha! ha! Well, good-by. See you again when I come back;don't suppose I shall be away more than a month. Good-by!" And, havingshaken his hand with tremendous cordiality, the popular composer rusheddownstairs and into a hansom. 

Lancelot walked home with the libretto and the five five-pound notes. Heasked for Mrs. Leadbatter, and gave her a week's notice. He wanted todrop Rosie immediately, on the plea of pressure of work, but her motherreceived the suggestion with ill grace, and said that Rosie should comeup and practise on her own piano all the same, so he yielded to thecomplexities of the situation, and found hope a wonderful sweetener ofsuffering. Despite Rosie and her giggling, and Mrs. Leadbatter and herbest cap and her asthma, the week went by almost cheerfully. He workedregularly at the comic opera, nearly as happy as the canary which sangall day long, and, though scarcely a word more passed between him andMary Ann, their eyes met ever and anon in the consciousness of a sweetsecret. 

It was already Friday afternoon. He gathered together his few personalbelongings--his books, his manuscripts, _opera_ innumerable. There wasroom in his portmanteau for everything--now he had no clothes. On theMonday the long nightmare would be over. He would go down to some obscureseaside nook and live very quietly for a few weeks, and gain strength andcalm in the soft spring airs, and watch hand-in-hand with Mary Ann therippling scarlet trail of the setting sun fade across the green waters. Life, no doubt, would be hard enough still. Struggles and trials enoughwere yet before him, but he would not think of that now--enough that fora month or two there would be bread and cheese and kisses. And then, inthe midst of a tender reverie, with his hand on the lid of hisportmanteau, he was awakened by ominous sounds of objurgation from thekitchen. 

His heart stood still. He went down a few stairs and listened. 

"Not another stroke of work do you do in my house, Mary Ann!" Then therewas silence, save for the thumping of his own heart. What had happened?

He heard Mrs. Leadbatter mounting the kitchen stairs, wheezing andgrumbling, "Well, of all the sly little things!"

Mary Ann had been discovered. His blood ran cold at the thought. Thesilly creature had been unable to keep the secret. 

"Not a word about 'im all this time. Oh, the sly little thing! Who wouldhever a-believed it?"

And then, in the intervals of Mrs. Leadbatter's groanings, there came tohim the unmistakable sound of Mary Ann sobbing--violently, hysterically. He turned from cold to hot in a fever of shame and humiliation. How hadit all come about? Oh, yes, he could guess. The gloves! What a fool hehad been! Mrs. Leadbatter had unearthed the box. Why did he give her morethan the pair that could always be kept hidden in her pocket? Yes, it wasthe gloves. And then there was the canary. Mrs. Leadbatter had suspectedhe was leaving her for a reason. She had put two and two together, shehad questioned Mary Ann, and the ingenuous little idiot had naively toldher he was going to take her with him. It didn't really matter, ofcourse; he didn't suppose Mrs. Leadbatter could exercise any control overMary Ann, but it was horrible to be discussed by her and Rosie; and thenthere was that meddlesome vicar, who might step in and make things nasty. 

Mrs. Leadbatter's steps and wheezes and grumblings had arrived in thepassage, and Lancelot hastily stole back into his room, his heartcontinuing to flutter painfully. 

He heard the complex noises reach his landing, pass by, and move uphigher. She wasn't coming in to him then; he could endure the suspense nolonger. He threw open his door and said, "Is there anything the matter?"

Mrs. Leadbatter paused and turned her head. 

"His there anything the matter!" she echoed, looking down upon him. "Anice thing when a woman's troubled with hastmer and brought 'ome 'erdaughter to take 'er place, that she should 'ave to start 'untin'afresh!"

"Why, is Rosie going away?" he said, immeasurably relieved. 

"My Rosie! She's the best girl breathing. It's that there Mary Ann!"

"Wh-a-t!" he stammered. "Mary Ann leaving you?"

"Well, you don't suppose, " replied Mrs. Leadbatter, angrily, "asI can keep a gel in my kitchen as is a-goin' to 'ave 'er ownnors-end-kerridge!"

"Her own horse and carriage!" repeated Lancelot, utterly dazed. "Whateverare you talking about?"

"Well--there's the letter!" exclaimed Mrs. Leadbatter, indignantly. "See for yourself if you don't believe me. I don't know how muchtwo and a 'arf million dollars is--but it sounds unkimmonly like anors-end-kerridge--and never said a word about 'im the whole time, thesly little thing!"

The universe seemed oscillating so that he grasped at the letter like adrunken man. It was from the vicar. He wrote:--

"I have much pleasure in informing you that our dear Mary Ann is thefortunate inheritress of two and a half million dollars by the death ofher brother Tom, who, as I learn from the lawyers who have applied to mefor news of the family, has just died in America, leaving his money tohis surviving relatives. He was rather a wild young man, but it seems hebecame the lucky possessor of some petroleum wells which made him wealthyin a few months. I pray God Mary Ann may make a better use of the moneythan he would have done. I want you to break the news to her, please, andto prepare her for my visit. As I have to preach on Sunday, I cannot cometo town before, but on Monday (D. V. ) I shall run up and shall probablytake her back with me, as I desire to help her through the difficultiesthat will attend her entry into the new life. How pleased you will be tothink of the care you took of the dear child during these last fiveyears. I hope she is well and happy; I think you omitted to write to melast Christmas on the subject. Please give her my kindest regards andbest wishes and say I shall be with her (D. V. ) on Monday. "

The words swam uncertainly before Lancelot's eyes, but he got throughthem all at last. He felt chilled and numbed. He averted his face as hehanded the letter back to Mary Ann's "missus. "

"What a fortunate girl!" he said in a low, stony voice. 

"Fortunate ain't the word for it! The mean, sly little cat! Fancy nevertelling _me_ a word about 'er brother all these years--me as 'as fed her, and clothed her, and lodged her, and kepper out of all mischief, as ifshe'd bin my own daughter; never let her go out Bankhollidayin' in loosecompany--as you can bear witness yourself, sir--and eddicated 'er out of'er country talk and rough ways, and made 'er the smart young woman sheis, fit to wait on the most troublesome of gentlemen. And now she'll goaway and say I used 'er 'arsh, and overworked 'er, and Lord knows what, don't tell me! Oh, my poor chest!"

"I think you may make your mind quite easy, " said Lancelot, grimly. "I'msure Mary Ann is perfectly satisfied with your treatment. "

"But she ain't--there, listen! don't you hear her going on?" Poor MaryAnn's sobs were still audible, though exhaustion was making them momentlyweaker. "She's been going on like that ever since I broke the news to 'erand gave her a piece of my mind--the sly little cat! She wanted to go onscrubbing the kitchen, and I had to take the brush away by main force. Anice thing, indeed! A gel as can keep a nors-end-kerridge down on thecold kitchen stones! 'Twasn't likely I could allow that. 'No, Mary Ann, 'says I, firmly, 'you're a lady, and if you don't know what's proper for alady, you'd best listen to them as does. You go and buy yourself a dressand a jacket to be ready for that vicar who's been a real good kindfriend to you; he's coming to take you away on Monday, he is, and howwill you look in that dirty print? Here's a suvrin, ' says I, 'out of my'ard-earned savin's--and get a pair o' boots, too: you can git a sweetpair for 2s. 11d. At Rackstraw's afore the sale closes, ' and with that Ishoves the suvrin into 'er hand instead o' the scrubbin' brush, and whatdoes she do? Why, busts out a-cryin' and sits on the damp stones, andsobs, and sulks, and stares at the suvrin in her hand as if I'd told herof a funeral instead of a fortune!" concluded Mrs. Leadbatter, alliteratively. 

"But you did--her brother's death, " said Lancelot. "That's what she'scrying about. "

Mrs. Leadbatter was taken aback by this obverse view of the situation;but recovering herself, she shook her head. "_I_ wouldn't cry for nobrother that lef me to starve when he was rollin' in two and a 'arfmillion dollars, " she said sceptically. "And I'm sure my Rosie wouldn't. But she never 'ad nobody to leave her money, poor dear child, except me, please Gaud. It's only the fools as 'as the luck in _this_ world. " Andhaving thus relieved her bosom, she resumed her panting progress upwards. 

The last words rang on in Lancelot's ears long after he had returned tohis room. In the utter breakdown and confusion of his plans and hisideas, it was the one definite thought he clung to, as a swimmer in awhirlpool clings to a rock. His brain refused to concentrate itself onany other aspect of the situation--he could not, would not, dared not, think of anything else. He knew vaguely he ought to rejoice with her overher wonderful stroke of luck, that savoured of the fairy-story, buteverything was swamped by that one almost resentful reflection. Oh, theirony of fate! Blind fate showering torrents of gold upon this foolish, babyish household drudge; who was all emotion and animal devotion, without the intellectual outlook of a Hottentot, and leaving men ofgenius to starve, or sell their souls for a handful of it! How was thewisdom of the ages justified! Verily did fortune favour fools. AndTom--the wicked--he had flourished as the wicked always do, like thegreen bay tree, as the Psalmist discovered ever so many centuries ago. 

But gradually the wave of bitterness waned. He found himself listeningplacidly and attentively to the joyous trills and roulades of the canary, till the light faded and the grey dusk crept into the room and stilledthe tiny winged lover of the sunshine. Then Beethoven came and rubbedhimself against his master's leg, and Lancelot got up, as one wakes froma dream, and stretched his cramped limbs dazedly, and rang the bellmechanically for tea. He was groping on the mantel-piece for the matcheswhen the knock at the door came, and he did not turn round till he hadfound them. He struck a light, expecting to see Mrs. Leadbatter or Rosie. He started to find it was merely Mary Ann. 

But she was no longer merely Mary Ann, he remembered with another shock. She loomed large to him in the match-light--he seemed to see her througha golden haze. Tumultuous images of her glorified gilded future rose andmingled dizzily in his brain. 

And yet, was he dreaming? Surely it was the same Mary Ann, with the samewinsome face and the same large pathetic eyes, ringed though they werewith the shadow of tears. Mary Ann, in her neat white cap--yes--and inher tan kid gloves. He rubbed his eyes. Was he really awake? Or--athought still more dizzying--_had_ he been dreaming? He had fallen asleepand reinless fancy had played him the fantastic trick, from which, cramped and dazed, he had just awakened to the old sweet reality. 

"Mary Ann!" he cried wildly. The lighted match fell from his fingers andburnt itself out unheeded on the carpet. 

"Yessir. "

"Is it true"--his emotion choked him--"is it true you've come into twoand a half million dollars?"

"Yessir, and I've brought you some tea. "

The room was dark, but darkness seemed to fall on it as she spoke. 

"But why are you waiting on me, then?" he said slowly. "Don't you knowthat you--that you--"

"Please, Mr. Lancelot, I wanted to come in and see you. "

He felt himself trembling. 

"But Mrs. Leadbatter told me she wouldn't let you do any more work. "

"I told missus that I must; I told her she couldn't get another girlbefore Monday, if then, and if she didn't let me I wouldn't buy a newdress and a pair of boots with her sovereign--it isn't suvrin, is it, sir?"

"No, " murmured Lancelot, smiling in spite of himself. 

"With her sovereign. And I said I would be all dirty on Monday. "

"But what can you get for a sovereign?" he asked irrelevantly. He felthis mind wandering away from him. 

"Oh, ever such a pretty dress!"

The picture of Mary Ann in a pretty dress painted itself upon thedarkness. How lovely the child would look in some creamy white eveningdress with a rose in her hair. He wondered that in all his thoughts oftheir future he had never dressed her up thus in fancy, to feast his eyeson the vision. 

"And so the vicar will find you in a pretty dress, " he said at last. 

"No, sir. "

"But you promised Mrs. Leadbatter to--"

"I promised to buy a dress with her sovereign. But I shan't be here whenthe vicar comes. He can't come till the afternoon. "

"Why, where will you be?" he said, his heart beginning to beat fast. 

"With you, " she replied, with a faint accent of surprise. 

He steadied himself against the mantel-piece. 

"But--" he began, and ended, "is that honest?"

He dimly descried her lips pouting. "We can always send her another whenwe have one, " she said. 

He stood there, dumb, glad of the darkness. 

"I must go down now, " she said. "I mustn't stay long. "

"Why?" he articulated. 

"Rosie, " she replied briefly. 

"What about Rosie?"

"She watches me--ever since she came. Don't you understand?"

This time he was the dullard. He felt an extra quiver of repugnance forRosie, but said nothing, while Mary Ann briskly lit the gas, and threwsome coals on the decaying fire. He was pleased she was going down; hewas suffocating; he did not know what to say to her. And yet, as she wasdisappearing through the doorway, he had a sudden feeling things couldn'tbe allowed to remain an instant in this impossible position. 

"Mary Ann!" he cried. 

"Yessir. "

She turned back--her face wore merely the expectant expression of asummoned servant. The childishness of her behaviour confused him, irritated him. 

"Are you foolish?" he cried suddenly; half regretting the phrase theinstant he had uttered it. 

Her lip twitched. 

"No, Mr. Lancelot!" she faltered. 

"But you talk as if you were, " he said less roughly. "You mustn't runaway from the vicar just when he is going to take you to the lawyer's tocertify who you are, and see that you get your money. "

"But I don't want to go with the vicar--I want to go with you. You saidyou would take me with you. " She was almost in tears now. 

"Yes--but don't you--don't you understand that--that, " he stammered;then, temporising, "but I can wait. "

"Can't the vicar wait?" said Mary Ann. He had never known her show suchinitiative. 

He saw that it was hopeless--that the money had made no more dint uponher consciousness than some vague dream, that her whole being was settowards the new life with him, and shrank in horror from the menace ofthe vicar's withdrawal of her in the opposite direction. If joy andredemption had not already lain in the one quarter, the advantages ofthe other might have been more palpably alluring. As it was, herconsciousness was "full up" in the matter, so to speak. He saw that hemust tell her plain and plump, startle her out of her simple confidence. 

"Listen to me, Mary Ann. "

"Yessir. "

"You are a young woman--not a baby. Strive to grasp what I am going totell you. "

"Yessir, " in a half sob, that vibrated with the obstinate resentmentof a child that knows it is to be argued out of its instincts by adultsophistry. What had become of her passive personality?

"You are now the owner of two and a half million dollars--that is aboutfive hundred thousand pounds. Five--hundred thousand--pounds. Think often sovereigns--ten golden sovereigns like that Mrs. Leadbatter gave you. Then ten times as much as that, and ten times as much as all that"--hespread his arms wider and wider--"and ten times as much as all that, andthen"--here his arms were prematurely horizontal, so he concluded hastilybut impressively, --"and then FIFTY times as much as all that. Do youunderstand how rich you are?"

"Yessir. " She was fumbling nervously at her gloves, half drawing themoff. 

"Now all this money will last forever. For you invest it--if only atthree per cent. --never mind what that is--and then you get fifteenthousand a year--fifteen thousand golden sovereigns to spend every--"

"Please, sir, I must go now. Rosie!"

"Oh, but you can't go yet. I have lots more to tell you. "

"Yessir; but can't you ring for me again?"

In the gravity of the crisis, the remark tickled him; he laughed with astrange ring in his laughter. 

"All right; run away, you sly little puss. "

He smiled on as he poured out his tea; finding a relief in prolonging hissense of the humour of the suggestion, but his heart was heavy, and hisbrain a-whirl. He did not ring again till he had finished tea. 

She came in, and took her gloves out of her pocket. 

"No! no!" he cried, strangely exasperated. "An end to this farce! Putthem away. You don't need gloves any more. "

She squeezed them into her pocket nervously, and began to clear away thethings, with abrupt movements, looking askance every now and then at theovercast handsome face. 

At last he nerved himself to the task and said: "Well, as I was saying, Mary Ann, the first thing for you to think of is to make sure of allthis money--this fifteen thousand pounds a year. You see you will beable to live in a fine manor house--such as the squire lived in in yourvillage--surrounded by a lovely park with a lake in it for swans andboats--"

Mary Ann had paused in her work, slop-basin in hand. The concrete detailswere beginning to take hold of her imagination. 

"Oh, but I should like a farm better, " she said. "A large farm with greatpastures and ever so many cows and pigs and outhouses, and a--oh, justlike Atkinson's farm. And meat every day, with pudding on Sundays! Oh, iffather was alive, wouldn't he be glad!"

"Yes, you can have a farm--anything you like. "

"Oh, how lovely! A piano?"

"Yes--six pianos. "

"And you will learn me?"

He shuddered and hesitated. 

"Well--I can't say, Mary Ann. "

"Why not? Why won't you? You said you would! You learn Rosie. "

"I may not be there, you see, " he said, trying to put a spice ofplayfulness into his tones. 

"Oh, but you will, " she said feverishly. "You will take me there. We willgo there instead of where you said--instead of the green waters. " Hereyes were wild and witching. 

He groaned inwardly. 

"I cannot promise you now, " he said slowly. "Don't you see thateverything is altered?"

"What's altered? You are here and here am I. " Her apprehension made heralmost epigrammatic. 

"Ah, but you are quite different now, Mary Ann. "

"I'm not--I want to be with you just the same. "

He shook his head. "I can't take you with me, " he said decisively. 

"Why not?" She caught hold of his arm entreatingly. 

"You are not the same Mary Ann--to other people. You are a somebody. Before, you were a nobody. Nobody cared or bothered about you--youwere no more than a dead leaf whirling in the street. "

"Yes, you cared and bothered about me, " she cried, clinging to him. 

Her gratitude cut him like a knife. "The eyes of the world are on younow, " he said. "People will talk about you if you go away with me now. "

"Why will they talk about me? What harm shall I do them?"

Her phrases puzzled him. 

"I don't know that you will harm them, " he said slowly, "but you willharm yourself. "

"How will I harm myself?" she persisted. 

"Well, one day, you will want a--a husband. With all that money it isonly right and proper you should marry--"

"No, Mr. Lancelot, I don't want a husband. I don't want to marry. Ishould never want to go away from you. "

There was another painful silence. He sought refuge in a brusqueplayfulness. 

"I see you understand _I'm_ not going to marry you. "

"Yessir. "

He felt a slight relief. 

"Well, then, " he said, more playfully still. "Suppose I wanted to go awayfrom _you_, Mary Ann?"

"But you love me, " she said, unaffrighted. 

He started back perceptibly. 

After a moment, he replied, still playfully, "I never said so. "

"No, sir; but--but--" she lowered her eyes; a coquette could not havedone it more artlessly--"but I--know it. "

The accusation of loving her set all his suppressed repugnances andprejudices bristling in contradiction. He cursed the weakness that hadgot him into this soul-racking situation. The silence clamoured forhim to speak--to do something. 

"What--what were you crying about before?" he said abruptly. 

"I--I don't know, sir, " she faltered. 

"Was it Tom's death?"

"No, sir, not much. I did think of him black-berrying with me and ourlittle Sally--but then he was so wicked! It must have been what missussaid; and I was frightened because the vicar was coming to take meaway--away from you; and then--oh, I don't know--I felt--I couldn't tellyou--I felt I must cry and cry, like that night when--" she pausedsuddenly and looked away. 

"When, " he said encouragingly. 

"I must go--Rosie, " she murmured, and took up the tea-tray. 

"That night when--" he repeated tenaciously. 

"When you first kissed me, " she said. 

He blushed. "That--that made you cry!" he stammered. "Why?"

"Please, sir, I don't know. "

"Mary Ann, " he said gravely, "don't you see that when I did that Iwas--like your brother Tom?"

"No, sir. Tom didn't kiss me like that. "

"I don't mean that, Mary Ann; I mean I was wicked. "

Mary Ann stared at him. 

"Don't you think so, Mary Ann?"

"Oh, no, sir. You were very good. "

"No, no, Mary Ann. Don't say good. "

"Ever since then I have been so happy, " she persisted. 

"Oh, that was because you were wicked too, " he explained grimly. "We haveboth been very wicked, Mary Ann; and so we had better part now, beforewe get more wicked. "

She stared at him plaintively, suspecting a lurking irony, but not sure. 

"But you didn't mind being wicked before!" she protested. 

"I'm not so sure I mind now. It's for your sake, Mary Ann, believe me, mydear. " He took her bare hand kindly and felt it burning. "You're a verysimple, foolish little thing, yes, you are. Don't cry. There's no harm inbeing simple. Why, you told me yourself how silly you were once when youbrought your dying mother cakes and flowers to take to your dead littlesister. Well, you're just as foolish and childish now, Mary Ann, thoughyou don't know it any more than you did then. After all you're onlynineteen--I found it out from the vicar's letter. But a time willcome--yes, I'll warrant in only a few months' time you'll see how wise Iam and how sensible you have been to be guided by me. I never wished youany harm, Mary Ann, believe me, my dear, I never did. And I hope, I dohope so much that this money will make you happy. So you see you mustn'tgo away with me now--you don't want everybody to talk of you as they didof your brother Tom, do you, dear? Think what the vicar would say. "

But Mary Ann had broken down under the touch of his hand and thegentleness of his tones. 

"I was a dead leaf so long, I don't care!" she sobbed passionately. "Nobody never bothered to call me wicked then. Why should I bother now?"

Beneath the mingled emotions her words caused him was a sense of surpriseat her recollection of his metaphor. 

"Hush! You're a silly little child, " he repeated sternly. "Hush! or Mrs. Leadbatter will hear you. " He went to the door and closed it tightly. "Listen, Mary Ann! Let me tell you once for all that even if you werefool enough to be willing to go with me, I wouldn't take you with me. Itwould be doing you a terrible wrong. "

She interrupted him quietly. 

"Why more now than before?"

He dropped her hand as if stung, and turned away. He knew he could notanswer that to his own satisfaction, much less to hers. 

"You're a silly little baby, " he repeated resentfully. "I think you hadbetter go down now. Missus will be wondering. "

Mary Ann's sobs grew more spasmodic. "You are going away without me, " shecried hysterically. 

He went to the door again, as if apprehensive of an eavesdropper. Thescene was becoming terrible. The passive personality had developed with avengeance. 

"Hush, hush!" he cried imperatively. 

"You are going away without me. I shall never see you again. "

"Be sensible, Mary Ann. You will be--"

"You won't take me with you. "

"How can I take you with me?" he cried brutally, losing every vestige oftenderness for this distressful vixen. "Don't you understand that it'simpossible--unless I marry you, " he concluded contemptuously. 

Mary Ann's sobs ceased for a moment. 

"Can't you marry me, then?" she said plaintively. 

"You know it is impossible, " he replied curtly. 

"Why is it impossible?" she breathed. 

