Sketches in LavenderBlue and Green

BYJEROME K. JEROMEAUTHOR OF "THREE MEN IN A BOAT""THREE MEN ON THE BUMMEL, " "NOVEL NOTES""THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW, " ETC. 

BRISTOLJ. W. ARROWSMITH LTD. , QUAY STREETLONDONSIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. LIMITED1920

Contents:

Reginald Blake, Financier and CadAn item of Fashionable IntelligenceBlase BillyThe Choice of Cyril HarjohnThe Materialisation of Charles and MivanwayPortrait of a LadyThe Man Who Would ManageThe Man Who Lived For OthersA Man of HabitThe Absent-minded ManA Charming WomanWhibley's SpiritThe Man Who Went WrongThe Hobby RiderThe Man Who Did Not Believe In LuckDick Dunkerman's CatThe Minor Poet's StoryThe Degeneration of Thomas HenryThe City of The SeaDriftwood

 La-ven-der's blue, did-dle, did-dle! La-ven-der's green; When I am king, did-dle, did-dle! You shall be queen. 

 Call up your men, did-dle, did-dle! Set them to work; Some to the plough, did-dle, did-dle! Some to the cart. 

 Some to make hay, did-dle, did-dle! Some to cut corn; While you and I, did-dle, did-dle! Keep ourselves warm. 

REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD

The advantage of literature over life is that its characters are clearlydefined, and act consistently. Nature, always inartistic, takes pleasurein creating the impossible. Reginald Blake was as typical a specimen ofthe well-bred cad as one could hope to find between Piccadilly Circus andHyde Park Corner. Vicious without passion, and possessing brain withoutmind, existence presented to him no difficulties, while his pleasuresbrought him no pains. His morality was bounded by the doctor on the oneside, and the magistrate on the other. Careful never to outrage thedecrees of either, he was at forty-five still healthy, though stout; andhad achieved the not too easy task of amassing a fortune while avoidingall risk of Holloway. He and his wife, Edith (_nee_ Eppington), were asill-matched a couple as could be conceived by any dramatist seekingmaterial for a problem play. As they stood before the altar on theirwedding morn, they might have been taken as symbolising satyr and saint. More than twenty years his junior, beautiful with the beauty of aRaphael's Madonna, his every touch of her seemed a sacrilege. Yet oncein his life Mr. Blake played the part of a great gentleman; Mrs. Blake, on the same occasion, contenting herself with a singularly mean_role_--mean even for a woman in love. 

The affair, of course, had been a marriage of convenience. Blake, to dohim justice, had made no pretence to anything beyond admiration andregard. Few things grow monotonous sooner than irregularity. He wouldtickle his jaded palate with respectability, and try for a change thecompanionship of a good woman. The girl's face drew him, as themoonlight holds a man who, bored by the noise, turns from a heated roomto press his forehead to the window-pane. Accustomed to bid for what hewanted, he offered his price. The Eppington family was poor andnumerous. The girl, bred up to the false notions of duty inculcated by anarrow conventionality, and, feminine like, half in love with martyrdomfor its own sake, let her father bargain for a higher price, and thensold herself. 

To a drama of this description, a lover is necessary, if thecomplications are to be of interest to the outside world. Harry Sennett, a pleasant-looking enough young fellow, in spite of his receding chin, was possessed, perhaps, of more good intention than sense. Under theinfluence of Edith's stronger character he was soon persuaded toacquiesce meekly in the proposed arrangement. Both succeeded inconvincing themselves that they were acting nobly. The tone of thefarewell interview, arranged for the eve of the wedding, would have beenfit and proper to the occasion had Edith been a modern Joan of Arc aboutto sacrifice her own happiness on the altar of a great cause; as the girlwas merely selling herself into ease and luxury, for no higher motivethan the desire to enable a certain number of more or less worthyrelatives to continue living beyond their legitimate means, the sentimentwas perhaps exaggerated. Many tears were shed, and many everlasting good-byes spoken, though, seeing that Edith's new home would be only a fewstreets off, and that of necessity their social set would continue to bethe same, more experienced persons might have counselled hope. Threemonths after the marriage they found themselves side by side at the samedinner-table; and after a little melodramatic fencing with what they werepleased to regard as fate, they accommodated themselves to the customarypositions. 

Blake was quite aware that Sennett had been Edith's lover. So had half adozen other men, some younger, some older than himself. He felt no moreembarrassment at meeting them than, standing on the pavement outside theStock Exchange, he would have experienced greeting his brother jobbersafter a settling day that had transferred a fortune from their hands intohis. Sennett, in particular, he liked and encouraged. Our whole socialsystem, always a mystery to the philosopher, owes its existence to thefact that few men and women possess sufficient intelligence to beinteresting to themselves. Blake liked company, but not much companyliked Blake. Young Sennett, however, could always be relied upon tobreak the tediousness of the domestic dialogue. A common love of sportdrew the two men together. Most of us improve upon closer knowledge, andso they came to find good in one another. 