"Because--" He saw her sobs were on the point of breaking out, and hadnot the courage to hear them afresh. He dared not wound her further bytelling her straight out that, with all her money, she was ridiculouslyunfit to bear his name--that it was already a condescension for him tohave offered her his companionship on any terms. 

He resolved to temporise again. 

"Go downstairs now, there's a good girl; and I'll tell you in themorning. I'll think it over. Go to bed early and have a long, nicesleep--missus will let you--now. It isn't Monday yet; we have plentyof time to talk it over. "

She looked up at him with large appealing eyes, uncertain, but calmingdown. 

"Do, now, there's a dear. " He stroked her wet cheek soothingly. 

"Yessir, " and almost instinctively she put up her lips for a good-nightkiss. He brushed them hastily with his. She went out softly, drying hereyes. His own grew moist--he was touched by the pathos of her implicittrust. The soft warmth of her lips still thrilled him. How sweet andloving she was! The little dialogue rang in his brain. 

"Can't you marry me, then?"

"You know it is impossible. "

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because--"

"Because what?" an audacious voice whispered. Why should he not? Hestilled the voice but it refused to be silent--was obdurate, insistent, like Mary Ann herself. "Because--oh, because of a hundred things, " hetold it. "Because she is no fit mate for me--because she would degrademe, make me ridiculous--an unfortunate fortune-hunter, the butt of thewitlings. How could I take her about as my wife? How could she receivemy friends? For a housekeeper--a good, loving housekeeper--she isperfection, but for a wife--_my_ wife--the companion of mysoul--impossible!"

"Why is it impossible?" repeated the voice, catching up the cue. Andthen, from that point, the dialogue began afresh. 

"Because this, and because that, and because the other--in short, becauseI am Lancelot and she is merely Mary Ann. "

"But she is not merely Mary Ann any longer, " urged the voice. 

"Yes, for all her money, she is merely Mary Ann. And am I to sell myselffor her money--I who have stood out so nobly, so high-mindedly, throughall these years of privation and struggle? And her money is all indollars. Pah! I smell the oil. Struck ile! Of all things in the world, her brother should just go and strike ile!" A great shudder traversed hisform. "Everything seems to have been arranged out of pure cussedness, just to spite me. She would have been happier without the money, poorchild--without the money, but with me. What will she do with all herriches? She will only be wretched--like me. "

"Then why not be happy together?"

"Impossible. "

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because her dollars would stick in my throat--the oil would make mesick. And what would Peter say, and my brother (not that I care what _he_says), and my acquaintances?"

"What does that matter to you? While you were a dead leaf nobody botheredto talk about you; they let you starve--you, with your genius--now youcan let them talk--you, with your heiress. Five hundred thousand pounds. More than you will make with all your operas if you live a century. Fifteen thousand a year. Why, you could have all your works performed atyour own expense, and for your own sole pleasure if you chose, as theKing of Bavaria listened to Wagner's operas. You could devote your lifeto the highest art--nay, is it not a duty you owe to the world? Would itnot be a crime against the future to draggle your wings with sordidcares, to sink to lower aims by refusing this Heaven-sent boon?"

The thought clung to him. He rose and laid out heaps of muddledmanuscript--_opera disjecta_--and turned their pages. 

"Yes--yes--give us life!" they seemed to cry to him. "We are dead dropsof ink, wake us to life and beauty. How much longer are we to lie here, dusty in death? We have waited so patiently--have pity on us, raise us upfrom our silent tomb, and we will fly abroad through the whole earth, chanting your glory; yea, the world shall be filled to eternity with theechoes of our music and the splendour of your name. "

But he shook his head and sighed, and put them back in their niches, andplaced the comic opera he had begun in the centre of the table. 

"There lie the only dollars that will ever come my way, " he said aloud. And, humming the opening bars of a lively polka from the manuscript, hetook up his pen and added a few notes. Then he paused; the polka wouldnot come--the other voice was louder. 

"It would be a degradation, " he repeated, to silence it. "It would bemerely for her money. I don't love her. "

"Are you so sure of that?"

"If I really loved her I shouldn't refuse to marry her. "

"Are you so sure of that?"

"What's the use of all this wire-drawing?--the whole thing isimpossible. "

"Why is it impossible?"

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently, refusing to be drawn back into theeddy, and completed the bar of the polka. 

Then he threw down his pen, rose and paced the room in desperation. 

"Was ever any man in such a dilemma?" he cried aloud. 

"Did ever any man get such a chance?" retorted his silent tormentor. 

"Yes, but I mustn't seize the chance--it would be mean. "

"It would be meaner not to. You're not thinking of that poor girl--onlyof yourself. To leave her now would be more cowardly than to have lefther when she was merely Mary Ann. She needs you even more now that shewill be surrounded by sharks and adventurers. Poor, poor Mary Ann! It isyou who have the right to protect her now; you were kind to her when theworld forgot her. You owe it to yourself to continue to be good to her. "

"No, no, I won't humbug myself. If I married her it would only be for hermoney. "

"No, no, don't humbug yourself. You like her. You care for her very much. You are thrilling at this very moment with the remembrance of her lipsto-night. Think of what life will be with her--life full of all that issweet and fair--love and riches, and leisure for the highest art, andfame and the promise of immortality. You are irritable, sensitive, delicately organised; these sordid, carking cares, these wretchedstruggles, these perpetual abasements of your highest self--a few moreyears of them--they will wreck and ruin you, body and soul. How many menof genius have married their housekeepers even--good, clumsy, homelybodies, who have kept their husband's brain calm and his pillow smooth. And again, a man of genius is the one man who can marry anybody. Theworld expects him to be eccentric. And Mary Ann is no coarse city weed, but a sweet country bud. How splendid will be her blossoming under thesun! Do not fear that she will ever shame you; she will look beautiful, and men will not ask her to talk. Nor will you want her to talk. She willsit silent in the cosy room where you are working, and every now andagain you will glance up from your work at her and draw inspiration fromher sweet presence. So pull yourself together, man; your troubles areover, and life henceforth one long blissful dream. Come, burn me thattinkling, inglorious comic opera, and let the whole sordid past minglewith its ashes. "

So strong was the impulse--so alluring the picture--that he took up thecomic opera and walked towards the fire, his finger itching to throw itin. But he sat down again after a moment and went on with his work. Itwas imperative he should make progress with it; he could not afford towaste his time--which was money--because another person--Mary Ann towit--had come into a superfluity of both. In spite of which the comicopera refused to advance; somehow he did not feel in the mood for gaiety;he threw down his pen in despair and disgust. But the idea of not beingable to work rankled in him. Every hour seemed suddenly precious--nowthat he had resolved to make money in earnest--now that for a year ortwo he could have no other aim or interest in life. Perhaps it was thathe wished to overpower the din of contending thoughts. Then a happythought came to him. He rummaged out Peter's ballad. He would write asong on the model of that, as Peter had recommended--something tawdry andsentimental, with a cheap accompaniment. He placed the ballad on the restand started going through it to get himself in the vein. But to-night theair seemed to breathe an ineffable melancholy, the words--no longermawkish--had grown infinitely pathetic:--

 "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night!"

The hot tears ran down his cheeks, as he touched the keys softly andlingeringly. He could go no farther than the refrain; he leant his elbowson the keyboard, and dropped his head upon his arms. The clashing notesjarred like a hoarse cry, then vibrated slowly away into a silence thatwas broken only by his sobs. 

He rose late the next day, after a sleep that was one prolongednightmare, full of agonised, abortive striving after something thatalways eluded him, he knew not what. And when he woke--after a momentarybreath of relief at the thought of the unreality of these vaguehorrors--he woke to the heavier nightmare of reality. Oh, those terribledollars!

He drew the blind, and saw with a dull acquiescence that the brightnessof May had fled. The wind was high--he heard it fly past, moaning. In thewatery sky, the round sun loomed silver-pale and blurred. To his feveredeye it looked like a worn dollar. 

He turned away, shivering, and began to dress. He opened the door alittle, and pulled in his lace-up boots, which were polished in thehighest style of art. But when he tried to put one on, his toes stuckfast in the opening, and refused to advance. Annoyed, he put his hand in, and drew out a pair of tan gloves, perfectly new. Astonished, he insertedhis hand again and drew out another pair, then another. Reddeninguncomfortably, for he divined something of the meaning, he examined theleft boot, and drew out three more pairs of gloves, two new and oneslightly soiled. 

He sank down, half dressed, on the bed with his head on his breast, leaving his boots and Mary Ann's gloves scattered about the floor. He wasangry, humiliated; he felt like laughing, and he felt like sobbing. 

At last he roused himself, finished dressing, and rang for breakfast. Rosie brought it up. 

"Hullo! Where's Mary Ann?" he said lightly. 

"She's above work now, " said Rosie, with an unamiable laugh. "You knowabout her fortune. "

"Yes; but your mother told me she insisted on going about her work tillMonday. "

"So she said yesterday--silly little thing! But to-day she says she'llonly help mother in the kitchen--and do all the boots of a morning. Shewon't do any more waiting. "

"Ah!" said Lancelot, crumbling his toast. 

"I don't believe she knows what she wants, " concluded Rosie, turning togo. 

"Then I suppose she's in the kitchen now?" he said, pouring out hiscoffee down the side of his cup. 

"No, she's gone out now, sir. "

"Gone out!" He put down the coffee-pot--his saucer was full. "Gone outwhere?"

"Only to buy things. You know her vicar is coming to take her away theday after to-morrow, and mother wanted her to look tidy enough to travelwith the vicar; so she gave her a sovereign. "

"Ah, yes; your mother said something about it. "

"And yet she won't answer the bells, " said Rosie, "and mother's asthma isworse, so I don't know whether I shall be able to take my lesson to-day, Mr. Lancelot. I'm so sorry, because it's the last. "

Rosie probably did not intend the ambiguity of the phrase. There was realregret in her voice. 

"Do you like learning, then?" said Lancelot, softened, for the firsttime, towards his pupil. His nerves seemed strangely flaccid to-day. Hedid not at all feel the relief he should have felt at forgoing his dailyinfliction. 

"Ever so much, sir. I know I laugh too much, sometimes; but I don't meanit, sir. I suppose I couldn't go on with the lessons after you leavehere?" She looked at him wistfully. 

"Well"--he had crumbled the toast all to little pieces now--"I don'tquite know. Perhaps I shan't go away after all. "

Rosie's face lit up. "Oh, I'll tell mother, " she exclaimed joyously. 

"No, don't tell her yet; I haven't quite settled. But if I stay--ofcourse the lessons can go on as before. "

"Oh, I _do_ hope you'll stay, " said Rosie, and went out of the room withairy steps, evidently bent on disregarding his prohibition, if, indeed, it had penetrated to her consciousness. 

Lancelot made no pretence of eating breakfast; he had it removed, andthen fished out his comic opera. But nothing would flow from his pen; hewent over to the window, and stood thoughtfully drumming on the paneswith it, and gazing at the little drab-coloured street, with its highroof of mist; along which the faded dollar continued to spinimperceptibly. Suddenly he saw Mary Ann turn the corner, and come alongtowards the house, carrying a big parcel and a paper bag in her unglovedhands. How buoyantly she walked! He had never before seen her move infree space, nor realised how much of the grace of a sylvan childhoodremained with her still. What a pretty colour there was on her cheeks, too!

He ran down to the street door and opened it before she could knock. Thecolour on her cheeks deepened at the sight of him, but now that she wasnear he saw her eyes were swollen with crying. 

"Why do you go out without gloves, Mary Ann?" he inquired sternly. "Remember you're a lady now. "

She started and looked down at his boots, then up at his face. 

"Oh, yes, I found them, Mary Ann. A nice graceful way of returning me mypresents, Mary Ann. You might at least have waited till Christmas. ThenI should have thought Santa Claus sent them. "

"Please, sir, I thought it was the surest way for me to send them back. "

"But what made you send them back at all?"

Mary Ann's lip quivered, her eyes were cast down. "Oh--Mr. Lancelot--youknow, " she faltered. 

"But I don't know, " he said sharply. 

"Please let me go downstairs, Mr. Lancelot. Missus must have heard mecome in. "

"You shan't go downstairs till you've told me what's come over you. Comeupstairs to my room. "

"Yessir. "

She followed him obediently. He turned round brusquely, "Here, give meyour parcels. " And almost snatching them from her, he carried themupstairs and deposited them on his table on top of the comic opera. 

"Now, then, sit down. You can take off your hat and jacket. "

"Yessir. "

He helped her to do so. 

"Now, Mary Ann, why did you return me those gloves?"

"Please, sir, I remember in our village when--when"--she felt adiffidence in putting the situation into words and wound up quickly, "something told me I ought to. "

"I don't understand you, " he grumbled, comprehending only too well. "Butwhy couldn't you come in and give them to me instead of behaving in thatridiculous way?"

"I didn't want to see you again, " she faltered. 

He saw her eyes were welling over with tears. 

"You were crying again last night, " he said sharply. 

"Yessir. "

"But what did you have to cry about now? Aren't you the luckiest girl inthe world?"

"Yessir. "

As she spoke a flood of sunlight poured suddenly into the room; the sunhad broken through the clouds, the worn dollar had become a dazzlinggold-piece. The canary stirred in its cage. 

"Then what were you crying about?"

"I didn't want to be lucky. "

"You silly girl--I have no patience with you. And why didn't you want tosee me again?"

"Please, Mr. Lancelot, I knew you wouldn't like it. "

"Whatever put that into your head?"

"I knew it, sir, " said Mary Ann, firmly. "It came to me when I wascrying. I was thinking of all sorts of things--of my mother and ourSally, and the old pig that used to get so savage, and about the way theorgan used to play in church, and then all at once somehow I knew itwould be best for me to do what you told me--to buy my dress and go backwith the vicar, and be a good girl, and not bother you, because you wereso good to me, and it was wrong for me to worry you and make youmiserable. "

"Tw-oo! Tw-oo!" It was the canary starting on a preliminary carol. 

"So I thought it best, " she concluded tremulously, "not to see you again. It would only be two days, and after that it would be easier. I couldalways be thinking of you just the same, Mr. Lancelot, always. Thatwouldn't annoy you, sir, would it? Because you know, sir, you wouldn'tknow it. "

Lancelot was struggling to find a voice. "But didn't you forget somethingyou had to do, Mary Ann?" he said in hoarse accents. 

She raised her eyes swiftly a moment, then lowered them again. 

"I don't know; I didn't mean to, " she said apologetically. 

"Didn't you forget that I told you to come to me and get my answer toyour question?"

"No, sir, I didn't forget. That was what I was thinking of all night. "

"About your asking me to marry you?"

"Yessir. "

"And my saying it was impossible?"

"Yessir, and I said, 'Why is it impossible?' and you said, 'Because--'and then you left off; but please, Mr. Lancelot, I didn't want to knowthe answer this morning. "

"But I want to tell you. Why don't you want to know?"

"Because I found out for myself, Mr. Lancelot. That's what I found outwhen I was crying--but there was nothing to find out, sir. I knew it allalong. It was silly of me to ask you--but you know I am silly sometimes, sir, like I was when my mother was dying. And that was why I made up mymind not to bother you any more, Mr. Lancelot, I knew you wouldn't liketo tell me straight out. "

"And what was the answer you found out? Ah, you won't speak. It looks asif _you_ don't like to tell me straight out. Come, come, Mary Ann, tellme why--why--it is impossible. "

She looked up at last and said slowly and simply, "Because I am not goodenough for you, Mr. Lancelot. "

He put his hands suddenly to his eyes. He did not see the flood ofsunlight--he did not hear the mad jubilance of the canary. 

"No, Mary Ann, " his voice was low and trembling. "I will tell youwhy it is impossible, I didn't know last night, but I know now. It isimpossible, because--you are right, I don't like to tell you straightout. "

She opened her eyes wide, and stared at him in puzzled expectation. 

"Mary Ann, " he bent his head, "it is impossible--because I am not goodenough for you. "

Mary Ann grew scarlet. Then she broke into a little nervous laugh. "Oh, Mr. Lancelot, don't make fun of me. "

"Believe me, my dear, " he said tenderly, raising his head; "I wouldn'tmake fun of you for two million million dollars. It is the truth--thebare, miserable, wretched truth. I am not worthy of you, Mary Ann. "

"I don't understand you, sir, " she faltered. 

"Thank Heaven for that!" he said with the old whimsical look. "If you didyou would think meanly of me ever after. Yes, that is why, Mary Ann. Iam a selfish brute--selfish to the last beat of my heart, to the inmostessence of my every thought. Beethoven is worth two of me, aren't you, Beethoven?" The spaniel, thinking himself called, trotted over. "He nevercalculates--he just comes and licks my hand--don't look at me as if Iwere mad, Mary Ann. You don't understand me--thank Heaven again. Comenow! Does it never strike you that if I were to marry you now, it wouldbe only for your two and a half million dollars?"

"No, sir, " faltered Mary Ann. 

"I thought not, " he said triumphantly. "No, you will always remain afool, I am afraid, Mary Ann. "

She met his contempt with an audacious glance. 

"But I know it wouldn't be for that, Mr. Lancelot. "

"No, no, of course it wouldn't be, not now. But it ought to strike youjust the same. It doesn't make you less a fool, Mary Ann. There! There!I don't mean to be unkind, and, as I think I told you once before, it'snot so very dreadful to be a fool. A rogue is a worse thing, Mary Ann. All I want to do is to open your eyes. Two and a half million dollars arean awful lot of money--a terrible lot of money. Do you know how long itwill be before I make two million dollars, Mary Ann?"

"No, sir. " She looked at him wonderingly. 

"Two million years. Yes, my child, I can tell you now. You thought I wasrich and grand, I know, but all the while I was nearly a beggar. Perhapsyou thought I was playing the piano--yes, and teaching Rosie--for myamusement; perhaps you thought I sat up writing half the night outof--sleeplessness, " he smiled at the phrase, "or a wanton desire to burnMrs. Leadbatter's gas. No, Mary Ann, I have to get my own living by hardwork--by good work if I can, by bad work if I must--but always by hardwork. While you will have fifteen thousand pounds a year, I shall beglad, overjoyed, to get fifteen hundred. And while I shall be grindingaway body and soul for my fifteen hundred, your fifteen thousand willdrop into your pockets, even if you keep your hands there all day. Don'tlook so sad, Mary Ann. I'm not blaming you. It's not your fault in theleast. It's only one of the many jokes of existence. The only reason Iwant to drive this into your head is to put you on your guard. Though Idon't think myself good enough to marry you, there are lots of men whowill think they are . . . Though they don't know you. It is you, not me, who are grand and rich, Mary Ann . . . Beware of men like me--poor andselfish. And when you do marry--"

"Oh, Mr. Lancelot!" cried Mary Ann, bursting into tears at last, "why doyou talk like that? You know I shall never marry anybody else. "

"Hush, hush! Mary Ann! I thought you were going to be a good girl andnever cry again. Dry your eyes now, will you?"

"Yessir. "

"Here, take my handkerchief. "

"Yessir . . . But I won't marry anybody else. "

"You make me smile, Mary Ann. When you brought your mother that cake forSally you didn't know a time would come when--"

"Oh, please, sir, I know that. But you said yesterday I was a young womannow. And this is all different to that. "

"No, it isn't, Mary Ann. When they've put you to school, and made you aWard in Chancery, or something, and taught you airs, and graces, anddressed you up"--a pang traversed his heart, as the picture of her in thefuture flashed for a moment upon his inner eye--"why, by that time, you'll be a different Mary Ann, outside and inside. Don't shake yourhead; I know better than you. We grow and become different. Life is fullof chances, and human beings are full of changes, and nothing remainsfixed. "

"Then, perhaps"--she flushed up, her eyes sparkled--"perhaps"--she grewdumb and sad again. 

"Perhaps what?"

He waited for her thought. The rapturous trills of the canary alonepossessed the silence. 

"Perhaps you'll change, too. " She flashed a quick deprecatory glance athim--her eyes were full of soft light. 

This time he was dumb. 

"Sw--eet!" trilled the canary, "sw--eet!" though Lancelot felt thethrobbings of his heart must be drowning its song. 

"Acutely answered, " he said at last. "You're not such a fool after all, Mary Ann. But I'm afraid it will never be, dear. Perhaps if I also madetwo million dollars, and if I felt I had grown worthy of you, I mightcome to you and say--two and two are four--let us go into partnership. But then, you see, " he went on briskly, "the odds are I may never evenhave two thousand. Perhaps I'm as much a duffer in music as in otherthings. Perhaps you'll be the only person in the world who has everheard my music, for no one will print it, Mary Ann. Perhaps I shall bethat very common thing--a complete failure--and be worse off than evenyou ever were, Mary Ann. "

"Oh, Mr. Lancelot, I'm so sorry. " And her eyes filled again with tears. 

"Oh, don't be sorry for me. I'm a man. I dare say I shall pull through. Just put me out of your mind, dear. Let all that happened at Baker'sTerrace be only a bad dream--a very bad dream, I am afraid I must callit. Forget me, Mary Ann. Everything will help you to forget me, thankHeaven, it'll be the best thing for you. Promise me now. "

"Yessir . . . If you will promise me. "

"Promise you what?"

"To do me a favour. "

"Certainly, dear, if I can. "

"You have the money, Mr. Lancelot, instead of me--I don't want it, andthen you could--"

"Now, now, Mary Ann, " he interrupted, laughing nervously, "you're gettingfoolish again, after talking so sensibly. "

"Oh, but why not?" she said plaintively. 

"It is impossible, " he said curtly. 

"Why is it impossible?" she persisted. 

"Because--, " he began, and then he realised with a start that they hadcome back again to that same old mechanical series of questions--if onlyin form. 

"Because there is only one thing I could ever bring myself to ask you forin this world, " he said slowly. 

"Yes; what is that?" she said flutteringly. 

He laid his hand tenderly on her hair. 

"Merely Mary Ann. "

She leapt up: "Oh, Mr. Lancelot, take me, take me! You do love me! You dolove me!"

He bit his lip. "I am a fool, " he said roughly. "Forget me. I ought notto have said anything. I spoke only of what might be--in the dimfuture--if the--chances and changes of life bring us together again--asthey never do. No! You were right, Mary Ann. It is best we should notmeet again. Remember your resolution last night. "

"Yessir. " Her submissive formula had a smack of sullenness, but sheregained her calm, swallowing the lump in her throat that made herbreathing difficult. 

"Good-by, then, Mary Ann, " he said, taking her hard red hands in his. 

"Good-by, Mr. Lancelot. " The tears she would not shed were in her voice. "Please, sir--could you--couldn't you do me a favour?--Nothing aboutmoney, sir. "

"Well, if I can, " he said kindly. 

"Couldn't you just play Good-night and Good-by, for the last time? Youneedn't sing it--only play it. "

"Why, what an odd girl you are!" he said with a strange, spasmodic laugh. "Why, certainly! I'll do both, if it will give you any pleasure. "

And, releasing her hands, he sat down to the piano, and played theintroduction softly. He felt a nervous thrill going down his spine as heplunged into the mawkish words. And when he came to the refrain, he hadan uneasy sense that Mary Ann was crying--he dared not look at her. Hesang on bravely:--

 "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night. "

He couldn't go through another verse--he felt himself all a-quiver, everynerve shattered. He jumped up. Yes, his conjecture had been right. MaryAnn was crying. He laughed spasmodically again. The thought had occurredto him how vain Peter would be if he could know the effect of hiscommonplace ballad. 

"There, I'll kiss you too, dear!" he said huskily, still smiling. "That'll be for the last time. "

Their lips met, and then Mary Ann seemed to fade out of the room in ablur of mist. 

An instant after there was a knock at the door. 

"Forgot her parcels after a last good-by, " thought Lancelot, andcontinued to smile at the comicality of the new episode. 

He cleared his throat. 

"Come in, " he cried, and then he saw that the parcels were gone, too, andit must be Rosie. 

But it was merely Mary Ann. 

"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Lancelot, " she said--her accents were almostcheerful--"that I'm going to church to-morrow morning. "

"To church!" he echoed. 

"Yes, I haven't been since I left the village, but missus says I ought togo in case the vicar asks me what church I've been going to. "

"I see, " he said, smiling on. 

She was closing the door when it opened again, just revealing Mary Ann'sface. 

"Well?" he said, amused. 

"But I'll do your boots all the same, Mr. Lancelot. " And the door closedwith a bang. 

They did not meet again. On the Monday afternoon the vicar duly came andtook Mary Ann away. All Baker's Terrace was on the watch, for her storyhad now had time to spread. The weather remained bright. It was cold butthe sky was blue. Mary Ann had borne up wonderfully, but she burst intotears as she got into the cab. 

"Sweet, sensitive little thing!" said Baker's Terrace. 

"What a good woman you must be, Mrs. Leadbatter, " said the vicar, wipinghis spectacles. 

As part of Baker's Terrace, Lancelot witnessed the departure from hiswindow, for he had not left after all. 

Beethoven was barking his short snappy bark the whole time at theunwonted noises and the unfamiliar footsteps; he almost extinguished thecanary, though that was clamorous enough. 

"Shut up, you noisy little devils!" growled Lancelot. And taking thecomic opera he threw it on the dull fire. The thick sheets grew slowlyblacker and blacker, as if with rage; while Lancelot thrust the fivefive-pound notes into an envelope addressed to the popular composer, andscribbled a tiny note:--

 "Dear Peter, --If you have not torn up that cheque I shall be glad of it by return. Yours, "LANCELOT. 

 "P. S. --I send by this post a Reverie, called _Marianne_, which is the best thing I have done, and should be glad if you could induce Brahmson to look at it. "

A big, sudden blaze, like a jubilant bonfire, shot up in the grate andstartled Beethoven into silence. 

But the canary took it for an extra flood of sunshine, and trilled anddemi-semi-quavered like mad. 

"Sw--eet! Sweet!"

"By Jove!" said Lancelot, starting up, "Mary Ann's left her canarybehind!"

Then the old whimsical look came over his face. 

"I must keep it for her, " he murmured. "What a responsibility! I supposeI oughtn't to let Rosie look after it any more. Let me see, what didPeter say? Canary seed, biscuits . . . Yes, I must be careful not to giveit butter. . . . Curious I didn't think of her canary when I sent back allthose gloves . . . But I doubt if I could have squeezed it in--my boots areonly sevens after all--to say nothing of the cage. "

 * * * * *

THE SERIO-COMIC GOVERNESS

I

Nelly O'Neill had her day in those earlier and quieter reaches of theVictorian era when the privilege of microscopic biography was reservedfor the great and the criminal classes, and when the Bohemian celebrity(who is perhaps a cross between the two) was permitted to pass--like amagic-lantern slide--from obscurity to oblivion through an illuminatedmoment. 

Thus even her real name has not hitherto leaked out, and to this day theO'Keeffes are unaware of their relative's reputation and believe theirone connection with the stage to be a dubious and undesirableconsanguinity with O'Keeffe, the actor and fertile farce-writer whose_Wild Oats_ made a sensation at Covent Garden at the end of theeighteenth century. To her many brothers and sisters, Eileen was just thebaby, and always remained so, even in the eyes of the eminent civilengineer who was only her senior by a year. Among the peasantry--subtlyprescient of her freakish destinies--she was dubbed "a fairy child":which was by no means a compliment. A bad uncanny creature for all thecolleen's winsome looks. The later London whispers of a royal origin hada travestied germ of truth in her father's legendary descent from BrianBoru. He himself seemed scarcely less legendary, this highly colouredsquire of the old Irish school, surviving into the Victorian era, like aGeorgian caricature; still inhabiting a turreted castle romantically outof repair, infested with ragged parasites: still believing in high livingand deep drinking: still receiving the reverence if not the rent of afeudal tenantry, and the affection of a horsey and bibulous countryside. When in liquor there was nothing the O'Keeffe might not do except pay offhis mortgages. "He looked like an elephant when he put his trousers onwrong--you know elephants have their knees the wrong way, " Eileen oncetold the public in a patter-song. She did not tell the public it was herfather, but like a true artist she learned in suffering what she taughtin song. One of her childish memories was to be stood in a row ofbrothers and sisters against a background of antlers, fishing-rods, andracing prints, and solemnly sworn at for innumerability by a ruddy-facedgiant in a slovenly surtout. "Bad luck to ye, ye gomerals, make up yourminds whether ye're nine or eleven, " he would say. "A man ought to knowthe size of his family: Mother in heaven, I never thought mine was halfso large!" These attempts to take a census of his children generallyoccurred after a peasant had brought him up the drive--"hat in one hand, and Squire in the other, " as the patter-song had it. At the moment ofassisted entry his paternal dignity was always at its stateliest, and itwas not till he had gravely hung his cocked hat upon an imaginarydoor-peg in the middle of the hall and seen it flop floorward that helost his calm. "Blood and 'ouns, ye've the door taken away again. "

Sometimes--though this was scarcely a relief--another befuddled gentlemanwould be left at the uninhabited lodge in his stead. That was chieflyafter hunt dinners or card and claret parties, when a new coachman wouldtake a quartet of gentry home, all clouded as to their identities. "Arrahnow! they've got thimselves mixed! let thim sort thimselves. " And thecoachman would grab at the nearest limb, extricate it and its belongingsfrom the tangle, and prop the total mass against the first gate hepassed. And so with the rest. 

Eileen's mother, who was as remarkable for her microscopic piety as forthe beauty untarnished by a copious maternity, figured in the child'smemories as a stout saint who moved with a rustle of silken skirts andheaved an opulent black silk bosom relieved by a silver cross. 

"Who are you?" her spouse would inquire with an oath. 

"It's your wife I am, Bagenal dear, " she would reply cheerfully. For shehad grown up in the four-bottle tradition, and intoxication appeared asnatural for the superior sex as sleep. Both were temporary phases, anddid not prevent men from being the best of husbands and creatures whenclear. And when the marketwomen or the beggarwomen respectfully inquiredof her, "How is your good provider?" she made her reply with no sense ofirony, though she had been long paying the piper herself. And the piperfigured literally in the household accounts, as well as the fiddler, forthe O'Keeffe was what the mud cabins called a "ginthleman to thebackbone. "

II

Family tradition necessitated that Eileen should at least complete hereducation at a convent in the outskirts of Paris, and her first communionwas delayed till she should "make" it in that more pious atmosphere. TheO'Keeffe convoyed her across the two Channels, and took the opportunityof visiting a "variety" theatre in Montmartre, where he was delightedto find John Bull and his inelegant womenkind so faithfully delineated. So exhilarated was he by this excellent take-off and a few _bocks_ on theBoulevard, that he refused to get down from the omnibus at its terminus. 

"_Jamais je ne descendrai, jamais_, " he vociferated. Eileen was, however, spared the sight of this miniature French revolution. She was lyingsleepless in the strange new dormitory, watching the nun walking up anddown in the dim weird room reading her breviary, now lost in deep shadowwith the remoter beds, now lucidly outlined in purple dress with creamycross as she came under the central night-light. Eileen wondered how shecould see to read, and if she were not just posing picturesquely, butfrom the fervency with which she occasionally kissed the crucifixhanging to the rosary at her side Eileen concluded she must know theoffice by heart. Her own Irish home seemed on another planet, and herturret-bedroom was already far more shadowy than this: presently bothwere swallowed up into nothingness. 

She commenced her convent career characteristically enough by making asensation. For on rising in the morning she felt ineffably feeble andforlorn; she seemed to have scarcely closed her eyes, when she must be upand doing. The tiny hand-basin scarcely held enough water to cool herbrow, still giddy from the sea-passage; to do her hair she had to borrowa minute hand-glass from her neighbour, and when after early mass in thechapel she found other prayers postponing breakfast, she fainted mostalarmingly and dramatically. She was restored and refreshed withbalm-mint water, but it took some days to reconcile her to the rigidlife. To some aspects of it, indeed, she was never reconciled. Theatmosphere of suspicious supervision was asphyxiating, after thedisorderliness and warm humanity of her Irish home, after the run of thestables and the kennels, and the freedom of the village, after the chatswith the pedlars and the beggars, and the borrowing and blowing of thepostman's bugle, after the queenship of a host of barefooted gossoons, her loyal messenger-boys. Now her mere direct glance under reproofwas considered "_hardi_. " "Droop your eyes, you bold child, " said theshocked Madame Agathe. A fancy she took to a French girl was checked. "_On defend les amities particulières_, " she was told to herastonishment. But on this one point Eileen was recalcitrant. She wouldeven walk with her arm in Marcelle's, and somehow her will prevailed. Perhaps Eileen was trusted as a foreigner: perhaps Marcelle, being aday-boarder, weighed less upon the convent's conscience. There came atime when even their desks adjoined and were not put asunder. For by thistime _Madame La Supèrieure_ herself, at the monthly reading of the marks, had often beamed upon Eileen. The _maîtresse de classe_ had permittedher to kiss her crucifix, and the music-mistress was enchanted with herskill upon the piano and her rich contralto voice, such a godsend for thechoir. In her very first term she was allowed to run up to the dormitoryfor something, unescorted by an _Enfant de Marie_. "Ascend, my child, "said Madame Agathe, smiling sweetly, for Eileen had outstripped all herclassmates that morning in geography, and Eileen, with a prim "_Oui, mamere_, " rose and sailed with drooping eyelashes to the other end of theschoolroom, and courtesied herself out of the door, knowing herself thefocus of envy and humorously conscious of her goodness. She had learnedto love this soothing sensation of goodness, as she sat in her bluepelerine on a hard tabouret before her desk, her hands folded in front ofher, her little feet demurely crossed. The sweeping courtesy of entranceand exit dramatised this pleasant sense of virtue. Later her aspirant'sribbon painted it in purple. 

She worked hard for her examinations. "_Elle est si sage, cet enfant_, "she heard Madame Ursule say to Madame Hortense, and she had a delicioussense of overwork. But she was not always _sage_. Once when her schooldesk was ransacked in her absence--one of the many forms ofespionage--she refused to rearrange its tumbled contents, and when shewas given a bad mark for disorder, she cried defiantly, "It is MadameRosaline who deserves that bad mark. " And the pleasure of seeing herselfas rebel and phrasemaker was no less keen than the pleasure of goodness. 

One other institution found her regularly rebellious, and that was thepious reading which came punctually at half-past eight every morning. Shewas bored by all the holy heroines who seemed to have taken vows ofcelibacy at the age of four. "Devil take them all, " she thoughtwhimsically one morning. "But I dare say these good little people have nomore reality than our 'little good people' who dance reels with the deadon November Eve. I wish Dan O'Leary had taught them all to shake theirfeet, " and at the picture of jiggling little saints Eileen nearly gaveherself away by a peal of laughter. For she had learned to conceal herunshared contempt for the holy heroines, and found a compensatingpleasure in the sense of amused superiority, and the secret duality whichit gave to her consciousness. She even went so far as to ransack thelibrary for these beatific biographies, and when she found herselfrewarded for "diligent reading" her amusement was at its apogee. Andthus, when the first awe and interest of the strange life receded, Eileenwas left standing apart as on a little rock, criticising, satirising, andeven circulating verses among the few cronies who were not sneaks. Thedowerless "sisters" who scrubbed the floors, the portioned _Mesdames_, with their more dignified humility, the Refectory readers, the FatherConfessors, the little _Enfants de Jésus_, the big _Enfants de Marie_, who sometimes owed their blue ribbon to their birth or their money ratherthan to their exemplary behaviour, all had their humours, and all figuredin Eileen's French couplets. The difficulty of passing these from hand tohand only made the reading--and the writing--the spicier. Literature didnot interfere with lessons, for Eileen composed not during "preparation, "but while she sat embroidering handkerchiefs, as demure as a sleepingkitten. 

When the kitten was not thus occupied, she was playing with skeins oflogic and getting herself terribly tangled. 

She put her difficulties to her favourite nun as they walked in thequaint arcades of the lovely old garden, and their talk was punctuatedby the flippant click of croquet-balls in the courtyard beyond. 

"Madame Agathe is pleased with me to-day, " said Eileen. "To-morrow shewill be displeased. But how can I help the colour of my soul any morethan the colour of my hair?"

"Hush, my child; if you talk like that you will lose your faith. Nobodyis pleased or vexed with anybody for the colour of their hair. "

"Yes, where I come from a peasant girl suffers a little for having redhair. Also a man with a hump, he cannot marry unless he owns many pigs. "

"Eileen! Who has put such dreadful thoughts into your head?"

"That is what I ask myself, _ma mère_. Many things are done to me and Isit in the centre looking on, like the weathercock on our castle at home, who sees himself turning this way and that way and can only creak. "

"A weathercock is dead--you are alive. "

"Not at night, _ma mère_. At home in my bedroom I used to put out mycandle every night by clapping the extinguisher upon it. Who is it putsthe extinguisher upon me?"

The good sister almost wished it could be she. 

But she replied gently, "It is God who gives us sleep--we can't be alwaysawake. "

"Then I am not responsible for my dreams anyhow?"

"I hope you don't have bad dreams, " said the nun, affrighted. 

"Oh, I dream--what do I not dream? Sometimes I fly--oh, so high, and allthe people look up at me, they marvel. But I laugh and kiss my hand tothem down there. "

"Well, there's no harm in flying, " said the nun. "The angels fly. "

"Oh, but I am not always an angel in my dreams. Is it God who sends thesebad dreams, too?"

"No--that is the devil. "

"Then it is sometimes he who puts the extinguisher on?"

"That is when you have not said your prayers properly. "

Eileen opened wide eyes of protest. "Oh, but, dear mother, I always saymy prayers properly. "

"You think so? That is already a sin in you--the sin of spiritual pride. "

"But, _ma mere_, devil-dreams or angel-dreams--it is always the same inthe morning. Every morning one finds oneself ready on the pillow, like aclock that has been wound up. One did not make the works. "

"But one can keep them clean. "

Eileen burst into a peal of laughter. 

"_Qu'avez-vous donc?_" said the good creature in vexation. 

"I thought of a clock washing its face with its hands. "

"You are a naughty child--one cannot talk seriously to you. "

"Oh, dear mother, I am just as serious when I am laughing as when I amcrying. "

"My child, we must never cultivate the mocking spirit. Leave me. I amvexed with you. "

As her first communion approached, however, all these simmerings ofscepticism and revolt died down into the recommended _recueillement_. Herdays of retreat, passed in holy exercises, were an ecstasy of absorptioninto the divine, and the pious readings began to assume a truercomplexion as the experiences of sister-souls, deep crying unto deep. Oh, how she yearned to take the vows, to leave the trivial distracting lifeof the outer world for the peace of self-sacrificial love!

As she sat in the chapel, all white muslin and white veil, her hairbraided under a little cap, the new rosary of amethyst--a gift fromhome--at her side, her hands clasped, exalted by incense and flowers andthe sweet voices of the choir, chanting Gounod's Canticle, "_Le Ciel avisité la terre_, " she felt that never more would she let this celestialvisitant go. When after the communion she pulled the last piece ofveiling over her face, she felt that it was for ever between her and thecrude world of sense; the "Hymn of Thanksgiving" was the apt expressionof her emotions. 

But next time she came under these aesthetic, devotional influences--evenas her own voice was soaring heavenward in the choir--she thought toherself, "How delicious to have an emotion which you feel will last forever and which you know won't!" And a gleam of amusement flitted over herrapt features. 

III

When Eileen returned to the Convent after her first summer vacation inIreland she was richer by a surreptitious correspondent. He wrote to her, care of Marcelle, who had a careless mother. He was a young officer fromthe neighbouring barracks who, invited to make merry with the hospitableO'Keeffe, had fallen a victim to Eileen's girlish charms and matureappearance, for Eileen carried herself as if her years were three moreand her inches six higher. Her face had the winsome Irish sweetness; it, too, looked lovelier than a scientific survey would have determined. Hernose was straightish, her mouth small, her lashes were long and dark andconspired with her dark hair to trick a casual observer into thinking hereyes dark, but they were grey with little flecks of golden light if youlooked closelier than you should. Her hands were large but finely shaped, with long fingers somewhat turned back at the tips, and pretty pinknails--the hands were especially noticeable, because even when Eileen wasnot playing the pianoforte, she was prone to extend her thumb as thoughstretching an octave and to flick it as though striking a note. 

It was not love-letters, though, that Lieutenant Doherty sent Eileen, for the schoolgirl had always taken him in a motherly way, and indeedsigned herself "Your Mother-Confessor. " But the mystery and difficultyof smuggling the letters to and fro lent colour to the drab Conventdays, far vivider colour than the whilom passing of verses. So longas Marcelle's desk remained next to Eileen's it was comparativelyeasy--though still risky--while one's head was studiously buried in"Greek roots, " for one's automatic hand to pass or receive the letterbeneath the desks through the dangerous space of daylight between thetwo. "Let not your right hand know what your left hand doeth, " Eileenonce quoted when Marcelle's conscience pricked. For Marcelle imaginedan amour of the darkest dye, and could not understand Eileen's calmnessany more than Eileen could understand Marcelle's romantic palpitationsalternating with suggestive sniggerings. 

But when Marcelle was at length separated from Eileen by a suspiciousmanagement, a much more breathless plan was necessary. For Marcelle woulddeposit the Doherty letter in Eileen's compartment in the curtained rowof little niches--where one kept one's work-bag, atlas, and othereducational reserves--or Eileen would slip the reply into Marcelle's, andthere it would lie, exposed to inspectorial ransacking, till such timesas Eileen or Marcelle could transfer it to her bosom. Poor Marcelle livedwith her heart in her mouth, trembling, at every rustle of the curtain, for her purple ribbon. However, luck favoured the bold, while the onlybad moment in which Eileen was on the verge of detection she surmountedby a stroke of genius. 

"What are you hiding there?" said the music-mistress, more sharply thanshe was wont to address her pet pupil. Eileen put her hand to her bosom. 'Twas as if she were protecting the young lieutenant from pursuing foes, and he became romantically dear to her in that perilous moment, pregnantwith swift invention. 

She looked round with dramatic mysteriousness. "Hush, _ma mère_, " shebreathed; "the Mother Superior might hear. "

"Ah, it concerns the Reverend Mother's fête, " cried the music-mistress, falling into the trap and even saving Eileen from the lie direct. "Good, my child, " and she smiled tenderly upon her. For the birthday of the LadySuperior which was imminent was heralded by infinite mysteriousness. TheReverend Mother was taken by surprise, regularly and punctually. Thegirls all subscribed, their parents were invited to send plants andflowers. The air vibrated with sublime secrecy, amid which the ReverendMother walked guilelessly. And when the great day came and the fête wasduly sprung upon her, and the pupils all dressed in white overwhelmed herwith bouquets and courtesies, how exquisite was her pleased astonishment!That night talking was allowed in the Refectory, and how the girlsjabbered! It was like the rolling of ceaseless thunder--one would havethought they had never talked before and never would talk again, and thatthey were anxious to unload themselves once for all. 

"How the ordinary becomes the extraordinary by being forbidden, "philosophised Eileen. "At the Castle I can do a hundred things, whichhere become enormous privileges, even if I am allowed to do them at all. Is it so with everything they say is wrong? Is all sin artificial, and dopeople sin so zestfully only because they are cramped? Or is there aresidue of real wickedness?" Thus she thought, struggling against theobsession of an inquisitorial system which merely clouded her perceptionsof real right and wrong. And alone she ate silently, a saintly figureamid the laughing, chattering crew. 

She wrote her maternal admonitions to young Doherty during thepreparation-time, and far keener than her sense of the lively, good-looking young officer was her sense of the double life she ledthrough him in this otherwise monotonous Convent. When she achieved theblue ribbon of the _Enfants de Marie_, for which she had worked with truedevotion, it added poignancy to her pious pleasure to think that onefalse step in her secret life would have marred her overt life. 

IV

As the end of her conventual period drew nigh Eileen resolved never togo back to the spotted world, but to ask her father to pay her dowry asBride to the Church, and she had just placed in Marcelle's niche theletter informing Lieutenant Doherty of her call to the higher life (andpointing out how apter than ever his confessions would now be) whenMarcelle's signal warned her to look in her own niche. There she found aletter which she could not read till bread-and-chocolate time, but whichthen took the flavour out of these refreshments. Her lover--he leaped tothat verbal position in her thought in this moment of crisis--was orderedoff in haste to Afghanistan. The geographical proficiency which had wonher so many marks served her only too well, but she hastened to extracther atlas from the fatal niche, and to pore over her geographical misery. She felt she ought to withdraw her own letter for revision, but she couldnot get at Marcelle or even make her understand. In her perturbation shegave Cabul and Candahar as Kings of Navarre, and Marcelle, implacable asa pillar-box, went away in the evening like a mail-cart. 

But the very same night the Superior handed Eileen an opened cablegramwhich banished Lieutenant Doherty much farther than Afghanistan. Herfather was very ill, and called her to his bedside. Things had a way ofhappening simultaneously to Eileen, these coincidences dogged her life, so that she came to think of them as the rival threads of her lifegetting tangled at certain points and then going off separately again. After all, if you have several strings to your life, she told herself, it would be more improbable that they should always remain separate thanthat they should sometimes intertwine. 