"That is the man you ought to have married, " said Blake one night to hiswife, half laughingly, half seriously, as they sat alone, listening toSennett's departing footsteps echoing upon the deserted pavement. "He'sa good fellow--not a mere money-grubbing machine like me. "

And a week later Sennett, sitting alone with Edith, suddenly broke outwith:

"He's a better man than I am, with all my high-falutin' talk, and, uponmy soul, he loves you. Shall I go abroad?"

"If you like, " was the answer. 

"What would you do?"

"Kill myself, " replied the other, with a laugh, "or run away with thefirst man that asked me. "

So Sennett stayed on. 

Blake himself had made the path easy to them. There was little need foreither fear or caution. Indeed, their safest course lay in recklessness, and they took it. To Sennett the house was always open. It was Blakehimself who, when unable to accompany his wife, would suggest Sennett asa substitute. Club friends shrugged their shoulders. Was the mancompletely under his wife's thumb; or, tired of her, was he playing somedevil's game of his own? To most of his acquaintances the latterexplanation seemed the more plausible. 

The gossip, in due course, reached the parental home. Mrs. Eppingtonshook the vials of her wrath over the head of her son-in-law. Thefather, always a cautious man, felt inclined to blame his child for herwant of prudence. 

"She'll ruin everything, " he said. "Why the devil can't she be careful?"

"I believe the man is deliberately plotting to get rid of her, " said Mrs. Eppington. "I shall tell him plainly what I think. "

"You're a fool, Hannah, " replied her husband, allowing himself thelicence of the domestic hearth. "If you are right, you will onlyprecipitate matters; if you are wrong, you will tell him what there is noneed for him to know. Leave the matter to me. I can sound him withoutgiving anything away, and meanwhile you talk to Edith. "

So matters were arranged, but the interview between mother and daughterhardly improved the position. Mrs. Eppington was conventionally moral;Edith had been thinking for herself, and thinking in a bad atmosphere. Mrs. Eppington, grew angry at the girl's callousness. 

"Have you no sense of shame?" she cried. 

"I had once, " was Edith's reply, "before I came to live here. Do youknow what this house is for me, with its gilded mirrors, its couches, itssoft carpets? Do you know what I am, and have been for two years?"

The elder woman rose, with a frightened pleading look upon her face, andthe other stopped and turned away towards the window. 

"We all thought it for the best, " continued Mrs. Eppington meekly. 

The girl spoke wearily without looking round. 

"Oh! every silly thing that was ever done, was done for the best. _I_thought it would be for the best, myself. Everything would be so simpleif only we were not alive. Don't let's talk any more. All you can sayis quite right. "

The silence continued for a while, the Dresden-china clock on themantelpiece ticking louder and louder as if to say, "I, Time, am here. Donot make your plans forgetting me, little mortals; I change your thoughtsand wills. You are but my puppets. "

"Then what do you intend to do?" demanded Mrs. Eppington at length. 

"Intend! Oh, the right thing of course. We all intend that. I shallsend Harry away with a few well-chosen words of farewell, learn to lovemy husband and settle down to a life of quiet domestic bliss. Oh, it'seasy enough to intend!"

The girl's face wrinkled with a laugh that aged her. In that moment itwas a hard, evil face, and with a pang the elder woman thought of thatother face, so like, yet so unlike--the sweet pure face of a girl thathad given to a sordid home its one touch of nobility. As under thelightning's flash we see the whole arc of the horizon, so Mrs. Eppingtonlooked and saw her child's life. The gilded, over-furnished roomvanished. She and a big-eyed, fair-haired child, the only one of herchildren she had ever understood, were playing wonderful games in thetwilight among the shadows of a tiny attic. Now she was the wolf, devouring Edith, who was Red Riding Hood, with kisses. Now Cinderella'sprince, now both her wicked sisters. But in the favourite game of all, Mrs. Eppington was a beautiful princess, bewitched by a wicked dragon, sothat she seemed to be an old, worn woman. But curly-headed Edith foughtthe dragon, represented by the three-legged rocking-horse, and slew himwith much shouting and the toasting-fork. Then Mrs. Eppington becameagain a beautiful princess, and went away with Edith back to her ownpeople. 

In this twilight hour the misbehaviour of the "General, " the importunityof the family butcher, and the airs assumed by cousin Jane, who kept twoservants, were forgotten. 

The games ended. The little curly head would be laid against her breast"for five minutes' love, " while the restless little brain framed theendless question that children are for ever asking in all its thousandforms, "What is life, mother? I am very little, and I think, and think, until I grow frightened. Oh, mother, tell me, what is life?"

Had she dealt with these questions wisely? Might it not have been betterto have treated them more seriously? Could life after all be ruled bymaxims learned from copy-books? She had answered as she had beenanswered in her own far-back days of questioning. Might it not have beenbetter had she thought for herself?