Eileen reached the Castle through a tossing avenue of villagers, weepingand blessing, and divined from their torment of sympathy that "hishonour" was already in his grave. Poor feckless father, how she had lovedhim spite all his rollicking ways, or perhaps because of them. Throughher tears she saw him counting--on his entry into Paradise--the childrenwho had preceded him, and more than ever fuzzled by the flapping of theirwings. Oh, poor dearest, how unhomely it would all be to him, this otherworld where his jovial laugh would shock the nun-like spirits, wherethere was no more claret, cold, mulled, or buttered, and no sound of hornor tally-ho. 

Perhaps it was as well that so many of his brood had gone before him, forwith his departure the Castle fell metaphorically about the ears of thesurvivors. Creditors gave quarter no longer, and Mrs. O'Keeffe foundherself reduced to a modest red-gabled farmhouse, with nothing saved fromthe crash save that part of her dowry which was invested in trustees forthe education of her boys. There was no question of Eileen returning tothe Convent as a pupil: her desire to take the veil failed at the thoughtthat now she could only be a dowerless working-sister, not a teacher. Andfor teaching, especially music-teaching, she felt she had a real gift. Bya natural transition arose the idea of becoming a music-teacher or agoverness outside a Convent, and since her stay at home only helped todiminish her mother's resources, she resolved to augment them by leavingher. Family pride forbade the neighbourhood witnessing a deeper decline. The O'Keeffes were still "the Quality"; it would be better to seek herfortunes outside Ireland and retain her prestige at home. The dualexistence would give relish and variety. 

Eileen's mind worked so quickly that she communicated these ideas to hermother, ere that patient lady had quite realised that never more wouldshe say, "It's your wife I am, Bagenal dear. "

"No, no, you are not to be going away, " cried Mrs. O'Keeffe, in alarm. 

"Why wouldn't I?" asked Eileen. 

Mrs. O'Keeffe could not tell, but looked mysterious meanings. Thisexcited Eileen, so that the poor woman had no rest till she answeredplainly, "Because, mavourneen, it's married you are going to be, please the saints. "

"Married! Me!"

"It was your father's dying wish, God keep his soul. "

"But to whom?"

"You should be asking the priest how good he is. Didn't you notice thatthe chapel is being white-washed afresh and how clear the Angelus bellrings? Not that it matters much to him, for he has lashings of money aswell as a heart of gold. "

"Hasn't he a name, too?"

"Don't jump down my throat, Eileen darling. I shouldn't be thinking ofO'Flanagan if your father--"

"O'Flanagan! Do you mean the man that bought our Castle at the auction?"

"And isn't it beautifully repaired he's having it for you? He saw youwhen you were home for the holidays, and he asked us for your hand, allso humble, but your father told him he must wait till you came home forgood. "

"O'Flanagan!" Eileen flicked him away with her thumb. "A half-mountedgentleman like that. "

"Eileen aroon, beggars can't be choosers. "

Eileen flushed all over her body. "No more can beggars on horseback. "

"Your father will be sorry you take it like that, mavourneen. " And thestout saint burst into tears. 

Eileen winced. She could almost have flung her arms round her mother andpromised to think of it. Suddenly she remembered Lieutenant Doherty. Howdared they tear her away from the man she loved! They had not evenconsulted her. She flicked her thumb agitatedly on the back of hermother's chair. Let her weep! Did they want to sell her, to exchange herfor a castle, as if she were a chess-piece? The thought made her smileagain. 

Her mother said no more, but she could not have employed a moreconvincing eloquence. The reticence wrought upon Eileen's nerves. After acouple of months of maternal meekness and family poverty, the suggestedsacrifice began to appeal to her. A letter from Doherty on his steamer(forwarded to her from Paris by Marcelle), passionately protestingagainst her intention to take the vows, came to remind her that sacrificewas what she yearned for. The coming of the letter was providential, shetold herself: if Marcelle had not posted hers against her will, she mightnot have had this monition. To return to the Castle as a bride, martyredfor the family redemption, was really only a way of returning to theConvent. It meant a life of penance for the good of others. To thinkof her mother sunning herself again upon the battlemented terrace, orsleeping--if only as guest--in the great panelled bedroom, brought a lumpto her throat; her poor tenantry, too, should bless her name; she wouldglide among them like a spirit, very sad, yet with such healing in hersmile and in her touch. "Sure the misthress is the swatest angel God iversint, so she is. " At home she would sit and spin in the old tapestriedroom, her own life as faded, and sometimes she would dream in the hall, among the antlers and beast-skins, and watch the great burning logs, somuch more poetic than this peat smoke which hurt one's eyes. Ah, but thenthere was O'Flanagan. Well, he would not be much in the way. He likedriding over his new estate in his buckskin breeches, cracking his greatloaded whip. She had met him herself once or twice, and the great shycreature had blushed furiously and ridden off down the first bridle-path. "I turn his horse's head as well as his, " she had thought with a smile. Yes, she must sacrifice herself. How strange that the nuns shouldimagine you only renounced by giving up earthly life. Why, earthly lifemight be the most celestial renunciation of all. But Lieutenant Doherty, what of him? Had she the right to sacrifice him, too? But then she hadnever given him any claim upon her--she had been merely his littlemother-confessor. If he had dared to love her--as his passionate protestagainst the veil seemed to suggest--it was at his own risk. Poor Doherty, how grieved he would be in far Afghanistan. He would probably rush uponthe assegais and die, murmuring her name. Her eyes filled with delicioustears. She sat down and scribbled him a letter hastily, announcing herimpending marriage, and posted it at once, so as to put herself beyondtemptation to draw back. Then she dashed to her mother's room and sobbedout, "Dear heart, I consent to be martyred. "

"What?" said Mrs. O'Keeffe, opening her eyes. 

"I consent to be married, " Eileen corrected hastily. 

"Do you mean to Mr. O'Flanagan?" Mrs. O'Keeffe's face became red as thesun in mist. The cross heaved convulsively on her black silk bosom. 

"To whom else? You haven't forgotten he wanted to marry me. "

"No, but _he_ has, I am fearing. "

"What?" It was now Eileen's turn to open her eyes, and the tears dried onher lashes as she listened. Mrs. O'Keeffe explained, amid the ebb andflow of burning blood, that she had waited in vain for Mr. O'Flanagan torenew his proposal. At first she thought he was waiting for a decentinterval to elapse, or for the Castle to be ready for his bride, butgradually she had become convinced by his silence and by the way heavoided her eye when they met and turned his horse down the nearestboreen, that Eileen had been right in calling him half-mounted. He hadproposed when he imagined the Squire's fortunes were as of yore, but nowhe feared he would have to support the ruined family. Well, he needn'tfear. The family wouldn't touch him with a forty-foot pole. 

"If only your poor father had been alive, " wound up Mrs. O'Keeffe, "thedirty upstart would never have dared to put such an insult on hisorphaned daughter, that he wouldn't, and if Dan O'Leary should hear ofit--which the saints forbid--it's not the jig that his foot would beteaching Mr. O' Flanagan. "

The bathos of this anti-climax to martyrdom was too grotesque. Eileenburst into a peal of laughter, which was taken by her mother as a tributeto her lively vituperation. Decidedly, life was deliciously odd. Suddenlyshe remembered her posted letter to Doherty, and she laughed louder. 

Should she send another on its heels? No, it would be rather difficult toexplain. Besides, it would be so interesting to see how he replied. 

V

Holly Hall--Eileen's first place--was in the English midlands, towardsthe North: a sombre stone house looking down on a small manufacturingtown, whose very grass seemed dingied with coal-dust. "A dromedary town, "Eileen dubbed it; for it consisted of a long level with two humps, standing in a bleak desert. On one of the humps she found herselfperched. Below--between the humps--lay the town proper, with its savourof grime and gain. The Black Hole was Eileen's name for this quarter;and indeed you might leave your hump, bathed in sunlight, dusty but stillsunlight, and as you came down the old wagon-road you would plunge deeperand deeper into the yellowish fog which the poor townspeople mistook fordaylight. The streets of the Black Hole bristled with public-houses, banks, factories, and dissenting chapels. The population was given overto dogs and football, and medical men abounded. Arches, blank walls, andhoardings were flamboyant with ugly stage-beauties, melodramatictableaux, and the advertisements of tailors. After the Irish glens andthe Convent garden the Black Hole was not exhilarating. 

Mr. Maper, the proprietor of Holly Hall, was a mill-owner, a big-boned, kindly man, who derived his Catholicism from an Irish mother, and hadtherefore been pleased to find an Irish girl among the candidates for thepost of companion to his wife. 

As he drove her from the station up the steep old wagon-road he explainedthe situation, in more than one sense. Eileen's girlish intuition helpedhis lame sentences over the stiles. Briefly, she was to polish thequondam mill-hand, whom he had married when he, too, was a factoryoperative, but who had not been able to rise with him. He was an aldermanand a J. P. That made things difficult enough. But how if he became Mayor?An alderman has no necessary feminine, not even alderwoman, but Mayormakes Mayoress. And a Mayoress is not safe from the visits of royaltyitself. Of course the Mayoress was not to suspect she was being refined;"made a Lady Mayoress, " as Eileen put it to herself. 

She entered with a light heart upon a task she soon found heavy. Forthe mistress of Holly Hall had no sense of imperfections. She was atall and still good-looking person, and this added to her fatalcomplacency. Eileen saw that she imagined God made the woman and moneythe lady, and that between a female in a Paris bonnet and a female in ahead-shawl there was a natural gap as between a crested cockatoo and ahedge-sparrow. Mrs. Maper indeed suffered badly from swelled self, for ithad subconsciously expanded with its surroundings. The wide rooms of theHall were her spacious skirts, bedecked with the long glitter of theglass-houses; her head reached the roof and wore the weathercock as afeather in her bonnet. All those whirring engines in the misty valleybelow were her demon-slaves, and the chimneys puffed up incense at her. When she drove out, her life-blood coursed pleasurably through theramping, glossy horses. 

Mrs. Maper, in short, saw herself an empress. It was simply impossiblefor her to realise that there were eyes which could still see thehead-shawl, not the crown. Her one touch of dignity was grotesque--itconsisted of extending her arm like a stiff sceptre, in moments ofemphasis, and literally pointing her remarks with her forefinger. Sometimes she pointed to the ceiling, sometimes to the carpet, sometimesto the walls. This digital punctuation appeared to be not onlysuperfluous but irrelevant, for Heaven might be invoked from the floor. 

With this bejewelled lady Eileen passed her days either on the Hump, orin the Black Hole, or in the environs, and but for her sense of humourand her power of leading a second life above or below her first, hertenure of the post would have been short. The most delicate repetitionsof mispronounced words, the subtlest substitution of society phrases forfactory idioms, fell blunted against an impenetrable ignorance andself-sufficiency. Short of dropping the pose of companion and boldlyrapping a pupil on the knuckles, there seemed to her no way of modifyingher mistress. "Who can refine what Fortune has gilded?" she asked herselfin humorous despair. The appearance of Mr. Maper at dinner brought littlerelief. It was a strange meal in the lordly dining room--three coverslaid at one end of the long mahogany table, under the painted stare ofsomebody else's ancestors. Eileen's girlish enjoyment of the prodigalfare was spoiled by her furtive watch on the hostess's fork. Nor did thealderman contribute ease, for he was on pins lest the governess shouldreveal her true mission, and on needles lest his wife should reveal hertrue depths. Likewise he worried Eileen to drink his choicest wines. Vintages that she felt her father would have poised on his tongue inmystic clucking ecstasy stood untasted in a regiment of little glassesat her elbow. 

She repaid them, however, by adroit educational remarks. 

"How stupid of me again!" she said once. "I held out my hock glass forthe champagne! Do tell me again which is which, dear Mrs. Maper. "

"I suppose you never had a drink of champagne in your life afore you comehere, " said Mrs. Maper, beamingly. And she indicated the port glass. 

"No, no, Lucy, don't play pranks on a stranger, " her husband put intactfully. "It's this glass, Miss O'Keeffe. "

"Oh, thank you!" Eileen gushed. "And this is what? Sherry?"

"No, port, " replied Mr. Maper, scarcely able to repress a wink. 

"You'll have to tell me again to-morrow night, " said Eileen, enjoying herown comedy powers. "My poor father tried to teach me the differencebetween bird's-eye and shag, but I could never remember. "

"Ah, Bob's the boy for teaching you that, " guffawed the mill owner. "Istick to half-crown cigars myself. " His wife shot him a dignified rebuke, as though he were forgetting his station in undue familiarity. 

Afterwards Eileen wondered who Bob was, but at the moment she could thinkof nothing but the farcical complications arising from the idea of Mrs. Maper's providing Mr. Maper with a male companion secretly to improve_his_ manners. Of course the _two_ companions would fall in love witheach other. 

After dinner things usually woke up a little, for Eileen was made to playand even sing from the scores of "Madame Angot" and other recent comicoperas--a form of music that had not hitherto come her way, though it wasthe only form the music-racks held to feed the grand piano with. Not tillthe worthy couple had retired, could she permit herself her old Irishairs, or the sonatas and sacred pieces of the Convent. 

VI

Accident--the key to all great inventions--supplied Eileen with a new wayof educating her mistress. The cook had been impertinent, Mrs. Mapercomplained. "Why don't you hunt her?" Eileen replied. Mrs. Mapercorrected the Irishism by saying, "Do you mean dismiss?" Eileen hastenedto accuse herself of Irish imperfections, and henceforward begged tolearn the correct phrases or pronunciations. Sometimes she venturedapologetically to wonder if the Irish way was not more approved of thedictionary. Then they would wander into the library in the apparentlyunoccupied wing, and consult dictionary after dictionary till Eileenhoped Mrs. Maper's brain had received an indelible impression. 

One Sunday afternoon a friendly orthoepical difference of this naturearose even as Mrs. Maper sat in her palatial drawing room waiting forcallers, and they repaired to the library, Mrs. Maper arguing the pointwith loud good humour. A glass door giving by corkscrew iron steps on thegarden, banged hurriedly as they made their chattering entry. The rows ofbooks--that had gone with the Hall like the family portraits--stretchedsilently away, but amid the smell of leather and learning, Eileen'slively nostrils detected the whiff of the weed, and sure enough on thetop of a stepladder reposed a plain briar pipe beside an unclosed Greekfolio. 

"The scent is hot, " she thought, touching the still warm bowl. "Bob seemsas scared as a rabbit and as learned as an owl. " Suddenly she haddifficulty in repressing a laugh. What if Bob _were_ the correspondingmale companion!

"I see Mr. Robert has forgotten his pipe, " she said audaciously. 

Mrs. Maper was taken aback. "The--the boy is shy, " she stammered. 

What! Was there a son lying _perdu_ in the house all this while? Whatfun! A son who did not even go to church or to his mother's receptions. But how had he managed to escape her? And why did nobody speak of him?Ah, of course, he was a cripple, or facially disfigured, morbidlydreading society, living among his books. She had read of such things. Poor young man!

After dinner she found herself examining the family album inquisitively, but beyond a big-browed and quite undistorted baby nursing a kitten, there did not seem anything remotely potential, and she smiled at herselfas she thought of the difficulty of evolving bibs into briar pipes anddeveloping Greek folios out of kittens. 

From Mrs. Maper's keenness about the University Boat Race as it drewnear, and from her wearing on the day itself a dark blue gown trimmedprofusely with ribbons of the same hue, Eileen divined that Bob was anOxford man. This gave the invisible deformed a new touch of interest, butlong ere this Eileen had found a much larger interest--the theatre. 

She had never been to the play, and the Theatre Royal of the Black Holewas the scene of her induction into this enchantment. In those days thetouring company system had not developed to its present complexity, andthe theatre had been closed during the first month or so of Eileen'sresidence in Dromedary Town. But at length, to Mrs. Maper's delight, acompany arrived with a melodrama, and as part of her duties, Eileen, noless excited over the new experience (which her Confessor had permittedher), drove with her mistress behind a pair of spanking steeds to theWednesday _matinee_. Mrs. Maper alleged her inability to leave herhomekeeping husband as the cause of her daylight playgoing, but Eileenmaliciously ascribed it to the pomp of the open carriage. 

They occupied a box and Eileen was glad they did. For instead ofundergoing the illusion of the drama, she found it killingly comic assoon as she understood that it was serious. It was all she could do tohide her amusement from her entranced companion, and somehow this box atthe theatre reminded her of the Convent room in which she used to sitlistening to the pious readings anent infant prodigies. One afternoon itcame upon her that here Mrs. Maper had learned her strange pump handlegestures. Here it was that ladies worked arms up and down and pointeddenunciatory forefingers, albeit the direction had more reference to thesentiment. 

It was not till a comic opera came along that Eileen was able to take thetheatre seriously. Then she found some of the melodies of the drawingroom scores wedded to life and diverting action, sometimes even to poeticdancing; the first gleam of poetry the stage gave her. When these airswere lively, Mrs. Maper's feet beat time and Eileen lived in the fearthat she would arise and prance in her box. It was an effervescence ofjoyous life--the factory girl recrudescent--and Eileen's hand would lielightly on Mrs. Maper's shoulder, feeling like a lid over a kettle aboutto boil. 

When they came home Eileen would gratify her mistress by imitations ofcomedians. Presently she ventured on the tragedians, without being seenthrough. She even raised her arm towards the ceiling or shot it towardsthe centre of the carpet pattern, and Mrs. Maper followed it spellbound. 

But from all these monkey tricks she found relief in her real music. Whenshe crooned the old Irish songs, the Black Hole was washed away as by thesoft Irish rain, and the bogs stretched golden with furze-blossom andsilver with fluffy fairy cotton, and at the doors of the stragglingcabins overhung by the cloud-shadowed mountains, blue-cloaked womensat spinning, and her eyes filled with tears as though the peat smokehad got into them. 

VII

In such a mood she was playing one Saturday evening in the intervalbefore dinner, when she became aware that somebody was listening, andturning her head, she saw through the Irish mist a man's figure standingin the conservatory. The figure was vanishing when she cried out a whithuskily, "Oh, pray, don't let me drive you away. "

He stood still. "If I am not interrupting your music, " he murmured. 

"Not at all, " she said, breaking it off altogether. 

As the mist cleared she had a vivid impression of a tall, fair youngman against a background of palms. "Eyes burning under a white marblemantel-piece, " she summed up his face. Could this uncrippled, rathergood-looking person be Bob?

"Won't you come in, Mr. Robert?" she said riskily. 

"I only wished to thank you, " he said, sliding a step or two into theroom. 

"There is nothing to thank me for, " she said, whirling her stool to facehim. "It's my way of amusing myself. " She was glad she was in her eveningfrock. 

"Amusing yourself!" He looked aghast. 

"What else? I am alone--I have nothing better in the world to do. "

"Does it amuse you?" He was flushed now, even the marble mantel-pieceruddied by the flame. "I wish it amused me. "

Now it was Eileen's turn to gasp. "Then why do you listen?"

"I don't listen--I bury myself as far away as I can. "

"So I have understood. Then what are you thanking me for?"

"For what you are doing for--. " his hesitation was barelyperceptible--"my mother. "

"Oh!" Eileen looked blank. "I thought you meant for my music. "

His face showed vast relief. "Oh, you were talking of your music! Ofcourse, of course, how stupid of me! That is what has drawn me from myhole, like a rat to the Pied Piper, and I do thank you most sincerely. But being drawn, what I most wished to thank the Piper for was--"

"Your mother pays the Piper for that, " she broke in. 

He smiled but tossed his head. "Money! what is that?"

"It is more than I deserve for mere companionship--pleasant drives andtheatres. "

He did not accept her delicate reticence. 

"But you have altered her wonderfully!" he cried. 

"Oh, I have not, " she cried, doubly startled. "It's just nothing that Ihave done--nothing. " Then she felt her modesty had put her foot in abog-hole. Unseeingly he helped her out. 

"It is most kind of you to put it like that. But I see it in everymovement, every word. She imitates you unconsciously--I became curious tosee so excellent a model, though I had resolved not to meet you. No, no, please, don't misunderstand. "

"I don't, " she said mischievously. "You have now given me three reasonsfor seeing me. You need give me none for not seeing me. "

"But you must understand, " he said, colouring again, "how painful allthis has been for me--"

"Not seeing me?" she interpolated innocently. 

"The--the whole thing, " he stammered. 

"Yes, parents are tiresome, " she said sympathetically. 

He came nearer the music-stool. 

"Are they not? They came down every year for the Eights. "

"Is that at Oxford?"

"Yes. "

She was silent; her thumb flicked at a note on the keyboard behind her. 

"But that's not what I mind in them most--"

She wondered at the rapidity with which his shyness was passing intoeffusiveness. But then was she not the "Mother-Confessor"? Had not evenher favourite nuns told her things about their early lives, even whenthere was no moral to be pointed? "They're very good-hearted, " shemurmured apologetically. "I'm often companion--in charity expeditions. "

"It's easy to be good-hearted when you don't know what to do with yourmoney. This place is full of such people. But I look in vain for thediviner impulse. "

Eileen wondered if he were a Dissenter. But then "the place was full ofsuch people. "

"You don't think there's enough religion?" she murmured. 

"There's certainly plenty of churches and chapels. But I find myselfisolated here. You see, I'm a Socialist. "

Eileen crossed herself instinctively. 

"You don't believe in God!" she cried in horror. For the good nuns hadtaught her that "_les socialistes_" were synonymous with "_les athées_. "

He laughed. "Not, if by God you mean Mammon. I don't believe inProperty--we up here in the sun and the others down there in the soot. "

"But you _are_ up here, " said Eileen, naively. 

"I can't help it. My mother would raise Cain. " He smiled wistfully. "Shecouldn't bear to see a stranger helping father in the factorymanagement. "

"Then you _are_ down there. "

"Quite so. I work as hard as any one even if my labour isn't manual. Idress like an ordinary hand, too, though my mother doesn't know that, forI change at the office. "

"But what good does that do?"

"It satisfies my conscience. "

"And I suppose the men like it?"

"No, that's the strange part. They don't. And father only laughs. But onemust persist. At Oxford I worked under Ruskin. "

"Oh, you're an artist!"

"No, I didn't mean that part of Ruskin's work. His gospel of labour--wehad a patch for digging. "

"What--real spades!"

"Did you imagine we called a spoon a spade?" he said, a whit resentfully. 

Eileen smiled. "No, but I can't imagine you using a common or gardenspade. "

"You are thinking of my hands. " He looked at them, not withoutcomplacency, Eileen thought, as she herself wondered where he had got hislong white fingers from. "But it is a couple of years ago, " he explained. "It was hard work, I assure you. "

"Did your mother know?" Eileen asked with a little whimsical look. 

"Of course not. She would have been horrified. "

"Well, but most people would be surprised. "

"Yes. Put your muscle into an oar or a cricket bat and you are a hero;put your muscle into a spade and you are a madman. "

"You think it's _vice versa_?" queried Eileen, ingenuously. 

"Much more. At least, " he stammered and coloured again, "I don't pose asa hero but simply--"

"As what?" Eileen still looked innocent. 

"I simply think work is the noblest function of man, " he burst forth. "Don't you?"

"I do not, " answered Eileen. "Work is a curse. If the serpent had nottempted Eve to break God's commandment, we should still be basking inParadise. "

He looked at her curiously. "You believe that?"

"Isn't it in the Bible?" she answered, seriously astonished. 

"Whatever the primitive Semitic allegorist may have thought, work is ablessing, not a curse. "

"Then you _are_ an atheist!" Eileen recoiled from this strange young man. 

"Ah, you shrink back!" he said in tones of bitter pleasure. "I told you Ilived in isolation. "

Eileen's humour shot forth candidly. "You'll not be isolated when youdie. "

His bitterness passed into genial superiority. "You mean I'll go to hell. How can you believe anything so horrible?"

"Why is that horrible for me to believe? For you--" And she filled up thesentence with a smile. 

"I don't believe you do believe it. "

"There's nothing you seem to believe. I do honestly think that you can'tbe saved if you don't believe. "

"I accept that. The question, however, is what kind of belief and whatkind of saving. Do you suppose Plato is in hell?"

"I don't know. He invented Platonic love, didn't he? So that might savehim. " She looked at him with her great grey eyes--he couldn't tellwhether she was quizzing him or not. 

"Is that all you know of Plato?"

"I know he was a Greek philosopher. But I only learned Greek roots at theConvent. So Plato is Greek to me. "

"He has been beautifully Englished by the Master of my College. I wishyou'd read him. "

"Is the translation in the library?"

"Of course--with lots of other interesting books, and such queer foliosand quartos and first editions. The collector was a man of taste. Why doyou never come and let me show them you?"

"You'd run away. "

"No, I wouldn't, " he smiled encouragingly. 

"Yes, you would. And leave your pipe on Plato!"

He laughed. "Was I rude? But I didn't know you then. Come to-morrowafternoon and show you've forgiven me. "

The new interest was sufficiently tempting. But her maidenliness heldback. "I'll come with your mother. "

Disgust lent him wit. "You're her companion--not she yours. "

"True. Nor I yours. "

"Then I'll come here. "

"Bringing the Plato and the folios--?"

"Why not? You can't forbid me my own drawing-room. "

"I can run away and leave my crochet-hook behind. "

"You'll find me hooked on whenever you return. "

"Well, if you're determined--by hook or by crook! But you're not going toconvert me to Socialism?"

"I won't promise. "

"You must. I don't mind reading Plato. "

"He's worse. He isn't a Christian at all. "

"I don't mind that. He's B. C. He couldn't help it. But you Socialistscame after Christ. "

"How do you know Socialism isn't a return to Him?"

"Is it?"

"Aha! You are getting interested. . . . But I hear my mother coming down todinner. To be continued in our next. _À demain_, is it not?"

He held out his shapely white hand, and hastened through the conservatoryinto the garden. 

"Going to dig?" Eileen called after him maliciously. 

VIII

Eileen became interested in Robert Maper, for the old books he openedup to her were quite new and enlarging. She had imagined the Churchreplacing Paganism as light replaced darkness. Now she felt that it wasonly as gas replaced candle-light. The darkness was less Egyptian thanthe nuns insinuated. Plato in particular was a veritable chandelier. Itoccurred to her suddenly that he might be on the black list. But she wasafraid to ask her Confessor for fear of hearing her doubt confirmed. Totell the good father of the semi-secret meetings in the library wouldhave been superfluous, since there was nothing to conceal even from Mrs. Maper, though that lady did not happen to know of them. Eileen did noteven use the garden door. Besides, there was never a formal appointment, not infrequently, indeed, a disappointment, when the library held nothingbut books. Robert Maper merely provided that possibility of an innocentdouble life, without which existence would have been too savourless forEileen. Even a single line of railway always appeared dismal to her; sheliked the great junctions with their bewildering intertanglements, theirpossibilities of collision. And now that Lieutenant Doherty had fadedaway into Afghanistan and silence--he did not even acknowledge the letterannouncing her approaching marriage--Robert Maper proved a usefulsubstitute. 

One day Mr. Maper senior invited her to drive down with him and go overthe factory, and as Mrs. Maper was not averse from impressing heremployée by the sight of the other employes, she was permitted to go. Nothing, however, would induce Mrs. Maper to adventure herself in thesescenes of her early life, touching which she professed a sovereignignorance. "Machines are so clattery, " she said. "My head wouldn't standthem. I once went to that exhibition in London and I said to myself, never no more for this gal. "

"And you never did go _any_ more since you were a _girl_?" asked thecompanion, with professional pointedness. 

"No, never no more, " replied Mrs. Maper, serenely, "once is too often, asthe gal said when the black man kissed her. "

Eileen laughed dutifully at this quotation from the latest comic opera, and went off, delighted to companion the husband by way of change. Heproved quite a new man, too, in his own element, bringing the mostcomplicated machinery to the level of her understanding. Room after roomthey passed through, department after department full of tirelessmachinery, and tired men and women, who seemed slaves to the whims offantastic iron monsters, all legs and arms and wheels. It took a morningto see everything, down to the pasting and drying and packing rooms, andas a last treat Mr. Maper took her to the engine-room, whence he saidcame the power that turned those myriad wheels, moved those myriadlevers, in whatever department they might be and whatever their function. Eileen gazed long at the mighty engine, rapt in reverie. She couldscarcely tear herself away, and when at last Mr. Maper brought her intothe counting-house, she had forgotten that she must meet his son there. The white-browed clerk in corduroys did not, however, raise his eyes fromhis ledger, and Eileen was grateful to him for preserving the piquancy oftheir relation. 

She did not find it so piquant, though, in the library next Sundayafternoon when he was clutching at her hand and asking her to be hiswife. She awoke as from a dream to the perception of a solemn andgrotesque fact. 

"Oh, please!" and she tried to tear her hand away. 

He clung on desperately. "Eileen--don't say you don't care at all. "

"I'm not Eileen, and I particularly dislike you at this moment. Let mehave my hand, please. "

He dropped it like a stinging nettle. "I was hoping you'd let me keepit, " he murmured. 

"Why?" She was simple and pitiless. "Because we read Plato together? Thatwas platonic enough, wasn't it?"

"You can jest about what breaks my heart?"

"I am very sorry. I like you. "

His breathing changed, "like a fish thrown back into the water, " Eileenthought. She hastened to add, "But it's not what a wife should feel. "

"How do you know what a wife should feel?"

Eileen screwed up her forehead. "If I felt it, I should know, I suppose. "

"No, you mightn't. You've liked to come here and talk to me. "

"Because I like books. And you talk like a book. "

"That was before I fell in love. I didn't talk like a book just now. "

"When you took my hand! More like a book than ever. I've read itall--lots of times. "

"Oh, Eil--Miss O'Keeffe--you are very cruel. "

Eileen smiled. "I am not--I'm very kind--I threw you back into thewater. "

He gasped, as though out of it again. "Do you mean I am not grownenough?"

She flushed and improvised on his theme. "Not quite that. You hookedyourself, as you threatened to do. But suppose I had landed you. You knowthe next step--hot water. What a lot you would have got into, too!"

"You are thinking of my mother?"

"Yes, raising Cain, I think you said once. Oh, dear, swim about and bethankful. " And a vision of Mrs. Maper's amazement twitched the corners ofher lips and made them more enchanting. 

"I'm not so cold-blooded as all that. But if you do throw me back, let itbe with the promise to take me again, when I _am_ grown. I don't say itto tempt you, but you know I shall be very rich. "

"Indigestible, do you mean?"

"Oh, please let us drop that metaphor! Metaphors can never go on allfours. "

"Certainly not when they have fins. "

"Don't jest, Eil--Miss O'Keeffe! Let me redeem you from your sordidlife. "

"Why is it sordid? You said work was divine. "

"You can work in a higher sphere. "

"And this is the Socialist! I really thought you'd want me to turnfactory lass. "

"You are laughing at me. "

"I am perfectly serious. I won't drag you down from Socialism, and ahead-shawl wouldn't become me. "

"Why, you'd look sweet in it. Dear, dear, Miss O'Keeffe--"

"Good-by. "

"No, you shan't go. " He barred her way. Her airiness had given him newhope. 

"If you don't behave sensibly, I'll go altogether--give notice. "

"Then I'll follow you to your next place. "

"No followers allowed. Seriously, I'll leave if you are foolish. "

"Very well, " he said abruptly. "Let's go on reading Plato, " and he turnedto the book. 

"No, no more Dialogues, in or out of Plato. "

She was smiling but stern. He opened the library door and bowed as shepassed out. 

"Remember, " he said. "I will remain foolish for ever. "

"You have too long an opinion of yourself, " was Eileen's parting flash. 

IX

The next evening she sat in the drawing-room before dinner, softlyplaying an accompaniment to her thoughts. Why didn't she feel anythingabout Robert Maper except a mild irritation at the destruction of sotruly platonic a converse? In a book, of which his proposal savoured, shewould have found him quite a romantic person. In the actuality she feltas frigid as if his marble forehead was chilling her, and what sheremembered most acutely was his fishlike gasping. Then, too, thecontradictoriness of his social attitude, his desire to make her a richdrone, his shame at his mother, his reclusive shyness--all the weaknessesof the man--came to obscure her sense of his literary idealism, if not, indeed, to reveal it as a mere coquetry with fine ideas and coarseclothes. And then for a moment the humour of being Mrs. Maper'sdaughter-in-law appealed to her, and she laughed to herself in softduet with the music. 

And in the middle of the duet Mrs. Maper herself burst in, with herbodice half hooked and her hair half done. 

"What's this I hear, Miss Hirish Himpudence, of your goings-on with myson?"

Eileen swung round on her stool. "I beg your pardon, " she said. 

"Oh, you can't get out of it by beggin' my pardon, creepin' into thelibrary like a mouse--and it's a nice sly mouse you are, too, but there'snever a mouse without its cat--"

"She'd have done better to do your hair and mind her business, " saidEileen, calmly. 

Mrs. Maper's forefinger shot heavenwards. "It was you as ought to haveminded your business. I didn't pay you like a lady and feed you like aduchess to set your cap at your betters. But I told Mr. Maper what 'udcome of it if we let you heat with us, though I didn't dream what a slylittle mouse--"

The torrent went on and on. Eileen as in a daze watched the theatricforefinger--now pointed at the floor as if to the mouse-hole, now leapingceilingwards like the cat, --and her main feeling was professional. Shewas watching her pupil, storing up in her memory the mispronunciationsand vulgarisms for later insinuative improvement. Only a tithe of her wasaware of the impertinence. But suddenly she heard herself interruptingquietly. 

"I shall not sleep under your roof another night. " Mrs. Maper paused soabruptly that her forefinger fell limp. She was not sure she meant togive her companion notice, and have the trouble of training another, andshe certainly did not wish to be dismissed instead of dismissing. 

"Silly chit!" she said in more conciliatory tones. "And where will yousleep?"

But Eileen now felt she must obey her own voice--the voice of heroutraged pride, perhaps even of Brian Boru himself. "Good-by. I'll takesome things in a handbag and send for my box in the morning. "

Mrs. Maper's hand pointed to the ceiling. "And is that the way you treata lady--you're no lady, I tell you that. I demand a month's notice or Ishall summons you. "

At this juncture it occurred to Eileen that this might have been hermother-in-law, and a smile danced into her eyes. 

"Himpudent Hirish hussy! Oh, but I'll have the lore of you. Don't forgetI'm the wife of a Justice of the Peace. "

"Very well; you get Justice, I want Peace. " And Eileen fled to her room. 

She had hardly begun packing her handbag when she heard the door lockedfrom the outside with a savage snap and a cry of, "I'll learn you who'smistress here, my lady. "

Eileen smiled. She was only on the second floor, and captivity revivedall her girlish prankishness. She now began to enjoy the whole episode. That she was out of place, out of character, out of lodging even, wasnothing beside the humour of this incursion into real life of themelodrama she had mocked at. Was she not the innocent heroine entrappedby the villain? Fortunately, she would not need the hero to rescue her. She went on packing. When her handbag was ready she looked about formeans to escape. She opened her windows and studied the drop and the oddbits of helpful rainpipe. Descent was not so easy as she had imagined. Short of tearing the sheets into strips (and that might really bring herwithin the J. P. 's purview) or of picking the lock (which seemed even moreburglarious, not to mention more difficult) she might really remaintrapped. However, there would be time to think properly when she hadpacked her big box. Half an hour passed cheerfully in the folding ofdresses to an underplay of planned escapes, and she had just locked thebox, when Mrs. Maper's voice pierced the door panel. 

"Well, are you ready to come to supper?"

The governess's instinct corrected "dinner. " Mrs. Maper when excited wasalways tripping into this betrayal of auld lang syne, but she preserved adisdainful silence. 

"Eileen, why don't you hanser?"

Still silence. The key grated in the lock. 

Eileen looked round desperately. The thought of meeting Mrs. Maper againwas intolerable. The mirrored door of the rifled wardrobe stood ajar, revealing an enticing emptiness. Snatching up her handbag and her hat, she crept inside and closed the door noiselessly upon herself. "Thewardrobe mouse, " she thought, smiling. 

"Well, my lady!" Mrs. Maper dashed through the door, in her dinner-gownand diamonds, her forefinger hovering, balanced, between earth andheaven. She saw nothing but an answering figure ribboned and jewelled, that dashed at her and pointed its forefinger menacingly. 

The appearance of this figure as from behind the glass shut out fromher mind the idea of another figure behind it. The packed box, neat andnew-labelled, the absence of the handbag and of any sign of occupancy, the open windows, the silence, all told their lying tale. 

"The Hirish witch!" she screamed. 

She ran from one window to the other seeking for a sign of the escaped orthe escapade. She was relieved to find no batter of brains and bloodspoiling the green lawn. How had the trick been done? It did not evenoccur to her to look under the bed, so hypnotised was she by the sense ofa flown bird. Eileen almost betrayed herself by giggling, as at the realstage melodrama. 

When Mrs. Maper ran downstairs to interrogate the servants--eruption intothe kitchen was one of her incurable habits--Eileen slipped through thewide-flung door, down the staircase, and then, seeing the butler ahead, turned sharp off to the little-used part of the corridor and so into thelibrary. She made straight for the iron staircase to the grounds, andcame face to face with Robert Maper. 

Twilight was not his hour for the library--she saw even through herperturbation that he was pacing it in fond memory. His face lighted upwith amazement, as though the dead had come up through a tombstone. 

"Good-by!" she said, shifting her handbag to her left hand and holdingout her right. Her self-possession pleased her. 

"What!" he cried. And again he had the gasp of a fish out of water. 

"Yes, I came to say good-by. "

"You are leaving us?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, and it is I that have driven you away!"

"No, no, don't reproach yourself, please don't. Good-by. "

He gasped in silence. She gave a little laugh. "Now that I offer you myhand, it is you who won't take it. "

He seized it. "Oh, Eil--Miss O'Keeffe--let me keep it. "

"Please! we settled that. "

"It will never be settled till you are my wife. "

"Listen!" said Eileen, dramatically. "In a few minutes your mother andfather will be seated at dinner. Your mother will have told your fatherI've left the house in disgrace. Don't interrupt. Would you be preparedto walk in upon them with me on your arm and to say, 'Mother, father, Miss O'Keeffe has done me the honour of consenting to be my wife'?"

With her warm hand still in his, how could he hesitate? "Oh, Eileen, ifyou'd only let me!"

The imagination of the tableau was only less tempting to Eileen. It wasprocurable--she had only to move her little finger, or rather not to moveit. But the very facility of production lessened the tableau'stemptingness. The triumph was complete without the vulgar actuality. 

"I can't, " she said, withdrawing her hand. "But you are a good fellow. Good-by. " She moved towards the garden steps. He was incredulous of theutter end. "I shall write to you, " he said. 

"This is a short cut, " she murmured, descending. As her feet touched thegrass she smiled. How they had both tried to stop her, mother and son!She hurried through the shrubbery, and by a side gate was out on the oldwagon road. More slowly, but still at a good pace, she descended towardsthe Black Hole, now beginning to twinkle and glimmer with lights, and farless grimy and prosaic than in the crude day. 

X

While packing her big box, she had decided to try to lodge that nightwith a programme-girl she had got to know at the Theatre Royal, and themotive that set her pace was the desire to find her before she hadstarted for the theatre. 

The girl usually hovered about Mrs. Maper's box. Once Eileen had askedher why she wasn't in evidence the week before. "Lord, miss, " she said, "didn't you recognise me on the stage?"

Eileen thus discovered that the girl sometimes figured as a super, whentravelling companies came with sensational pieces, relying upon localtalent, hastily drilled, for the crowds. Mary became a Greek slave, or aBillingsgate fishwife, with amusing unexpectedness. 

Eileen's next discovery about the girl was that she supported a paralysedmother, though the bed-ridden creature on inspection proved to be morecheerful than the visitors she depressed. Mr. Maper had sent her grapesfrom his hothouse only a few days before, and in taking them to thelittle house Eileen had noticed a "Bedroom to Let. "

To her relief, when she reached the bleak street, she could see thatthough the blind was down, the bill was still in the window. Her spiritsbubbled up again. Ere she could knock at the door, the programme-girlbounced through it, hatted and cloaked for the theatre. 

"Miss O'Keeffe!" She almost staggered backward. Eileen's face workedtragically in the gloom. 

"There are villains after me!" Eileen gasped. "Take this bag, it containsthe family jewels. That bedroom of yours, it is still to let?"

"Yes, miss. "

"I take it for to-night, perhaps for ever. The avenger is on myfootsteps. The law may follow me, but I shall defy its myrmidons in mytrackless eyrie. "

"Oh, Miss O'Keeffe! You frighten me. I shouldn't like to have all thesejewels in my house, and with my mother tied to her bed. "

Eileen burst into a laugh. "Oh, miss!" she said, mimicking theprogramme-girl. "Didn't you recognise me on the stage?"

"Mary Murchison!" gasped the programme-girl. "Oh, Miss O'Keeffe, howwonderful! You nearly made my heart stop--"

"I am sorry, but I do want to take your bedroom. I've left Mrs. Maper, and you are not to ask any questions. "

"I haven't time, I'm late already. Fortunately, I only come on in thesecond act. "

"That's nice; put my bag in and I'll come to the theatre with you. " Thethought was impromptu, an evening with a bed-ridden woman was notexhilarating at such a crisis. 

"You ought to be an actress yourself, " the programme-girl remarkedadmiringly on the way. 

Eileen shuddered. "No, thank you. Scream the same thing night afternight--like a parrot with not even one's own words--I should die ofmonotony. "

"Oh, it isn't at all monotonous. It's a different audience every night, and even the laughs come in different places. My parts have mostly beenthinking parts--to-night I'm a prince without a word--but still it'sfun. "

"But how can you bear strange men staring at you?"

"One gets used to it. The first time they put me in tights I blushed allthrough the piece, but they had painted me so thick it wasn't visible. "

"In short, you blushed unseen. "

Eileen wished to go to the pit, but her new friend would not hear of hernot occupying her habitual box, since she knew that the management wouldbe glad to have it occupied if it were empty. This proved to be the case, and put the seal upon Eileen's enjoyment of the situation. To spend herevening in Mrs. Maper's box was indeed a climax. 

She borrowed theatre-paper and scribbled a note to her ex-employer, giving the address for her trunk. An orange and some biscuits sufficedfor her dinner. 

Not till she was in her little bedroom, surrounded by pious texts, didshe break down in tears. 

XI

The next morning, as she sat answering advertisements, the programme-girlknocked at the door of the bedroom and announced that Mr. Maper hadcalled. 

Eileen turned red. It was too disconcerting. Would he never take "no" foran answer? "I won't see him. I can't see him, " she cried. 

The girl departed and returned. "Oh, Miss O'Keeffe, he begs so for onlyone word. "

"The word is 'no. '"

"After he's been so kind as to bring your box down!"

"Oh, has he? Then the word is 'thanks. '"

"Please, miss, would you mind giving it to him yourself?"

"Who's Irish, you or I? I won't speak to him at all, I tell you. "

"But I don't like to send him away like that, when he's been so kindto mother. "

"When has he been kind to your mother?"

"Those grapes you brought--"

"That was old Mr. Maper. "

"So is this. "

"Oh!" Eileen was quite taken aback, for once. "All right, I'll go intothe parlour. "

He was infinitely courteous and apologetic. He had been very anxiousabout her. Why had she been so unkind as to leave, and without evera good-by to him?

"Oh, hasn't your wife told you, then?"

"She has told me you were rude, and that you left without notice, andshe wants me to prosecute you. I suppose you lost your temper. Youfound her rather difficult. "

"I found her impossible, " said Eileen, frigidly. 

"Yes, yes, I understand. " He was flushed and unhappy. "You found herimpossible to live with?"

Eileen nodded; she would have added "or to make a lady of, " but helooked so purple and agitated that she charitably forbore. She waswondering whether Mrs. Maper could really have been so mean as to omither share in the quarrel, but he went on eagerly:--

"Quite so, quite so. And what do you think it has been for me?"

She murmured inarticulate sympathy. 

"Ah, if you only knew! Oh, my dear Miss O'Keeffe, while you've been inthe house, it's been like heaven. "

"I'm glad I've given satisfaction, " she said drily. 

"Then what do you give by going? I assure you the day you came to theworks it was like heaven there too. "

"You forget the temperature, " Eileen smiled. "However, it was a verynice day, and I thank you. But I can't come back after--"

"Who asks you to come back?" he broke in. "No, I should be sorry to seeyou again in a menial position, you with your divine gifts of beauty andsong. The idea of your getting a new place, " he added with a fall intoprose, "makes me feel sick. "

"I value your sympathy, but it is misplaced, " she replied freezingly. 

"Sympathy! It isn't sympathy! It's jealousy. Oh, my dear Miss O'Keeffe!"He seized her limp hand. "Eileen! Let me help you--"

As the true significance of his visit, and of the purple agitation, dawned upon her, the grim humour of the position overbore every otherfeeling. Her hand still in his, she began to laugh, and no biting of herlips could do more than change the laugh into an undignified snigger. Instead of profiting by his grip of her, he dropped her hand suddenly asif a hose had been turned on his passion, and this surrender of her handreduced Eileen to a passable gravity. 