Suddenly Edith was kneeling on the floor beside her. 

"I will try to be good, mother. "

It was the old baby cry, the cry of us all, children that we are, tillmother Nature kisses us and bids us go to sleep. 

Their arms were round each other now, and so they sat, mother and childonce more. And the twilight of the old attic, creeping westward from theeast, found them again. 

The masculine duet had more result, but was not conducted with the_finesse_ that Mr. Eppington, who prided himself on his diplomacy, hadintended. Indeed, so evidently ill at ease was that gentleman, when themoment came for talk, and so palpably were his pointless remarks mereefforts to delay an unpleasant subject, that Blake, always direct bluntlythough not ill-naturedly asked him, "How much?"

Mr. Eppington was disconcerted. 

"It's not that--at least that's not what I have come about, " he answeredconfusedly. 

"What have you come about?"

Inwardly Mr. Eppington cursed himself for a fool, for the which he wasperhaps not altogether without excuse. He had meant to act the part of aclever counsel, acquiring information while giving none; by a blunder, hefound himself in the witness-box. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing, " was the feeble response, "merely looked in to seehow Edith was. "

"Much the same as at dinner last night, when you were here, " answeredBlake. "Come, out with it. "

It seemed the best course now, and Mr. Eppington took the plunge. 

"Don't you think, " he said, unconsciously glancing round the room to besure they were alone, "that young Sennett is a little too much about thehouse?"

Blake stared at him. 

"Of course, we know it is all right--as nice a young fellow as everlived--and Edith--and all that. Of course, it's absurd, but--"

"But what?"

"Well, people will talk. "

"What do they say?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. 

Blake rose. He had an ugly look when angry, and his language was apt tobe coarse. 

"Tell them to mind their own business, and leave me and my wife alone. "That was the sense of what he said; he expressed himself at greaterlength, and in stronger language. 

"But, my dear Blake, " urged Mr. Eppington, "for your own sake, is itwise? There was a sort of boy and girl attachment between them--nothingof any moment, but all that gives colour to gossip. Forgive me, but I amher father; I do not like to hear my child talked about. "

"Then don't open your ears to the chatter of a pack of fools, " repliedhis son-in-law roughly. But the next instant a softer expression passedover his face, and he laid his hand on the older man's arm. 

"Perhaps there are many more, but there's one good woman in the world, "he said, "and that's your daughter. Come and tell me that the Bank ofEngland is getting shaky on its legs, and I'll listen to you. "

But the stronger the faith, the deeper strike the roots of suspicion. Blake said no further word on the subject, and Sennett was as welcome asbefore. But Edith, looking up suddenly, would sometimes find herhusband's eyes fixed on her with a troubled look as of some dumb creaturetrying to understand; and often he would slip out of the house of anevening by himself, returning home hours afterwards, tired andmud-stained. 

He made attempts to show his affection. This was the most fatal thing hecould have done. Ill-temper, ill-treatment even, she might have borne. His clumsy caresses, his foolish, halting words of tenderness became ahorror to her. She wondered whether to laugh or to strike at hisupturned face. His tactless devotion filled her life as with some sicklyperfume, stifling her. If only she could be by herself for a littlewhile to think! But he was with her night and day. There were timeswhen, as he would cross the room towards her, he grew monstrous until hetowered above her, a formless thing such as children dream of. And shewould sit with her lips tight pressed, clutching the chair lest sheshould start up screaming. 

Her only thought was to escape from him. One day she hastily packed afew necessaries in a small hand-bag and crept unperceived from the house. She drove to Charing Cross, but the Continental Express did not leave foran hour, and she had time to think. 

Of what use was it? Her slender stock of money would soon be gone; howcould she live? He would find her and follow her. It was all sohopeless!

Suddenly a fierce desire of life seized hold of her, the angry answer ofher young blood to despair. Why should she die, never having known whatit was to live? Why should she prostrate herself before this juggernautof other people's respectability? Joy called to her; only her owncowardice stayed her from stretching forth her hand and gathering it. Shereturned home a different woman, for hope had come to her. 

A week later the butler entered the dining room, and handed Blake aletter addressed to him in his wife's handwriting. He took it without aword, as though he had been expecting it. It simply told him that shehad left him for ever. 

* * * * *

The world is small, and money commands many services. Sennett had goneout for a stroll; Edith was left in the tiny _salon_ of their_appartement_ at Fecamp. It was the third day of their arrival in thetown. The door was opened and closed, and Blake stood before her. 

She rose frightened, but by a motion he reassured her. There was a quietdignity about the man that was strange to her. 

"Why have you followed me?" she asked. 

"I want you to return home. "

"Home!" she cried. "You must be mad. Do you not know--"

He interrupted her vehemently. "I know nothing. I wish to know nothing. Go back to London at once. I have made everything right; no onesuspects. I shall not be there; you will never see me again, and youwill have an opportunity of undoing your mistake--our mistake. "

She listened. Hers was not a great nature, and the desire to obtainhappiness without paying the price was strong upon her. As for his goodname, what could that matter? he urged. People would only say that hehad gone back to the evil from which he had emerged, and few would besurprised. His life would go on much as it had done, and she would onlybe pitied. 

She quite understood his plan; it seemed mean of her to accept hisproposal, and she argued feebly against it. But he overcame all herobjections. For his own sake, he told her, he would prefer the scandalto be connected with his name rather than with that of his wife. As heunfolded his scheme, she began to feel that in acquiescing she wasconferring a favour. It was not the first deception he had arranged forthe public, and he appeared to be half in love with his own cleverness. She even found herself laughing at his mimicry of what this acquaintanceand that would say. Her spirits rose; the play that might have been apainful drama seemed turning out an amusing farce. 

The thing settled, he rose to go, and held out his hand. As she lookedup into his face, something about the line of his lips smote upon her. 

"You will be well rid of me, " she said. "I have brought you nothing buttrouble. "

"Oh, trouble, " he answered. "If that were all! A man can bear trouble. "

"What else?" she asked. 

His eyes travelled aimlessly about the room. "They taught me a lot ofthings when I was a boy, " he said, "my mother and others--they meantwell--which as I grew older I discovered to be lies; and so I came tothink that nothing good was true, and that everything and everybody wasevil. And then--"

His wandering eyes came round to her and he broke off abruptly. "Good-bye, " he said, and the next moment he was gone. 

She sat wondering for a while what he had meant. Then Sennett returned, and the words went out of her head. 

* * * * *

A good deal of sympathy was felt for Mrs. Blake. The man had a charmingwife; he might have kept straight; but as his friends added, "Blakealways was a cad. "

AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE

Speaking personally, I do not like the Countess of ---. She is not thetype of woman I could love. I hesitate the less giving expression tothis sentiment by reason of the conviction that the Countess of --- wouldnot be unduly depressed even were the fact to reach her ears. I cannotconceive the Countess of ---'s being troubled by the opinion concerningher of any being, human or divine, other than the Countess of ---. 

But to be honest, I must admit that for the Earl of --- she makes anideal wife. She rules him as she rules all others, relations andretainers, from the curate to the dowager, but the rod, though firmlyheld, is wielded with justice and kindly intent. Nor is it possible toimagine the Earl of ---'s living as contentedly as he does with anypartner of a less dominating turn of mind. He is one of thoseweak-headed, strong-limbed, good-natured, childish men, born to be guidedin all matters, from the tying of a neck-cloth to the choice of apolitical party, by their women folk. Such men are in clover when theirproprietor happens to be a good and sensible woman, but are to be pitiedwhen they get into the hands of the selfish or the foolish. As veryyoung men, they too often fall victims to bad-tempered chorus girls or tomiddle-aged matrons of the class from which Pope judged all womankind. They make capital husbands when well managed; treated badly, they saylittle, but set to work, after the manner of a dissatisfied cat, to finda kinder mistress, generally succeeding. The Earl of --- adored hiswife, deeming himself the most fortunate of husbands, and bettertestimonial than such no wife should hope for. Till the day she snatchedhim away from all other competitors, and claimed him for her own, he hadobeyed his mother with a dutifulness bordering on folly. Were thecountess to die to-morrow, he would be unable to tell you his mind on anysingle subject until his eldest daughter and his still unmarried sister, ladies both of strong character, attracted towards one another by amutual antagonism, had settled between themselves which was to bemistress of him and of his house. 

However, there is little fear (bar accidents) but that my friend thecountess will continue to direct the hereditary vote of the Earl of ---towards the goal of common sense and public good, guide his social policywith judgment and kindness, and manage his estates with prudence andeconomy for many years to come. She is a hearty, vigorous lady, ofgenerous proportions, with the blood of sturdy forebears in her veins, and one who takes the same excellent good care of herself that shebestows on all others dependent upon her guidance. 

"I remember, " said the doctor--we were dining with the doctor in homelyfashion, and our wives had adjourned to the drawing-room to discussservants and husbands and other domestic matters with greater freedom, leaving us to the claret and the twilight--"I remember when we had thecholera in the village--it must be twenty years ago now--that woman gaveup the London season to stay down here and take the whole burden of thetrouble upon her own shoulders. I do not feel any call to praise her;she liked the work, and she was in her element, but it was good work forall that. She had no fear. She would carry the children in her arms iftime pressed and the little ambulance was not at hand. I have known hersit all night in a room not twelve feet square, between a dying man andhis dying wife. But the thing never touched her. Six years ago we hadthe small-pox, and she went all through that in just the same way. Idon't believe she has ever had a day's illness in her life. She will bephysicking this parish when my bones are rattling in my coffin, and shewill be laying down the laws of literature long after your statue hasbecome a familiar ornament of Westminster Abbey. She's a wonderfulwoman, but a trifle masterful. "

He laughed, but I detected a touch of irritation in his voice. My hostlooked a man wishful to be masterful himself. I do not think he quiterelished the calm way in which this grand dame took possession of allthings around her, himself and his work included. 