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Maper. But really, life is too horribly amusing. "

"I'm very sorry it's me that affords you amusement, " he said stiffly. 

"No, it isn't you at all, it's just the whole thing. You've been mostkind all along. And I dare say you mean to be kind now. But I don'treally need any help. Your wife's threats of prosecution are ridiculous, she made my longer stay impossible. I could more justly claim a month'snotice from her. "

"That's what I thought. I've brought you a month's salary. " He fumbled inhis pocket-book. 

"Don't trouble. I shall not accept it. "

"You shall, " he said sternly. "Or I'll prosecute you. "

Eileen's laugh rang out clear. This time he laughed too. 

"Now, don't you call life amusing?" she said. "Here am I to take a chequeunder penalty of having to pay it. "

"Well, which shall it be?"

"Such a cheque is charming. " And she held out her hand. He put the chequein it and shook both warmly. They parted, the best of friends. 

"Come to me for a character, of course, " he said. 

"Don't you come to me, " replied Eileen, with a roguish smile. 

XII

Eileen's next place was--as if by contrast--with a much more genteelfamily, and a much poorer, though it flew higher socially. It lived in ahouse, half in a fashionable London terrace, half in a shabby sidestreet, and its abode was typical of its ambitions and its means. Mrs. Lee Carter drew the line clearly between herself and her governess, whichwas a blessing, for it meant Eileen's total exclusion from her sociallife, and Eileen's consequent enjoyment of her own evenings at home orabroad, as she wished. This unusual freedom compensated for the hardwork of teaching children in various stages of growth and ignorance howto talk French and play the piano. Her salary was small, for Mrs. LeeCarter's ambition to live beyond her neighbours' means was only achievedby pinching whomever she could. She was not bad-hearted; she simply couldnot afford anything but luxuries. Eileen wondered at not being askedsometimes to perform at her parties, till she found that only celebritiesever did anything in that house. 

This was a period of much mental activity in Eileen's life. The tossingocean of London life, the theatres that played Shakespeare, the world ofnew books and new thought, her recent perusal of Plato and of man, allproduced fermentation. But every night she knelt by her bedside and saidher "Ave Maria" with a voluptuous sense of spiritual peace, and everymorning she woke with a certain joy in existence and a certain surpriseto find herself again existing. Her old convent-thought recurred. "Weare worked from without--marionettes who can watch their own performance. And it is very amusing. " Once she read of a British action in Afghanistanagainst border-tribes, and she wondered if Lieutenant Doherty was in thefighting. Since she had ceased to be his mother-confessor he had becomevery shadowy; his image now rose substantial from the newspaper lines, and she was surprised to find in herself a little palpitation at hisprobable perils. "One's heartstrings, too, are pulled, " she thought. "I don't like it. Marionettes should move, not feel. " These reflections, however, came to her more often anent her family, and the struggles ofher kin for a livelihood touched her more deeply than any love. "We arelike bits of the same shattered body, " she thought. "In these coldEnglish families everybody is another body. " She sent most of her salaryto Ireland, and her pocket-money came from singing in the choir onSunday. 

The bass chorister was a very amusing man. His voice was sepulchral buthis conversation skittish. Eileen's repartees smote him to almost theonly serious respect of his life, and one day he said: "Why, there'sa future in you. Why don't you go on the stage?"

"What nonsense!" But the blood was secretly stirred in her veins. She sawherself walking along the Black Hole with the programme-girl, but herpoint of view had been modified since she had received a similarsuggestion with a shudder. If she could play Rosalind to a great Londonaudience, the staring men-folk would matter little. 

"Why not?" went on the bass tempter. "A humour like yours with such avoice and such a face!"

"The stage is full of better voices and better faces. "

"No, indeed. Why, there isn't a girl at the Half-and-Half--" He stoppedand almost blushed. 

She smiled. "Oh, I don't mind your going to such places. What is theHalf-and-Half, a place where they drink beer?"

"Oh, it's just our slang name for a little music-hall that's just betweenthe East End and the West End, with a corresponding programme. "

"Our slang name?"

"Well--" he paused. "If you'll keep it very dark--but of course youwill--I appear there myself. "

"You! What do you do?"

"I sing patriotic songs and drinking-songs--"

"Aren't they the same thing in England?"

"Don't say that on the stage or they'll throw pewter pots. They're verypatriotic. "

"That's just what I said. What's your name--I suppose you change it?"

"Yes--as I hope you will yours--some day. "

"I shan't take yours. "

"Nobody arxed you, miss, " he said. "And, besides, mine iscopyright--Jolly Jack Jenkins. I make a fiver a week by it. "

"A fiver!" The bass chorister suddenly took on an air of Arabian nights. At this rate she could buy back the family castle. Her strugglingbrothers--how they would bless their magician sister--Mick should havea London practice, Miles a partnership in an engineering firm. 

"You come with me and see Fossy, " continued Jolly Jack Jenkins. 

Eileen declined with thanks. It took a week of Sundays to argue away herobjections--religious, moral, and social. To play Rosalind to fashionableLondon was one thing: to appear at a variety theatre or low-classmusic-hall, which nobody in her world or Mrs. Lee Carter's had ever heardof, was another pair of shoes. Yet strange to say, it was the lastconsideration that decided her to try. Even if admitted to the boards, she could make her failure in secure obscurity. It would simply beanother girlish escapade, and she was ripe for mischief after herlong sobriety. 

"But even your Mr. Fossy mustn't know my real name or address, " shestipulated. 

"Who shall I say you are?"

"Nelly O'Neill. "

"Ripping. Flows from the tongue like music. "

"Then it's rippling you mean. "

"What a tongue! Wait till Fossy sees you. "

"Will he ask me to stick it out?"

"Oh, Lord, I wish I had your repartee. But I'm thinking--NellyO'Neill--doesn't it give you away a bit?"

"Keeps me a bit, too. I shouldn't like to lose myself altogether--gainreputation for another woman. "

Fossy proved to be a gentleman named Josephs, who in a tiny triangularroom near the stage of the Half-and-Half listened critically to her comicsinging, shook his head and said he would let her know. Eileen left theroom with leaden heart and feet. 

"Wait for me a moment, please, " Jolly Jack Jenkins called after her, and she hung about timidly, jostled by dirty attendants and paintedperformers. She was reading a warning to artistes that any impropersongs or lines would lead to their instant dismissal, and regretting morethan ever her incompetence for this innocent profession, when she heardthe bass chorister's big breathing behind her. 

"Bravo! You knocked him all of a heap. "

"Rubbish! Don't try to cheer me. "

"You!" Jolly Jack Jenkins opened his eyes. "You taken in by Fossy! He'llsuggest your doing a trial turn next Saturday night when the public areleast critical, you'll make a furore, and he'll offer you two guineas aweek. "

"A pleasing picture, but quite visionary. Why, he didn't even ask for anaddress to write to!"

"Oh, I dare say he thought care of me would find you. No, don't glower atme--I don't mean anything wrong. "

"I hope you didn't let him misunderstand--"

"You asked me not to let him know too much. Fossy has to do so much withqueer folk--"

"Yes, I saw he had to warn them against improper songs. "

Jolly Jack Jenkins exploded in a guffaw. 

"I'm sorry I came, " said Eileen, in vague distress. 

"Fossy isn't, " he retorted. "He was clean bowled over. In that Irishfox-hunting song all the gallery will be shouting 'Tally-ho!' Where didyou pick it up?"

"I didn't _pick_ it up, I _made_ it up for the occasion. "

"By Jove! I have to pay a guinea to a bloodsucking composer when _I_ wanta song. Oh, Fossy's spotted a winner this time. "

"Why is he called Fossy?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. I found the name, I pass it on. "

"Perhaps it's a corruption of Foxy. "

"There! I never thought of that! You _are_ a--!"

The jolly chorister's mouth remained open. But the prophecy that hadalready issued from it came true in every detail. 

XIII

Despite her private stage-fright, Nelly O'Neill, the new serio-comic, made a big hit. Her innocent roguery was captivating; her virginalfreshness floated over the footlights, like a spring breeze through thesmoky Hall. 

"Well, you _are_ an all-round success, " cried Jolly Jack Jenkins, pumpingher hand off at the wings, amid a thunder of applause, encores, andwhistles. 

"You mean a Half-and-Half!" laughed Nelly through Eileen's tears. She hadgiven herself to the audience, but how it had given itself in return, flashing back to her in electric waves its monstrous vitality, itsapparently single life. 

The Half-and-Half was one of those early Victorian halls of the people, with fixed stars and only a few meteors. The popular favourites changedtheir songs and their clothes at periodic intervals, but they wouldhave lost favour if they had not remained the same throughout everything. A chairman with a hammer announced the turns, and condescendinglytook champagne with anybody who paid for it. Eileen soon became anindispensable part of this smoky world. She signed an agreement at threeguineas a week for three years, to perform only at the Half-and-Half. Fossy saw far. Eileen did not. She jumped for joy when she got beyondeyeshot. She felt herself jumping out of the governess-life. Secondthoughts and soberer footsteps brought doubt. She had intended tellingMrs. Lee Carter as soon as the trial-performance was over, but now shehesitated and was lost. Half the charm lay in the secret adventure, thedare-devilry. Besides, as a governess she had a comfortable home and arespectable status, and she had already seen and divined enough of theworld behind the footlights to shrink from being absorbed into it. Whatfun in the double life! She had never found a single life worth living. She would belong to two worlds--be literally Half-and-Half. Nelly O'Neillmust only be born at twilight. But she felt she could not be outuniformly every evening without some explanation. 

"Mrs. Lee Carter, " she said, "I have to tell you of a peculiar chance ofaugmenting my income that has come to me. "

Mrs. Lee Carter, wearing plumes and train for a court reception, paled. "You are not going to leave me!"

The naïve exclamation strengthened Eileen's hand. 

"I don't quite see how to do otherwise, " she said boldly. 

"Oh, dear, I wish I could afford more. I know you're worth it. "

Eileen thought, "If you'd only give your guests good claret instead ofbad champagne!" But she said, "You are very kind--you have always beenmost considerate. "

The plumes wagged. 

"I try to please all parties. "

Nelly O'Neill thought, "And to give too many. " Eileen said, "Yes, you'vegiven me my evenings to myself as it is, and considering the new work isonly in the evenings, I did think of running the two, but I'm afraid--"

"If we lightened your work a little--" interrupted Mrs. Lee Carter, eagerly. 

"I shouldn't so much ask that as to have perfect freedom like a youngman--a latch-key even. " Never had Eileen looked more demure and Puritan. 

"Oh, I hope you won't be working too late--"

"The people who go there are engaged in the daytime. I'd better be frankwith you; it's an extremely unfashionable place towards the East End, andI quite understand you may not like me to take it. At the same time Ishall never meet anybody who knows me. In fact, it's a dancing andsinging place. "

"Oh!" said Mrs. Lee Carter, blankly. "I didn't know you could teachdancing, too. "

"You never asked me. . . . Of course, if you prefer it, I could come here asa day governess and leave after tea. . . . You see it's a longish journeyhome: I'm bound to be late. . . . "

"What's the difference? Come and go as you please. . . . Of course, youwon't mind using the back door when there's a party . . . Theservants. . . . "

For the deception Eileen at first salved her conscience Irish-wise bysending every farthing to her mother under the deceiving pretext of richprivate pupils. She would not even deduct for cabs. Sometimes she couldnot get an omnibus, but she almost preferred to walk till she wasfootsore, for both riding and walking were forms of penance. The stuffyomnibus interior after the smoky Hall was nauseating, and in those daysno lady thought of climbing the steep ladder to the slanting roof. But itsometimes happened that a crawling cabman coming westward would inviteher to a free ride, and Eileen would accept gratefully, and, moreover, gain from conversations with her drivers new material for her songs. 

This period of her life was almost as amusing as she had anticipated; heronly depressions came from the children of the footlights, and thenecessity of adjusting herself superficially to her environment, underpain of unpopularity. Her isolation and the privacy of her home-lifealready made sufficiently for that. And to be disliked even by those shedisliked Eileen disliked. Her nature needed to wallow in warm admiration. She got plenty. 

When, fifteen months later, she agreed to pay Fossy a hundred poundsfor modifying her contract so as to enable her to appear at other Halls, she said with a smile, "You deserve it. You are the only man at theHalf-and-Half who hasn't made love to me. "

Fossy grinned. "If I had known that, I should have demanded a largercompensation. "

Even the bass chorister had not been able to resist proposing, though hisgrief at being refused was short-lived, for he died soon after by a fallfrom one of those giant wheels that were the saurians of the moderncycle. Eileen shed many a tear over Jolly Jack Jenkins. 

With the growth of her popularity before and behind the footlights cameheavier calls upon her geniality, and, like a hostess who tries to payoff her debts in one social lump sum, Eileen got "a Sunday out, " andNelly gave a lunch at a riverside hotel to a motley company of popularfavourites. It was expensive; for the profession, even in those days, expected champagne. It was appallingly protracted; for the party, havingno work to do that evening, showed no disposition to break up, andbrandies-and-sodas succeeded one another in an aroma of masculine cigarsand feminine cigarettes. It was noisy and hilarious, and gradually itbecame rowdy. The Singing Sisters sang, but not in duet. The LionComique, whose loyal melodies were on every barrel-organ, arguedRepublicanism and flourished that day's copy of Reynolds's Newspaper, TheBeauteous Bessie Bilhook--"the Queen of Serio-Comics" was scandalouslyautobiographic, and the old plantation songster--looking unreal with hiswashed face--was with difficulty dissuaded from displaying his ability todance on the table without smashing anything. The climax was reserved forthe demure one-legged gymnast, who suddenly produced a pistol anddischarged it in the air. When the panic subsided, he explained to thelandlord and the company that he was "paying his shot. "

"That's a hint for me to discharge the bill, " said Nelly, adroitly, and, thanking everybody effusively for the happiness afforded her, she hurriedhome to Oxbridge Terrace, to wash it all away in nursery tea. The youngLee Carters made a restful spectacle with their shining innocent faces, and she almost wished they would never grow up. 

As her success grew, offers from the pantomimes and even the legitimatestage began to reach her. But now she would not make the step. At theHalls she was her own mistress, able to arrange at her own conveniencewith orchestras. Even Rosalind would have meant long rehearsals and acomplex interference with her governess-life. 

At the theatres, too, to judge by all she heard, a sordid side of theprofession was accentuated. The players played for their own hands, andeven the greatest did not disdain to "queer" the effects of theirsubordinates, whenever such effects did not heighten their own. Hamlethad been known to be jealous of the ghost, and the success of hissepulchral bass. It was in fact a world of jostling jealousies, as hiddenfrom the public as the prompter. In the Halls she was her own company andher own playwright and her own composer. She had her elbows free. 

And even here Bessie Bilhook, whose vanity was a byword in Lower Bohemia, and who had arrogantly assumed the sovereignty of the Serio-Comics, refused to appear on the same programmes unless her name was printedtwice as large as Nelly O'Neill's, and was further displayed on a boardoutside, alone in its nine-inch glory. Again, actresses were recognisedby the newspapers; the Halls had as yet no status. Their performers werenot so photographed; indeed, Eileen refused to sit. She desired thisobscurer form of celebrity. If her fame should ever reach Mrs. LeeCarter, the game would be nearly up. Her poor mother might even sufferthe shock of it; perhaps the professional future of her brothers would beinjured. Her sedate life had grown as dear as her noisy life, she lovedthe transition to the innocent home circle. 

Yet in this very domesticity lay a danger. It provoked her to anever broader humour on the stage. She let herself go, like a swimmeremboldened by a boat behind. Eileen O'Keeffe she felt would rescue NellyO'Neill if licence carried her too near the falls. It was so irresistiblyseductive, this swift response of the audience to the wink of suggestion. Like a vast lyre, the Hall vibrated to the faintest breath ofroguishness. Almost in contemptuous mockery one was tempted toexperiment. . . . 

One day, in a sudden horror of herself, she pleaded illness and hurriedback to her mother for a holiday. 

XIV

The straggling village looked much the same, the same pigs and turkeysrooted and strutted, the same stinging turf-smoke came from the doors andwindows (save from one or two cabins unroofed by the Castle tyrant), thesame weeds grew in the potato-patches, the same old men in patchedbrogues pulled their caubeens from their heads and their dudeens fromtheir mouths, as she went past, half-consciously studying the humours forstage reproduction. It was hard for her to remember she wasn't "theQuality" in London, or that the Half-and-Half existed simultaneously withthese beloved woods and waters. In only one particular was the villagechanged. Golf links had been discovered near it, a club-house had sprungup and the peasants found themselves enriched by the employment of theirgossoons as caddies. The O'Keeffes were prospering equally--thanks to hersubsidies--although she hadn't yet bought them back their castle. "All'sfor the best in the greenest of isles, " she told herself, as she satbasking in family affection. 

And yet the wave of melancholia refused to ebb. Indeed, it swelled andgrew blacker. The remedy seemed to intensify the disease; a holiday butgave her time to possess her soul, and brood upon its stains, herchildhood's scene but enabled her to measure the realities of herachievement against the visions of girlhood. Life seemed too hopeless, too absurd. To amuse the gross adult, to instruct the innocentchild--what did it all mean to her own life? She was tired of doing, she wanted to _be_ something; something for herself. She was alwaysobserving, imitating, caricaturing, but what was _she_? A nothing, aphantasm, an emptiness. 

"Eileen avourneen, " said her mother, suddenly. "I wish you were married. "

Eileen opened her eyes. "Dear heart, is this another offer from thecastle?" And she laughed gently. 

Mrs. O'Keeffe's fingers played uneasily with her bosom's cross. "No, butI should feel happier about you. It--it settles people. "

"It certainly does, " Eileen laughed, and her celebrated ditty, "TheMarriage Settlement, " flashed upon her. "Oh, dear, " and her laugh changedto a sigh. "The marriages I see around me!"

"What! Isn't Mrs. Lee Carter happy?"

Eileen flushed. "I shouldn't like to be in her shoes, " she saidevasively. 

"Officers seem to make the best husbands, " said Mrs. O'Keeffe. 

"Because they are so much away?" queried Eileen, with a vague memory ofher Lieutenant Doherty. 

That night the melancholia was heavy as a nightmare, without the partialunconsciousness of sleep. This blackness must be "the horrors" she hadheard women of her stage-world speak of. She wanted to spring out of bed, to run to her mother's room. But that would have meant hystericconfession, so she bit her lips and stuck her nails into the sheet. Perhaps suicide would be simplest. She was nothing; it would not even beblowing out a light. No, she _was_ something, she was a retailer of grosshumours, a vile sinner; it might be kindling more than a light, aneternal flame. "Child of Mary, " indeed! She deserved to be strangled withher white ribbon. And she exaggerated everything with that morbidmendacity of the confessional. 

Two days later she went for a walk along the springy turf of the valley. The sun shone overhead, but from her spirit the mist had not quitelifted. Suddenly a small white ball came scudding towards her feet. Shelooked round and saw herself amid little flags sticking in the ground. Distant voices came to her ear. 

"This must be the new game that's creeping in from Scotland, " shethought. "Perhaps I ought to have a song ready if ever it catches on. Ah, here comes one of the young fools--I'll watch him--"

He came, clothed as in a grey skin that showed the beautiful modellingof his limbs. His face glowed. 

"Ouidà's Apollo, " she thought, but in the very mockery she trembled, struck as by a lightning shaft. The blackness was sucked up into fireand light. "Am I in the way?" she said with her most bewitching smile. 

He raised his hat. "I was afraid you might have been struck. "

"Perhaps I was, " she could not help saying. 

"Oh, gracious, are you hurt?" His voice was instantly caressing. 

"Do I look an object for ambulances?"

He smiled dazzlingly. "You look awfully jolly. " Later Eileenremembered how she had taken this reply for a line of poetry. 

A week later the Hon. Reginald Winsor, younger brother of an EnglishEarl, was teaching Eileen golf. 

It had been a week of ecstasy. 

She thought of Reginald the last thing at night and the first thing inthe morning and dreamed of him all night. 

Now she knew what her life had lacked--to be caught up into another'spersonality, to lose one's petty individuality in--in what? Surely notin a larger; she couldn't be so blind as that. In what then? Ah, yes, inNature. He was gloriously elemental. He wasn't himself. He was themasculine. Yes, that was the correlative element her being needed. Themere manliness of his pipe made its aroma in his clothes adorable. Or wasit his big simplicity, in which she could bury all her torturingcomplexity? Oh, to nestle in it and be at rest. Yet she held him at arm'slength. When they shook hands her nerves thrilled, but she was the colderoutwardly for very fear of herself. 

On the ninth day he proposed. 

Eileen knew it would be that day. Lying in bed that morning, she foundherself caught by her old impersonal whimsy. "I'm a fever, and on theninth day of me the man comes out in a rash proposal. " Ah, but thistime she was in a tertian, too. What a difference from those otherproposals--proper or improper. Her mind ran over half a dozen, with atouch of pity she had not felt at the time. Poor Bob Maper, poor JollyJack Jenkins, if it was like this they felt! But was it her fault? No mancould say she had led him on--except, perhaps, the Hon. Reginald, andtowards him her intentions were honourable, she told herself smiling. Butthe jest carried itself farther and more stingingly. Could he make an"honourable" she told herself her? Ah, God, was she worthy of him, of hissimple manhood? And would he continue proposing, if she told him she wasNelly O'Neill? And what of his noble relatives? No, no, she must not runrisks. She was only Eileen O'Keeffe, she had never left Ireland save forthe Convent. The rest was a nightmare. How glad she was that nobody knew!

The proposal duly took place in a bunker, while Eileen was whimsicallyvituperating her ball. The fascination of her virginal _diablerie_ waslike a force compelling the victim to seize her in his arms after thefashion of the primitive bridegroom. However the poor Honourablerefrained, said boldly, "Try it with this, " and under pretence ofchanging her golfsticks possessed himself of her hand. For the first timehis touch left her apathetic. 

"Now it is coming, " she thought, and suddenly froze to a spectator ofthe marionette show. As the Hon. Reginald went through his performance, she felt with a shudder of horror over what brink she had nearly stepped. The man was merely a magnificent animal! She, with her heart, her soul, her brain, mated to that! Like a convict chained to a log. Not worthy ofhim forsooth! "There's a gulf between us, " she thought, "and I nearlyfell down it. " And the Half-and-Half rose before her, clamouring, pungent, deliciously seductive. 

"Dear Mr. Winsor, " she listened with no less interest to her own partin the marionette performance, "it's really too bad of you. Just as Iwas getting on so nicely, too!"

"Is that all you feel about--about our friendship?"

"All? Didn't you undertake to teach me golf? I haven't the faintestdesire not to go on . . . As soon as we have escaped from this wretchedbunker. Come! Did you say the niblick?"

Reginald's manners were too good to permit him to swear, even at golf. 

"One's body is like an Irish mud-cabin, " Eileen reflected. "It sheltersboth a soul and a pig. "

XV

Nelly O'Neill threw herself into her work with greater ardour thanever. But her triumphs were shadowed by worries. She was nervous lestthe Hon. Reginald should turn up at one of her Halls--she had three now;she was afraid her voice was spoiling in the smoky atmosphere; sometimesthe image of the Hon. Reginald came back reproachfully, sometimestantalisingly. Oh, why was he so stupid? Or was it she who had beenstupid?

Then there was the apprehension of the end of her career at the LeeCarters'. The young generation was nearly grown up. The eldest boy sheeven suspected of music-halls. He might stumble upon her. 

Her popularity, too, was beginning to frighten her. Adventurous younggentlemen followed her in cabs--cabs were now a necessity of her tripleappearance--and she never dared drive quite to her door or even thestreet. Bracelets she always returned, if the address was given; flowersshe sent to hospitals, anonymous gifts to her family. Nobody ever saw herwearing his badge. 

A sketch of her even found its way to one of Mrs. Lee Carter's journals. 

"Why, she looks something like me!" Eileen said boldly. 

"You flatter yourself, " said Mrs. Lee Carter. "You're both Irish, that'sall. But I don't see why these music-hall minxes should be pictured inrespectable household papers. "

"Some people say that the only real talent is now to be found in theHalls, " said Eileen. 

"Well, I hope it'll stay there, " rejoined her mistress, tartly. Eileenrecalled this conversation a few nights later, when she met MasterHarold Lee Carter outside the door at midnight with a rival latch-key. 

"Been to a theatre, Miss O'Keeffe?" asked her whilom pupil. 

"No; have you?"

"Well, not exactly a theatre!"

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Sort of half-and-half place, you know. "

By the icy chill at her heart at his innocent phrase, she knew how shedreaded discovery and clung to her social status. 

"What is a half-and-half place?" she asked smiling. 

"Oh, comic songs and tumblers and you can smoke. "

"No? You're not really allowed to smoke in a theatre?"

"Yes, we are. They call it a music-hall--it's great fun. But don't tellthe mater. "

"You naughty boy!"

"I don't see it. All the chaps go. "

She shook her head. "Not the nicest. "

"Oh, that's tommyrot, " he said disrespectfully. "Their women folk don'tknow--that's all. "

Eileen now began to feel like a criminal round whom the toils thicken. In the most fashionable of her three Halls, she sang a little Frenchsong. And she had taught Master Harold his French. 

Of course, even if Nelly were seen by Eileen's friends or acquaintances, detection was not sure. Eileen was always in such sedate gowns, neverlow-cut, her manners were so suppressed, her hair done so differently, and what a difference hair made! In fact, it was in her private life thatshe felt herself more truly the actress. On the boards her real secretself seemed to flash forth, full of verve, dash, roguery, devilry. Shouldshe take to a wig, or to character songs in appropriate costumes? No, shewould run the risk. It gave more spice to life. Every evening now was anadventure, nay three adventures, and when she snuggled herself up atmidnight in her demure white bed, overlooked by the crucifix, she feltlike the hunted were-wolf, safely back in human shape. And she becamemore audacious, letting herself go, so as to widen the chasm betweenNelly and Eileen, and make anybody who should suspect her be sure he waswrong. And occasionally she paid for all this fever and gaiety by fits ofthe blackest melancholy. 

She had gradually dropped her habit of prayer, but in one of her darkmoods she found herself slipping to her knees and crying: "Oh, HolyMother, look down on Thy distressed daughter, and deliver her from thebody of this death. So many wooers and no spark of love in herself; awoman who sings love-songs with lips no man has touched, a lone-of-soulwho can live neither with the respectable nor with the Bohemians, wholoves you, _sanctissima Maria_, without being sure you exist. Oh, HolyMother of God, advocate of sinners, pray for me. If I had only somethingsolid to cling to--a babe to suckle with its red grotesque little face. You will say cling to the cross, but is not my whole life also acrucifixion? I am rent in twain that a thousand fools may laugh nightly. Oh, Holy Mother, make me at one with myself; it is the atonement Ineed. Send me the child's heart, and I will light a hundred candles toyou. . . . Or do you now prefer electricity? Oh, Maria mavourneen, I cannotpray to you, for there is a mocking devil within me, and you will notcast her out. " And she burst into hysteric tears. 

XVI

As she was about to start one evening for her round, Mrs. Lee Carter'smaid brought up a bombshell. Superficially it looked like a letter withforeign stamps, marked "Private" and readdressed with an English stampfrom Ireland. But that one line of unerased writing, her name, threw herinto heats and colds, for she remembered the long-forgotten hand ofLieutenant Doherty. She had to sit down on her bed and finish tremblingbefore she broke the seal and set free this voice from the past. 

 "DEAR MOTHER-CONFESSOR, --You will be wondering why I have been silent all these years and why I write now. Well, I will tell you the truth. It wasn't that I believed you had really gone into the Convent you wrote me you were joining, it was the new and exciting life and duties that opened up before me when I got to Afghanistan, far from post-offices. Afterwards I was drafted to India and had a lot of skirmishing and tiger-shooting, and your image--forgive me!--became faint, and I excused myself for not writing by making myself believe you were buried in the Convent. ["So, after all, he never got the letter telling him I was going to marry back the Castle!" Eileen mused joyfully through her agitation. ] But now that I am at last coming home in a few months, no longer a minor, but nearer a major (that's like one of your old jokes)--somehow your face seems to be the only thing I am coming back for. It's no use trying to explain it all, or even apologising. It's just like that. I've _confessed_, you see, though it is hopeless to get straight with my arrears, so I won't attempt it. And when I found out how I felt, of course came the horrible thought that you might be in the Convent after all, or, worse still, married and done for, so what do you think I did? I just sent this cable to your mother: 'Is Eileen free? Reply paid. Colonel Doherty. ' Wasn't it clever and economical of me to think of the word 'free, ' meaning such a lot--not married, not a nun, not even engaged to another fellow? Imagine my joy when I got back the monosyllable, meaning all that lot. I instantly cabled back 'Thanks, don't tell her of this. ' ["So that's what mother was hinting at, " thought Eileen, with a smile. ] It was all I could do not to cable to you: 'Will you marry me? Reply paid. ' ["What a good idea for a song!" murmured Nelly. ] Put me out of my agony as soon as you can, won't you, dearest Eileen? Your face is floating before me as I write, with its black Irish eyes and its roguish dimples. . . . "

She could read no more. She sat long on her bed, dazed by the rushof bitter-sweet memories. The Convent, her father, her early years, this dear boy . . . All was washed together in tears. There was somethingso bizarre, unexpected and ingenuous about it all; it touched theelemental in her. If he had excused himself even, she would havetossed him off impatiently. But his frank exposure of his ownself-contradictoriness appealed subtly to her. Was this the want in herlife, was it for him she had been yearning, below the surface of herconsciousness, even as she had remained below the surface of his? Here, indeed, was salvation--providential salvation. A hand was stretched tosave her--snatch her from spiritual destruction. The dear brown manlyhand that had potted tigers while she had been gesticulating onplatforms--a performing lioness. Distance, imagination, early memories, united to weave a glamour round him. It was many minutes before shecould read the postscript: "I think it right to say that my complexion isnot yellow nor my liver destroyed. I know this is how we are representedon your stage. I have sat for a photograph, especially to send you. "

The stage! Why should he just stumble upon the word, to chill her withthe awful question whether she would have to tell him. She was late ather engagements, her performance was perfunctory--she was no longer with"the boys, " but seated in a howdah on an elephant's back, side by sidewith a mighty hunter, or walking with a tall flaxen-haired lieutenantbetween the honeysuckled hedges of an Irish boreen. It struck her asalmost miraculous--though it was probably only because her attentionwas now drawn to the name--that she read of Colonel Doherty in theevening paper the gasman tendered her that very evening, as she waited atthe wing. It was a little biography full of deeds of derringdo. "MyBayard!" she murmured, and her eyes filled with tears. 

She wrote and tore up many replies. The first commenced: "What a strangeway of proposing! You begin by giving me two black eyes to prove you'veforgotten me. I am so different in other people's eyes as well as in myown it would be unfair to accept you. You are in love with a shadow. "The word-play about her eyes seemed to savour of the "Half-and-Half. "She struck it out. But "you are in love with a shadow, " remained the_Leit-motif_ of all the letters. And if he was grasping at a shadow itwould be unfair for her to grasp at the substance. 

The correspondence continued by every Indian mail after his receipt ofher guarded refusal; he Quixotic, devoted, no matter how she had changed. He loved the mere scent of her letter paper. Was she only a governess?Had she been a charwoman, he would have kissed her cheeks white. Theboyish extravagance of his passion worked upon her, troubling her to hersincerest core. She would hide nothing from him. She wrote a full accountof her stage career, morbidly exaggerating the vulgarity of herperformance and the degradation of her character. She was blacker thanany charwoman, she said with grim humour. The moment she dropped theletter into the box, a trembling seized on all her limbs. She spent threedays of torture; her fear of losing him seeming to have heightened herlove for him. 

Then Mrs. Lee Carter handed her a cable. 

"Sailing unexpectedly S. S. _Colombo_ to-morrow--Doherty. " She nearly fellfainting in dual joy. He was coming home, and he would cross her letter. Before it could return they would be safely married. It should bedestroyed unread. 

"Is anything wrong?" said her mistress. 

"No, quite the contrary. "

"I am glad, because I had rather unpleasant news to tell you. But youmust have seen that when Kenneth goes to Winchester, there willpractically be nothing for you to do. "

"How lucky! For I am going to be married. "

"Oh, my dear, I am so glad, " gushed Mrs. Lee Carter. 

Afterwards Eileen marvelled at the obvious finger of Providenceunravelling her problems. She had never relished the idea of findinganother place, not easily would she find one so dovetailing into hersecond life; she might have been tempted to burn her boats. 

She prepared now to burn her ships instead. Her contracts with the Hallswere now only monthly; Nelly O'Neill could easily slip out of existence. She would not say she was going to be married--that would concentrateattention on herself. Illness seemed the best excuse. For the one weekafter the _Colombo's_ arrival she could send conscience money. TheSaturday it was due found her still starred; she did not believe his shipwould get in till late, and managers would particularly dislike beingdone out of her Saturday night turn. Perhaps she ought to have left theprevious week, she thought. It was foolish to rush things so close. Butit was not so easy to give up the habits of years, and activity allayedthe fever of waiting. She had sent an ardent letter to meet the ship atSouthampton, saying he was to call at the Lee Carters' in OxbridgeTerrace on Sunday afternoon, which she had to herself. Being only a poorgoverness, she would be unable to meet him at the station or receive himat the house on Saturday night, even if he got in so early. He must beresigned to her situation, she added jestingly. On the Saturday afternoonshe received a wire full of their own hieroglyphic love-words, grumblingbut obeying. How could he live till Sunday afternoon? Why hadn't sheresigned her situation?

As she was starting for the Halls for the last time, in the dusk of aSpring day, a special messenger put into her hand a letter he hadscribbled in the train. He was in London then. Her heart thumped witha medley of emotions as she tore open the letter:

"Oh, my darling, I shall see you at last face to face--" But she had notime to spend under the hall-light reading it. In her cab she struck amatch and read another scrap. "But, oh, cruel one, not to let me cometo-night!" She winced. That gave her a pause. If she had let him come--tothe Half-and-Half! He would turn from her, shuddering. And was it notprecisely to the Half-and-Half that honour should have invited him? TheHalf-and-Half arrived at the cab window ere she had finished pondering. She thrust the letter into her pocket. 

XVII

Would she ever get through her three Halls? It did not seem as if she hadstrength for the Half-and-Half itself. She nerved herself to the task, and knew, not merely from the shrieks of delight, that she had surpassedherself. Happy and flushed she flung herself into her waiting cab. 

She had the 9. 45 turn at her second and most fashionable Hall--a Hallwhere the chairman had been replaced by programme numbers--and then wouldcome her third and last appearance at 10. 35. It was strange to think thatin another hour Nelly O'Neill's career would be over. It seemed likemurdering her. Yes, Eileen O'Keeffe would be her murderess. Well, why notmurder what lay between one and happiness? As she waited at the wings, just before going on, while the orchestra played her opening bars, sheglanced diagonally at the packed stalls, and her heart stood still. There in the second row sat Colonel Doherty, smoking a big cheroot. Instinctively she made the sign of the cross; then swayed back and wascaught by the man who changed the programme-numbers. 

"Is No. 9 come?" she gasped. 

"I think so; aren't you well, Miss O'Neill?"

"For God's sake, give me breathing space, " she said, with a last wildpeep at the Colonel. Yes, there was no mistaking him after the three newportraits he had sent her. He was in cheerful conversation with a stout, sallow gentleman of the Anglo-Indian stage-type. Both were in immaculateevening-dress and wore white orchids. How fortunate she had refused tosend any photograph in return, pleading ugliness but really afraid oftheatrical sketches that might find their way to the officers' mess!

The band stopped, changed its tune, No. 9 appeared on the board; therewas a murmur of confusion. 

"No, by Heaven, I'll face the music, " she said with grim humour. Shealmost hustled the hastening juggler out of the way. She was in awhirlwind of excitement. So he was there--well, so much the better. Hehad saved her from lying. He had given her an easy way of confessing. Words were so inadequate, he should see the reality: the stage to-nightwould be her confessional. She would extenuate nothing. She would throwherself furiously into the fun and racket; go to her broadest limits, else the confession would be inadequate. Then . . . If he survived theshock . . . Why then, perhaps, she'd insist on going on with this doublelife. . . ! He had risen in his seat. No, no, he must not go away, she couldnot risk the juggler boring him. 

"I'm better; I mustn't be late at my next shop, " she murmuredapologetically as the number and the music were changed back. 

"Ah, she's come--she was late, " came the murmurs of the audience as itstirred in excited expectation. 

She flung on roguish, feverish, diabolical, seductive in low-cut bodicepranked with flowers. It was a frenzy of impromptu extravagance, dazzlingeven the orchestra; each line accentuated by new gesture, the versessupplemented by new monologue; a miracle of chic and improvisation, andthe house rose at it. Out of the mist before her eyes thunder seemed tocome in great roars and crashes. She almost groped her way to the wing. 

She was recalled. The mist cleared. She bowed direct at him, smilingdefiance from her sparkling eyes. He was applauding with his hands, hisstick, his lungs! Was it possible?--yes, he had not recognised her!

Now came a new revulsion. Again she felt herself saved. She sang herother songs straight at him, and exaggerated them equally, half to temptProvidence, half as a bold way of keeping Eileen still concealed. Sheheard his companion chuckling, "By Jove, Willie, she's mashed on you, "as she threw a farewell kiss towards him. Then she hurried to herdressing-room and took out his letter. She had transferred it to thepocket of her theatrical gown, but had not as yet found time to finishit. Even before she re-perused it, another emotion had begun to possessher, a rush of resentment. So this was how he amused himself whilewaiting to clasp her in his arms! How would he ever live through thehours till Sunday afternoon, forsooth! She was jealous of the applause helavished on Nelly O'Neill, incensed at his levity, at his immaculateevening-dress, at his white orchid. How dare he be so gay and debonair?Her anger rose as she read his protestations, his romantic professions. "O my darling, I shall sit up all night, thinking of you, re-reading allyour dear letters, recalling our past, picturing our future. In short, asold Landor puts it:--

 "'A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. '"

She crumpled the paper in her hand. There was a knock at the door; Fossypoked his head in. He had risen in the world of Halls, even as NellyO'Neill. 

"Might I present two friends of mine? They want so much to know you. "

"You know I never see anybody, and that I have to hurry off. "

"Then, I was to give you this bouquet. "

He handed in a costly floral mass. Amid it lay a card, "Colonel Doherty. "She crumpled his letter more viciously. 

"Tell them I can give them ten minutes only. Oh, Fossy, it's an amusingShow, isn't it?"

"It was a rattling good show, " said Fossy, half puzzled. "Come in, boys. "

Entered the Anglo-Indian twain with shining faces and shirt-fronts, cheroots politely lowered. 

"Oh, smoke away, gentlemen, " cried Nelly O'Neill, facing them in allthe dazzle of her flesh and the crudity of her stage-paint, and herover-lustrous eyes, "don't mind me. Which of you is the Colonel?"

The stout, sallow gentleman jocosely pushed his tall flaxen-hairedcompanion forward. "Oh, I knew the Major was out of it, " he grinned. 

"Not at all, Major, " said Nelly. "I only wanted to know which I had tothank for these lovely flowers. "

"You have yourself to thank, " said the Colonel, smartly. "By Jove! Yougave us a treat. London was worth coming back to. "

"Ah, you've been away from London?"

"Just back this very day from India--"

"And of course the first thing after a good dinner is the good oldFriv--" put in the Major. 

"Thank you, Major, " said Fossy. "That's handsome of you. And now I'llleave you to Miss O'Neill. "

"That's handsomer still, " said the Colonel. And the three men guffawed. Eileen felt sick. 

The Major began to talk of the music-halls of India; the Colonel chimedin. They treated her as a comrade, told her anecdotes of the _coulisses_of Calcutta. The Colonel retailed a jest of the bazaars. 

"I permit smoke, not smoking-room stories, " she said severely. At whichthe twain poked each other shriekingly in the ribs. After that Eileen letthe Colonel have rope enough to hang himself with, though she felt itcutting cruelly into her own flesh. It was an orgie of the eternalmasculine, spiced with the aroma of costly cigars. 

"I'm so sorry, " she said, when she had let them have a quarter of anhour's run. "I really must fly. " And she seized the bouquet, andcarefully adjusted his card in the glowing mass. "Won't you comeand have tea with me to-morrow? About four. "

The Colonel winced. "I fear I have another appointment. "

"Oh, rot! I'll bring him, " said the Major. "Where do you hang out?"

"22 Oxbridge, "--her hesitation was barely perceptible--"Crescent. "

The Colonel started. "Do you know it, Colonel?" She looked at himingenuously. 

"No, but how odd! My other appointment is at 22 Oxbridge Terrace. "

"How funny!" laughed Eileen. "Just round the corner. Then you'll beable to kill two ladies with one cab. " And she fled from the Major'scachinnation. 

XVIII

She had missed her turn at the third Hall, but she did not care. She wenton and gave a spiritless performance. It fell dead, but she cared less. Her head throbbed with a dozen possibilities. She was still undiscovered. As she sat resting on her couch ere resuming her work-a-day gown, hernerves stretched to snapping point, and old Irish songs crooningthemselves irrelevantly in her brain, a telegram was handed her. 

"He has found out, " she thought, going hot and cold. She tore open thepink envelope. . . And burst into a shriek of laughter. The dresser rushedin, wondering. Nelly O'Neill merely held her sides, jollity embodied. "Oh, the Show, the Show!" she gasped, the tears streaking her paintedcheeks. 

The telegram that hung between her fingers in two sheets ran: "Replyprepaid. I don't know the ways of the stage so I send you this as a sureway of reaching you to ask when and where I may have the pleasure ofcalling upon your friend, Miss O'Keeffe, and renewing the study ofPlato. --Robert Maper, Hotel Belgravia. "

"Any answer, miss?" said the imperturbable doorkeeper. 

The answer flashed irresistibly into her mind as he spoke. Oh, she wouldplay up to Bob Maper. Doubtless he imagined her fallen to the level ofher _métier_, though he wasn't insulting. She scribbled hastily: "RobertMaper, Hotel Belgravia. I am waiting at the Hall for you. Come and takeme to supper. --EILEEN O'NEILL. " She gave instructions he was to beadmitted. Then she relapsed into her hysteric amusement. "Oh, the merrymaster of marionettes, the night my love comes from beyond the seas, yousend me to supper with Robert Maper. " She waited with impatience. Nowthat the long-dreaded discovery had come, she was consumed with curiosityas to its effect upon the discoverer. At last she remembered to wash offthe rouge and the messes necessary for stage-perspective. Her winsomeface came back to her in the mirror, angelic by contrast, and while shewas looking wonderingly at this mystic flashing mask of hers, there was aknock, and in another instant she was looking into the eyes burningunchanged under the white marble mantel-piece. 

"Ah, there you are!" she said gaily, and shook his hand as though theyhad met the evening before. "Where shall we go?"

He accepted the situation. "I don't know--I thought you would know. "

"I don't--I never supped with a man in my life. "

He flushed with complex pleasure and surprise. "Really! Oh, Eileen!"

"Hush! Call me Nelly, if you must be Christian. I suppose you think youmay, now. "

"I--I beg your pardon, " he stammered, disconcerted. 

"Don't look so gaspy--poor little thing! It shall be thrown back into thewater. Will you carry my bouquet?"

"With pleasure. " He grasped it eagerly, and carried it towards the stagedoor and a hansom. 

"It wanted only that, " she said. "Oh, the Show, the Show!"

"I don't understand you. "

"Do I understand myself?" They got into the hansom. "Where shall we go?"she repeated. 

"Places all close at twelve on Saturday night. "

"Ah, do they? Your hotel also?"

"No, of course one may eat at one's own hotel. If you don't mind goingthere--"

"If _you_ don't mind, rather. "

"I? Who is my censor?"

"Ah, the word admits I'm discreditable. Never mind, Bob. See howChristian I am. "

"No, no, I've felt it was all my doing. Indirectly I drove you toit--oh, how you have weighed on me!"

"Really, I'd quite forgotten you. "

He winced and gasped. "Hotel Belgravia, " he called up through thetrap-door. 

"Very strange you should find me, " she said, as they glided through theflashing London night. 

"Not in the least. I knew you blindfold, so to speak. You forget how Iused to stand outside the drawing-room, listening to your singing. "

"Eavesdropper!" she murmured. But he struck a tender chord--all thetender chords of her twilight playing that now rose up softly and floatedaround her. 

"Eavesdropper if you like, who heard nothing that was not beautiful. Andso I hadn't to _look_ for you. As a matter of fact, I wasn't looking butconsulting my programme to know who number eleven was, when you began tosing. "

"If you _had_ looked you wouldn't have recognised me, " she said, smiling. 