"Did you ever hear the story of the marriage?" he asked. 

"No, " I replied, "whose marriage? The earl's?"

"I should call it the countess's, " he answered. "It was the gossip ofthe county when I first came here, but other curious things have happenedamong us to push it gradually out of memory. Most people, I reallybelieve, have quite forgotten that the Countess of --- once served behinda baker's counter. "

"You don't say so, " I exclaimed. The remark, I admit, sounds weak whenwritten down; the most natural remarks always do. 

"It's a fact, " said the doctor, "though she does not suggest the shop-girl, does she? But then I have known countesses, descended in a directline from William the Conqueror, who did, so things balance one another. Mary, Countess of ---, was, thirty years ago, Mary Sewell, daughter of aTaunton linen-draper. The business, profitable enough as countrybusinesses go, was inadequate for the needs of the Sewell family, consisting, as I believe it did, of seven boys and eight girls. Mary, the youngest, as soon as her brief schooling was over, had to shift forherself. She seems to have tried her hand at one or two things, finallytaking service with a cousin, a baker and confectioner, who was doingwell in Oxford Street. She must have been a remarkably attractive girl;she's a handsome woman now. I can picture that soft creamy skin when itwas fresh and smooth, and the West of England girls run naturally todimples and eyes that glisten as though they had been just washed inmorning dew. The shop did a good trade in ladies' lunches--it was theglass of sherry and sweet biscuit period. I expect they dressed her insome neat-fitting grey or black dress, with short sleeves, showing herplump arms, and that she flitted around the marble-topped tables, smiling, and looking cool and sweet. There the present Earl of ---, thenyoung Lord C---, fresh from Oxford, and new to the dangers of Londonbachelordom, first saw her. He had accompanied some female relatives tothe photographer's, and, hotels and restaurants being deemed impossiblein those days for ladies, had taken them to Sewell's to lunch. MarySewell waited upon the party; and now as many of that party as are aboveground wait upon Mary Sewell. "

"He showed good sense in marrying her, " I said, "I admire him for it. "The doctor's sixty-four Lafitte was excellent. I felt charitablyinclined towards all men and women, even towards earls and countesses. 

"I don't think he had much to do with it, " laughed the doctor, "beyondbeing, like Barkis, 'willing. ' It's a queer story; some people professnot to believe it, but those who know her ladyship best think it is justthe story that must be true, because it is so characteristic of her. Andbesides, I happen to know that it is true. "

"I should like to hear it, " I said. 

"I am going to tell it you, " said the doctor, lighting a fresh cigar, andpushing the box towards me. 

* * * * *

I will leave you to imagine the lad's suddenly developed appetite fordecantered sherry at sixpence a glass, and the familiar currant bun ofour youth. He lunched at Sewell's shop, he tea'd at Sewell's, occasionally he dined at Sewell's, off cutlets, followed by assortedpastry. Possibly, merely from fear lest the affair should reach hismother's ears, for he was neither worldly-wise nor vicious, he made loveto Mary under an assumed name; and to do the girl justice, it must beremembered that she fell in love with and agreed to marry plain Mr. JohnRobinson, son of a colonial merchant, a gentleman, as she must have seen, and a young man of easy means, but of a position not so very muchsuperior to her own. The first intimation she received that her loverwas none other than Lord C---, the future Earl of ---, was vouchsafed herduring a painful interview with his lordship's mother. 

"I never knew it, madam, " asserted Mary, standing by the window of thedrawing-room above the shop, "upon my word of honour, I never knew it. "

"Perhaps not, " answered her ladyship coldly. "Would you have refused himif you had?"

"I cannot tell, " was the girl's answer; "it would have been differentfrom the beginning. He courted me and asked me to be his wife. "

"We won't go into all that, " interrupted the other; "I am not here todefend him. I do not say he acted well. The question is, how much willcompensate you for your natural disappointment?"

Her ladyship prided herself upon her bluntness and practicability. Asshe spoke she took her cheque-book out of her reticule, and, opening it, dipped her pen into the ink. I am inclined to think that the flutter ofthat cheque-book was her ladyship's mistake. The girl had common sense, and must have seen the difficulties in the way of a marriage between theheir to an earldom and a linen-draper's daughter; and had the old ladybeen a person of discernment, the interview might have ended more to hersatisfaction. She made the error of judging the world by one standard, forgetting there are individualities. Mary Sewell came from a West ofEngland stock that, in the days of Drake and Frobisher, had given morethan one able-bodied pirate to the service of the country, and thatinsult of the cheque-book put the fight into her. Her lips closed with alittle snap, and the fear fell from her. 

"I am sorry I don't see my way to obliging your ladyship, " she said. 

"What do you mean, girl?" asked the elder woman. 

"I don't mean to be disappointed, " answered the girl, but she spokequietly and respectfully. "We have pledged our word to one another. Ifhe is a gentleman, as I know he is, he will keep his, and I shall keepmine. "

Then her ladyship began to talk reason, as people do when it is too late. She pointed out to the girl the difference of social position, andexplained to her the miseries that come from marrying out of one'sstation. But the girl by this time had got over her surprise, andperhaps had begun to reflect that, in any case, a countess-ship was worthfighting for. The best of women are influenced by such considerations. 

* * * * *

"I am not a lady, I know, " she replied quietly, "but my people havealways been honest folk, well known, and I shall try to learn. I am notwishing to speak disrespectfully of my betters, but I was in servicebefore I came here, ma'am, as lady's maid, in a place where I saw much ofwhat is called Society. I think I can be as good a lady as some I know, if not better. "

The countess began to grow angry again. "And who do you think willreceive you?" she cried, "a girl who has served in a pastry-cook's shop!"

"Lady L--- came from behind the bar, " Mary answered, "and that's not muchbetter. And the Duchess of C---, I have heard, was a ballet girl, butnobody seems to remember it. I don't think the people whose opinion isworth having will object to me for very long. " The girl was beginningrather to enjoy the contest. 

"You profess to love my son, " cried the countess fiercely, "and you aregoing to ruin his life. You will drag him down to your own level. "

The girl must have looked rather fine at that moment, I should dearlylove to have been present. 

"There will be no dragging down, my lady, " she replied, "on either side. I do love your son very dearly. He is one of the kindest and best ofgentlemen. But I am not blind, and whatever amount of cleverness theremay be between us belongs chiefly to me. I shall make it my duty to fitmyself for the position of his wife, and to help him in his work. Youneed not fear, my lady, I shall be a good wife to him, and he shall neverregret it. You might find him a richer wife, a better educated wife, butyou will never find him a wife who will be more devoted to him and to hisinterests. "

That practically brought the scene to a close. The countess had senseenough to see that she was only losing ground by argument. She rose andreplaced her cheque-book in her bag. 

"I think, my good girl, you must be mad, " she said; "if you will notallow me to do anything for you, there's an end to the matter. I did notcome here to quarrel with you. My son knows his duty to me and to hisfamily. You must take your own course, and I must take mine. "

"Very well, my lady, " said Mary Sewell, holding the door open for herladyship to pass out, "we shall see who wins. "

But however brave a front Mary Sewell may have maintained before theenemy, I expect she felt pretty limp when thinking matters calmly overafter her ladyship's departure. She knew her lover well enough to guessthat he would be as wax in the firm hands of his mother, while sheherself would not have a chance of opposing her influence against thoseseeking to draw him away from her. Once again she read through the fewschoolboy letters he had written her, and then looked up at the framedphotograph that hung above the mantelpiece of her little bedroom. Theface was that of a frank, pleasant-looking young fellow, lightened byeyes somewhat large for a man, but spoiled by a painfully weak mouth. Themore Mary Sewell thought, the more sure she felt in her own mind that heloved her, and had meant honestly by her. Did the matter rest with him, she might reckon on being the future Countess of ---, but, unfortunatelyfor her, the person to be considered was not Lord C---, but the presentCountess of ---. From childhood, through boyhood, into manhood it hadnever once occurred to Lord C--- to dispute a single command of hismother's, and his was not the type of brain to readily receive new ideas. If she was to win in the unequal contest it would have to be by art, notby strength. She sat down and wrote a letter which under all thecircumstances was a model of diplomacy. She knew that it would be readby the countess, and, writing it, she kept both mother and son in mind. She made no reproaches, and indulged in but little sentiment. It was theletter of a woman who could claim rights, but who asked only forcourtesy. It stated her wish to see him alone and obtain from his ownlips the assurance that he wished their engagement to cease. "Do notfear, " Mary Sewell wrote, "that I shall be any annoyance to you. My ownpride would not let me urge you to marry me against your desire, and Icare for you too much to cause you any pain. Assure me with your ownlips that you wish our engagement to be at an end, and I shall releaseyou without another word. "

The family were in town, and Mary sent her letter by a trusty hand. Thecountess read it with huge satisfaction, and, re-sealing it, gave itherself into her son's hands. It promised a happy solution of theproblem. In imagination, she had all the night been listening to avulgar breach of promise case. She herself had been submitted to a mostannoying cross-examination by a pert barrister. Her son's assumption ofthe name of Robinson had been misunderstood and severely commented uponby the judge. A sympathetic jury had awarded thumping damages, and forthe next six months the family title would be a peg on which music-hallsingers and comic journalists would hang their ribald jokes. Lord C---read the letter, flushed, and dutifully handed it back to his mother. Shemade pretence to read it as for the first time, and counselled him toaccord the interview. 