"Probably not. The stage get-up would have blurred my memories. "

She began to like him again: the oddness of it all was appealing. "Nevertheless, " she said, "it is strange you should just find meto-night, for I--"

"No, it isn't, " he interrupted eagerly. "I've been every night thisweek. "

"Ah, eavesdropping again, " she said, touched. 

"I wanted to be absolutely sure--and then I couldn't pluck up courage towrite to you. "

"But you did to-night?"

"You looked so tired--I felt I wanted to protect you. "

A sob came into her throat, but she managed to say coldly, "Was I verybad?"

"To one who had seen you the other nights, " he said with complimentarycandour. 

She laughed. "How is your mother?"

"Oh, she's very well, thank you. She lives in London now. "

"Then your father has retired from--"

"He is dead, --didn't you hear?"

"No. " Eileen sat in shocked silence. "I am sorry, " she murmured atlength. But underneath this mild shock she was conscious--as they rolledon without speaking--of a new ease that had come into her life: someimmense relaxation of tension. "A hunted criminal must breathe morecalmly when he is caught, " she thought. 

XIX

"Lucky I'm in evening dress, " she said, loosening her cloak as they wentthrough a corridor, shimmering with dresses and diamonds, to a crowdedsupper-room. 

"But you're always in evening dress, surely. "

"I might have been in tights. " And she had a malicious self-woundingpleasure in watching him gasp. She hurried into a revelation of her exactposition, as soon as they had secured a just-vacated little table in awindow niche. She omitted only Colonel Doherty. 

He listened breathlessly. "And nobody knows you are Eileen O'Keeffe, Imean Nelly O'Neill?"

She laughed. "You see _you_ don't know which I am. "

"It's incredible. "

"So much the worse for your theories of credibility. The longer I live, the less the Show surprises me. "

"What show?"

"Oh, it's too long to explain. Say Vanity Fair. " Her thumb fell into itsold habit of flicking the table. There was a silence. 

"I am sorry you told me, " he said slowly. 

"Why?"

A waiter loomed over them. 

"Supper, Sir Robert?"

She glanced quickly at her companion. 

"Yes, " he said. "_Ma buonissima!_ I leave it to you. And champagne. "

"_Prestissimo_, Sir Robert. " He smirked himself off. 

"Why does he call you that?" she asked. 

"Oh, didn't you know my poor father was made a Baronet, after weentertained Royalty?"

"No; how strange your lives should have been going on all the time!" Thepop of a cork at her elbow startled her. Then she lifted her frothingglass. "Sir--to you!"

He clinked his against it. "To the lady of my dreams. "

"Still?" She sipped the wine: her eyes sparkled. 

"Yes; I've still a long opinion of myself. "

She put out her hand quickly and pressed his an instant. 

"Thank you!" he said huskily. "That was why I said I was sorry to knowthat to the world you were still a governess. Of course I was glad, too. "

"I don't understand. I always said you were more Irish than I. "

"I was glad you had kept yourself unspotted from the stage-world. "

"Good God! You call that unspotted! What are men made of?"

"You were in a bad atmosphere. Your lips caught phrases. "

"Nonsense. I'm a crow, not a parrot; a thoroughly sooty bird. "

"It was your whiteness that attracted--your morning freshness. You don'tknow what vulgarity is. "

"You don't know what _I_ am. "

"I know you to your delicious finger-tips. And that's why I am sorry youtold me so much. I wanted to ask Nelly O'Neill to marry me. Now she'llthink I'm only asking Eileen O'Keeffe, the daughter of the Irishgentleman. "

Her eyes filled with tears. "No, they both believe you capable of anyfolly. Besides, somebody would find out Nelly all the same. " And a smilemade a rainbow across her tears. 

The arrival of the soup relaxed the tension of emotion. In mid-plate shesuddenly put down her spoon and laughed softly. 

"What is it?" he said, not without alarm at her transitions. 

"Why, it would be one of those stock theatrical marriages, into which weentrap titles! Fascinated by a Serio-Comic, poor silly young man. Sheplayed her cards well, that Nelly. Ha! ha! ha! Who would dream of Plato'sdialogues? And you talk of incredible!"

"I am content to be called silly. " He tried to take her hand. 

"Well, don't be it in public. You will rank with Lord Tippleton whomarried Bessie Bilhook, and made a Lady of her--the only ladyhood she'sever known. "

"No, I can't rank with him, " he smiled back. "I'm only a Baronet. "

"It sounds the same. Lady Maper!" she murmured. "But, oh, how funny!There'd be two Lady Mapers. "

"My mother would be the Dowager Lady--"

"That's funnier still. "

He ate in silence. Eileen mused on the picture of the Dowager, herforefinger to heaven. 

"The Royalty--how did that go off?" she said, as he carved the chicken. 

"With fireworks. For the reception father built a new house and furnishedit with old furniture. Royalty stopped an hour and a quarter. Oh, she waswonderful. I mean my mother. Copied your phrases--see what an impressionyou made. "

"And what have you been doing since you came into the title?"

"Looking for you. "

"Nonsense!" She dropped her fork. "But you knew I had people in Ireland. "

"I never knew exactly where. "

"But what put you on the track of the music-halls?"

"Nothing. I never dreamed of looking for you there. I just went. " MasterHarold Lee Carter's phrase flashed back to her memory, "All the chapsgo. "

"But what about the Black Hole--I mean the works?"

"They go on, " he said. "I just get the profits. "

"And how about your Socialism?"

"You taught me the fallacy of it. "

"I? Well, that's the cream of the joke. "

"Yes. Don't laugh at me, please. When you came into my life, or ratherwhen you went out of it--yes, I am Irish--I saw that money and stationare the mere veneer of life: the central reality is--Love. "

Again her eyes filled with tears, but she remained silent. 

"And I saw that I, the master, was really poorer than the majority of myserfs, with their wives and bairns. "

"You are a good fellow, " she murmured. "I--I meant to say, " she correctedherself, "what have you done with your clothes?"

"My clothes!" he echoed vaguely, looking down at his spotlessshirt-front. 

"Your factory clothes! Wouldn't it be fun to wear them at supper here? Doyou think they could turn you out? I don't see how, legally. Do test thequestion. Yes, do. Please do. " And she laid her hand on his black sleeve. "I won't marry you if you don't. "

"I did think you were serious to-night, Eileen, " he said, disappointed. 

"How could you think that, if you read the programme, as you say? 'NellyO'Neill, Serio-Comic. ' _Allons, ne faites cette tête mine de hibou_. Admit the world is entirely ridiculous and give me some more champagne. "Her eyes glittered strangely. 

A clock struck twelve. 

"What, midnight!" she cried, starting up. "I must go. "

"No, no;" he took her hand. 

"Yes, yes; don't you know, at the stroke of midnight I change back to agoverness. "

"Well, the magic didn't work, for that clock's very slow. Sit down, please. "

"You have spoken the omen. I remain Nelly O'Neill and drop Eileen forever. _Vogue la galère. _"

"Absit omen!" He shuddered. 

"Why not? What do you offer me? The love of one man. But my public lovesme as one man--with a much more voluminous love--I love it in return. Whyshould I change?"

"Shall we say merely because the public changes? I am constant. "

"Yes, you are very wonderful. . . . And if it's to-morrow already, my fatewill be settled to-day. Drink to my destiny. "

"I drink to our destiny, " he said, raising his glass. 

"No. Only to mine. It will be decided this afternoon. "

"You will give me your answer this afternoon?" he cried joyfully. 

"I don't say that. It's my answer I shall know this afternoon. Yours youshall have to-morrow afternoon. You don't mind giving me one day's optionof your hand?"

"One day's! When you have had--"

She interrupted impatiently. "Let bygones be bygones. You shall have aletter by Monday afternoon. But, oh, Heavens! how could we marry? Youbelieve in nothing!"

"There's the Registrar. "

She pouted: "Dry legality. No flowers, no organ, no feeling sweet andvirginal in a long veil. Oh, dear! Besides, there's mother--"

"I don't object to the church ceremony. "

"I'm glad. The law may end marriage. Marriage shouldn't begin with law. It ought to look beautiful at the start, at least, though one may knowit's a shaky scraw. "

"A shaky what?"

"Oh, it's an Irish term for a bit of black bog that looks like lovelygreen meadow. You step out so gaily on the glittering grass, and thensquish! squash! down you go to choke in the ooze. "

"Don't be so pessimistic. It would be much more sensible to think ofmarriage as solid meadow-land after your present scramble over a shakywhat-d'ye-call it. "

"True for you! I give you the stage as the shakiest of all scraws. Butwhere _is_ solid footing to be found? The world itself is only a vast bogthat sucks in the generations. "

"I am sorry I asked you to be serious, " he said glumly. "You're such aquick-change artiste. "

"I must quickly assume the governess or I'll lose my character, " shesaid, rising resolutely. 

He put her cloak tenderly round her. 

"You know I'll take you without a character, " he said lightly. 

"If I had no character I might be tempted to take you, " she retorteddispiritingly. "Thank you so much for my first supper. "

XX

Eileen slept little. The dramatic possibilities of the interview withColonel Doherty were too agitating and too numerous. This time themarionette-play needed writing. Who should receive him when he called?Eileen O'Keeffe or Nelly O'Neill?

Either possibility offered exquisite comedy. 

Eileen--as plain as possible--with a high, black dress, drooped lids, stiffly brushed hair, even eyeglasses perhaps, with a deportment redolentof bread-and-butter and five-finger exercises, could perhaps disenchanthim sufficiently to make him moderate his matrimonial ardour, even tohurry off apologetically to his serio-comic Circe round the corner. Whata triumph of acting if she could drive him to her rival! Then as he wentthrough the door--to loosen her hair, throw off her glasses and whistlehim back to Nelly O'Neill!

The part was tempting; it bristled with opportunities. But it was alsotoo trying. He might begin by taking lover's liberties, and the strain ofrepulsing him would be too great. Besides, she wasn't clear how to playthe opening of the scene. But then there was another star part open toher. 

Nelly O'Neill's _rôle_ was much easier: it played itself. She had onlyto go on with the episode. And the way the episode went on would alsoserve to determine finally her attitude when the moment came to throw offthe mask and turn to governess. The only difficult moment would be thefirst--to obfuscate him immediately with the notion that he had mixed upthe two addresses. Even if she failed and he realised his ghastlierblunder, it would only precipitate the dramatic duel which she must facesooner or later. All these high-strung possibilities deadened thehorrible pain she knew her soul held for her, as soldiers carry wounds tobe felt when the charge is over. She fell asleep near morning, her battleplanned, and slept late, a sleep full of strange dreams, in one of whichher drunken father counted her, and couldn't decide how many she was. "It's two I am, father asthore, only two, Eileen and Nelly, " she keptcrying. But he counted on. 

Towards four in the afternoon she posted herself at the window. It wasabsolutely necessary to the comedy that she should open the door to himherself. At last a cab containing him halted at the door. Sheflew down, just supplanting the butler. 

"How good of you, Colonel!" she cried. "But where is the Major?"

It was exquisitely calculated. She had pulled the string and themarionette moved with precision. A daze, a flash, a stammer--all theembarrassment of a man who believes that in a day-dream he has givena second address first. 

"Miss--Miss O'Neill, " he stuttered, mechanically removing his hat. 

"Nelly to my friends, " she smiled fascinatingly. "Come in!" ChristopherSly was not more bewildered when he opened his eyes on the glories of hisCourt. 

"What--what is this address?" he blurted, as she prisoned him by closingthe door. 

"Why?. . . Oh, I know. Ha! ha! ha! You've come to the Crescent instead ofthe Terrace. "

"That confounded cabman! I'm sure I told him the Terrace. "

"Don't swear. He's more accustomed to the Crescent. So many pros cominghome late, and all that!"

He hesitated at the foot of the stairs. "I really think I ought to callthere first. . . . "

Now all the coquette in Nelly O'Neill rose to detain him, subtly tangledwith the actress. She pouted adorably. "Oh, now you're here, can't youput her second for once?"

"I didn't say it was a _her_. "

"A she, " corrected the governess, instinctively. Nelly hastened to add, "No man leaves a woman for a man. "

"This is such an old appointment, " he pleaded in distress. 

"I see. You want to be off with the old love before you are on with thenew. "

"Nothing of the kind, I assure you. "

"What! Not even the new?"

"Oh, that part!" He smiled and followed her up. "You won't mind my goingsoon?"

"The sooner the better if you talk like that!" She threw open the door ofher little sitting-room. How well the Show was going!

"A soda and whisky, Colonel? I suppose that's your idea of tea. " Shehad the scene ready. She had got it all up like a little play, writingdown the articles on a sheet of paper headed "Property List": "Cigars, cigarettes, syphons, spirits, sporting-papers, " all borrowed from MasterHarold Lee Carter to entertain a visitor. 

But at the height of the play's prosperity, while the Colonel clinkedtumblers with Nelly, came a _contretemps_, and all the farce darkenedswiftly to drama as the gay landscape is overgloomed by a thundercloud. 

It all came from Mrs. Lee Carter's benevolent fussiness, her interest inthe man who had come to marry her governess. A servant knocked at thedoor, stuck her head in, and said, "Mrs. Lee Carter's compliments, andwould you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, " said Eileen, hurriedly. 

But as the door closed, the Colonel's glass fell to the ground, and herose to his feet. His bronzed face was working wildly. 

"Mrs. Lee Carter!" he gasped. "You--you are Eileen!"

"Here's a mess, " she said coolly, stooping to wipe up the carpet. 

"Eileen! Explain!" he said piteously. 

"It's you that ought to be explaining. I've all I can do to pick up thenasty little bits of glass. "

"My brain reels. Who _are_ you? What _are_ you? For God's sake. "

"Hush! Who are _you_? What are _you_?"

"I know what I was--your lover. "

"Whose? Mine or Nelly's?"

"Good God, Eileen! You saw how anxious I was to get to you. That I wassubtly drawn to Nelly is only a proof of how you were in my blood. Butyou're not really Nelly O'Neill. This is some stupid practical joke. Don't torture me longer. "

"It tortures you that I should be Nelly O' Neill!" All the confessedsweetness of her position came up into clear consciousness: the lights, the laughter, the very smell of the smoke endeared by a thousandtriumphs. How dared he speak of Nelly O'Neill as though she couldn't betouched with a pitchfork! Yes, and Bob Maper, too--her anger ricochetedto him--with his priggish notions of saving her from black bogs! Andwho was it that now stood over her like a fuddled accusing angel? Shepulled out his letter and read viciously:--

 "'A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. '"

"I was dying to rush to you--you wouldn't see me. And the Major draggedme--"

"Through all that mud? All those Indian escapades?"

He groaned, "And you listened--!"

"Am I not your mother-confessor?"

He seized her by the wrists. "Don't madden me! You're not really onthe Halls? You _are_ living here as governess. It is some prank, somemasquerade! Say it is!" He shook her. She tried to wrest her hands away. 

"Not till you tell me the truth! You haven't been lying to me all thesemonths?"

A sudden remembrance came to give her strength and scorn. "I _have_ toldyou the truth, only my letter crossed you on the ocean. When it returnsto England, you will see. "

His grip relaxed, he staggered back. "Come, " she said, pursuing herunforeseen advantage. "We will talk this thing over quietly. I alwayssaid you were in love with a shadow. But I find it was I who imagined aBayard. "

"And what have I done and said worse than other men?" Again Master HaroldLee Carter's complacent sentiment came to her. Men were all alike, onlytheir women folk didn't know. 

"Worse than other men!" She laughed bitterly. "I wanted you better--allthe seven heavens better--saint as well as hero, with no thought but forme, and no one before me or after me. Oh, yes, it sounds a large order, but that's what we women want. Don't speak! I know what you're going tosay. Skip me. Talk of yourself. "

"You get what you want. The other's only make-believe. It passes likewater from a duck's back. You women don't understand. The white fire ofyour purity cleanses us, and that is why we will have nothing less--"

"Ah, now you have skipped _to_ me. I'm not pretending there isn't an evilspirit in me to match yours. It split away from me and became NellyO'Neill. You asked which I was? I am both. Here, I am a respectablegoverness. Let me ring for Mrs. Lee Carter. She'll give you my character. The white fire and all that. " She pressed the bell. 

"Don't be so absurd. Give me time to collect my senses. "

"All right, pick up the pieces, while I collect these. " She stooped overthe bits of glass. 

"But for Heaven's sake don't bring that woman into it--"

The door opened. "Yes, miss?"

"Another glass, please. " The servant disappeared. 

"I do hope you won't break this one. In what country is it that thebridegroom breaks a glass in the marriage ceremonial? Oh, yes, Iremember. Fossy told me. Among the Jews. There's a lot in the profession. Not that it's such a marrying profession. And to think I might have beena regular bride! But I've lost you, my dear boy, hero of a hundredhill-fights, I _know_ it--and the moment you've picked your littlebits of senses together, you'll know it, too. Alas, we shall never gotiger-hunting together. 

 "'A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. '"

"I don't say I won't keep my promise, " he said sulkily. 

"Your promise! Hoity toity! Upon my word! I'm no breach-of-promiselady--Chops and tomato sauce indeed! I recognise that we could nevermarry. There would always be that between us!"

Her fascination gripped him in proportion as she let him go. 

"I don't know that I should mind if nobody really knows, " he began. 

"You! It's I that would mind. And I really know. Could I marry a man whohad told me smoking-room stories? No, Eileen is done with you. Good-by!"

"Good-by? No, I can't go. I can't face the emptiness. You've filled meand fooled me with love all these weeks. Good God! Do you owe menothing?"

"I leave you something--Nelly O'Neill! Go and see her. Now you're offwith the old love. You mark what a prophetess I was. Nelly'll receive youvery differently. No cant of superiority. You'll be just a pair of jollygood fellows. You'll sit up drinking whisky together and yarninganecdotes. No uncomfortable pretences; no black bog posing as whitefire; no driven snow business, London snow nicely trodden, in. Andthe tales of the world you tell me--how useful they'll come in forstage-patter! Oh, we shall be happy enough! We can still pick up thepieces!"

"Eileen! Eileen! you will drive me mad. What do you mean? You know Icould never have a wife on the Halls. It would ruin me in the clubs, itwould--"

"In the clubs! Ha! ha! ha! Every member of which would be delighted tohave tea with me! But who's proposing to you a wife on the Halls? Yousaid I owed you myself, and it's true, but you don't suppose I could_marry_ a man I didn't respect? I told you we're not a marryingprofession. Come, let's kiss and be friends. "

He drew back as in horror. "No, no, Eileen, I respect you too much forthat. "

She looked at him long and curiously. "Yes, the sexes don't understandeach other. Well, good-by. I almost could marry you, after all. But I'mtoo wise. Please go. I have a headache and it is quite possible I shallscream. Good-by, dear. I was never more than a phantom to you--a boyishmemory, and a bad one at that. Don't you know you gave me a pair of blackeyes? Good-by: you'll marry a dear, sweet girl in white muslin who'llnever know. God bless you. "

XXI

Sir Robert Maper simply could not get up on the Monday morning. The agonyof suspense was too keen, and he lay with closed eyes, trying to drowsehis consciousness, and exchanging it in his fitful snatches of sleep foroppressive dreams, in one of which Eileen figured as a Lorelei, combingher locks on a rock as she sang her siren song. 

But she did not prolong his agony beyond mid-day. 

 "MY DEAR SIR ROBERT, --Both of us are dead and gone, so, alas! neither can marry you. Don't be alarmed, we are only dead to the world, and gone to the Continent. 'Get thee to a nunnery. ' Hamlet knew best. If I could have married any man it would have been you. You are the only gentleman I have ever known. But I don't love you. It's a miserable pity. I wish I did. I wonder why 'love' is an active verb in all languages. It ought to have a passive form, like 'loquor' (though that passive should be reserved for parrots). Forgive the governess! I seem to have undergone 'love' for two men, but one was a fool and the other not quite a rogue, and I dare say I never really loved anybody but myself (and there the verb is very active)! I love to coquet, but the moment a man comes too close, I feel hunted. I dare say I was secretly pleased to find my hero tripping, so as to send him packing. Was ever hero in such a comic plight? Poor, unlucky hero! But this will be Greek to you--the kind you can't read. Oh, the men I could have married! It is curious, when you think of it, the men one little woman might marry and be dutifully absorbed in. I could have been a bass chorister's wife or a Baronet's wife, the wife of an Honourable dolt, and the wife of a dishonourable dramatist. _J'en passe et des meilleurs. _ I could have lived in Calcutta or in Clerkenwell, been received in Belgravia or in Boulogne. Good Lord! the parts one woman is supposed to be fit for, while the man remains his stolid, stupid self. Talk of the variety stage! Or is it that they all want the same thing of her?

 "Talking of the variety stage, there would have been the danger, too, of my thirsting for it, even with a Dowager Lady for a stepmother. The nostalgia of the boards is a disease your love might not have warded off. You are well rid of both of us. 

 "You said--at my first and last supper--that money and station are the mere veneer of life, the central reality is love. That is true, if by love you read the love of God, of Christ. Do you remember my going one day over the works with your poor father? Well, after I had been through rooms and rooms of whirring machinery infinitely ingenious and diversified--that made my head ache--they took me to a shed where stood in a sort of giant peace the great engine that moved it all. 'God!' was my instant thought, and somehow my headache fled. And ever since then, when I have been oppressed by the complex clatter of life, my thought has gone back to that power-room, to the great simple force behind it all. I rested in the thought as a swimmer on a placid ocean. But the ocean is cold and infinite, and of late I have longed for a more human God that loved and forgave, and so I come back to the Christ. You see Plato never satisfied me. Your explanation of the B. C. Glories was sown on barren soil. I grant you a nobility in your Plato as of Greek pillars, soaring in the sunlight, but somehow I want the Gothic--I long for 'dim religious light' and windows stained with saints. Oh, to find my soul again! If I could tell you how the Convent rises before me as a vision of blessedness--after life's 'shaky scraw'--the cool cloisters, the rows of innocent beds, the delicious old garden. There are tears at my heart, as I think of it. What flowers I will bring to my favourite nun. . . . God grant she is still alive! What altar-cloths I will weave with my silver and gold! Yes, the wages of sin shall not be death, I will pay them to the life eternal; my dowry as the bride of Christ. I, too, shall be laid on the altar, my complex corrupt soul shall be simplified and purified, and the Holy Mother will lead me by the hand like a little child. But all this will be caviare to you. Adieu. I will pray for you. 

 "Eileen. 

 "P. S. --It is a convent that trains the young, so I shall still be a Governess. "

"And perhaps still a Serio-Comic, " thought the Baronet, bitterly.