"I am so glad, " she said, "that the girl is taking the matter sensibly. We must really do something for her in the future, when everything issettled. Let her ask for me, and then the servants will fancy she's alady's maid or something of that sort, come after a place, and won'ttalk. "

So that evening Mary Sewell, addressed by the butler as "young woman, "was ushered into the small drawing-room that connects the library of No. --- Grosvenor Square with the other reception rooms. The countess, nowall amiability, rose to meet her. 

"My son will be here in a moment, " she explained, "he has informed me ofthe purport of your letter. Believe me, my dear Miss Sewell, no one canregret his thoughtless conduct more than I do. But young men will beyoung men, and they do not stop to reflect that what may be a joke tothem may be taken quite seriously by others. "

"I don't regard the matter as a joke, my lady, " replied Mary somewhatcurtly. 

"Of course not, my dear, " added the countess, "that's what I'm saying. Itwas very wrong of him altogether. But with your pretty face, you willnot, I am sure, have long to wait for a husband; we must see what we cando for you. "

The countess certainly lacked tact; it must have handicapped herexceedingly. 

"Thank you, " answered the girl, "but I prefer to choose my own. "

Fortunately--or the interview might have ended in another quarrel--thecause of all the trouble at this moment entered the room, and thecountess, whispering a few final words of instruction to him as shepassed out, left them together. 

Mary took a chair in the centre of the room, at equal distance from bothdoors. Lord C---, finding any sort of a seat uncomfortable under thecircumstances, preferred to stand with his back to the mantelpiece. Deadsilence was maintained for a few seconds, and then Mary, drawing thedaintiest of handkerchiefs from her pocket, began to cry. The countessmust have been a poor diplomatist, or she might have thought of this; orshe may have remembered her own appearance on the rare occasions when sheherself, a big, raw-boned girl, had attempted the softening influence oftears, and have attached little importance to the possibility. But whenthese soft, dimpled women cry, and cry quietly, it is another matter. Their eyes grow brighter, and the tears, few and far between, lie likedewdrops on a rose leaf. 

Lord C--- was as tender-hearted a lout as ever lived. In a moment he wason his knees with his arm round the girl's waist, pouring out suchhalting words of love and devotion as came to his unready brain, cursinghis fate, his earldom, and his mother, and assuring Mary that his onlychance of happiness lay in his making her his countess. Had Mary likedto say the word at that moment, he would have caught her to his arms, anddefied the whole world--for the time being. But Mary was a verypractical young woman, and there are difficulties in the way of handlinga lover, who, however ready he may be to do your bidding so long as youreyes are upon him, is liable to be turned from his purpose so soon asanother influence is substituted for your own. His lordship suggested animmediate secret marriage. But you cannot run out into the street, knockup a clergyman, and get married on the spot, and Mary knew that themoment she was gone his lordship's will would revert to his mother'skeeping. Then his lordship suggested flight, but flight requires money, and the countess knew enough to keep his lordship's purse in her ownhands. Despair seized upon his lordship. 

"It's no use, " he cried, "it will end in my marrying her. "

"Who's she?" exclaimed Mary somewhat quickly. 

His lordship explained the position. The family estates were heavilyencumbered. It was deemed advisable that his lordship should marryMoney, and Money, in the person of the only daughter of rich andambitious parvenus, had offered itself--or, to speak more correctly, hadbeen offered. 

"What's she like?" asked Mary. 

"Oh, she's nice enough, " was the reply, "only I don't care for her andshe doesn't care for me. It won't be much fun for either of us, " and hislordship laughed dismally. 

"How do you know she doesn't care for you?" asked Mary. A woman may becritical of her lover's shortcomings, but at the very least he is goodenough for every other woman. 

"Well, she happens to care for somebody else, " answered his lordship, "she told me so herself. "

That would account for it. 

"And is she willing to marry you?" inquired Mary. 

His lordship shrugged his shoulders. 

"Oh, well, you know, her people want it, " he replied. 

In spite of her trouble, the girl could not help a laugh. These youngswells seemed to have but small wills of their own. Her ladyship, on theother side of the door, grew nervous. It was the only sound she had beenable to hear. 

"It's deuced awkward, " explained his lordship, "when you're--well, whenyou are anybody, you know. You can't do as you like. Things areexpected of you, and there's such a lot to be considered. "

Mary rose and clasped her pretty dimpled hands, from which she had drawnher gloves, behind his neck. 

"You do love me, Jack?" she said, looking up into his face. 

For answer the lad hugged her to him very tightly, and there were tearsin his eyes. 

"Look here, Mary, " he cried, "if I could only get rid of my position, andsettle down with you as a country gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow. Damnthe title, it's going to be the curse of my life. "

Perhaps in that moment Mary also wished that the title were at the bottomof the sea, and that her lover were only the plain Mr. John Robinson shehad thought him. These big, stupid men are often very loveable in spiteof, or because of their weakness. They appeal to the mother side of awoman's heart, and that is the biggest side in all good women. 

Suddenly however, the door opened. The countess appeared, and sentimentflew out. Lord C---, releasing Mary, sprang back, looking like a guiltyschool-boy. 

"I thought I heard Miss Sewell go out, " said her ladyship in the icytones that had never lost their power of making her son's heart freezewithin him. "I want to see you when you are free. "

"I shan't be long, " stammered his lordship. "Mary--Miss Sewell is justgoing. "

Mary waited without moving until the countess had left and closed thedoor behind her. Then she turned to her lover and spoke in quick, lowtones. 

"Give me her address--the girl they want you to marry!"

"What are you going to do?" asked his lordship. 

"I don't know, " answered the girl, "but I'm going to see her. "

She scribbled the name down, and then said, looking the boy squarely inthe face:

"Tell me frankly, Jack, do you want to marry me, or do you not?"

"You know I do, Mary, " he answered, and his eyes spoke stronger than hiswords. "If I weren't a silly ass, there would be none of this trouble. But I don't know how it is; I say to myself I'll do, a thing, but themater talks and talks and--"

"I know, " interrupted Mary with a smile. "Don't argue with her, fall inwith all her views, and pretend to agree with her. "

"If you could only think of some plan, " said his lordship, catching atthe hope of her words, "you are so clever. "

"I am going to try, " answered Mary, "and if I fail, you must run off withme, even if you have to do it right before your mother's eyes. "

What she meant was, "I shall have to run off with you, " but she thoughtit better to put it the other way about. 

Mary found her involuntary rival a meek, gentle little lady, as muchunder the influence of her blustering father as was Lord C--- under thatof his mother. What took place at the interview one can only surmise;but certain it is that the two girls, each for her own ends, undertook toaid and abet one another. 

Much to the surprised delight of their respective parents, there cameabout a change in the attitude hitherto assumed towards one another byMiss Clementina Hodskiss and Lord C---. All objections to his lordship'sunwilling attentions were suddenly withdrawn by the lady. Indeed, soswift to come and go are the whims of women, his calls were actuallyencouraged, especially when, as generally happened, they coincided withthe absence from home of Mr. And Mrs. Hodskiss. Quite as remarkable wasthe new-born desire of Lord C--- towards Miss Clementina Hodskiss. Mary'sname was never mentioned, and the suggestion of immediate marriage waslistened to without remonstrance. Wiser folk would have puzzled theirbrains, but both her ladyship and ex-Contractor Hodskiss were accustomedto find all things yield to their wishes. The countess saw visions of arehabilitated estate, and Clementina's father dreamed of a peerage, secured by the influence of aristocratic connections. All that the youngfolks stipulated for (and on that point their firmness was supernatural)was that the marriage should be quiet, almost to the verge of secrecy. 

"No beastly fuss, " his lordship demanded. "Let it be somewhere in thecountry, and no mob!" and his mother, thinking she understood his reason, patted his cheek affectionately. 

"I should like to go down to Aunt Jane's and be married quietly fromthere, " explained Miss Hodskiss to her father. 

Aunt Jane resided on the outskirts of a small Hampshire village, and "satunder" a clergyman famous throughout the neighbourhood for having lostthe roof to his mouth. 

"You can't be married by that old fool, " thundered her father--Mr. Hodskiss always thundered; he thundered even his prayers. 

"He christened me, " urged Miss Clementina. 

"And Lord knows what he called you. Nobody can understand a word hesays. "

"I'd like him to marry me, " reiterated Miss Clementina. 

Neither her ladyship nor the contractor liked the idea. The latter inparticular had looked forward to a big function, chronicled at length inall the newspapers. But after all, the marriage was the essential thing, and perhaps, having regard to some foolish love passages that hadhappened between Clementina and a certain penniless naval lieutenant, ostentation might be out of place. 

So in due course Clementina departed for Aunt Jane's, accompanied only byher maid. 

Quite a treasure was Miss Hodskiss's new maid. 

"A clean, wholesome girl, " said of her Contractor Hodskiss, whocultivated affability towards the lower orders; "knows her place, andtalks sense. You keep that girl, Clemmy. "

"Do you think she knows enough?" hazarded the maternal Hodskiss. 

"Quite sufficient for any decent woman, " retorted the contractor. "WhenClemmy wants painting and stuffing, it will be time enough for her tothink about getting one of your '_Ach Himmels_' or '_Mon Dieus_'. "

"I like the girl myself immensely, " agreed Clementina's mother. "You cantrust her, and she doesn't give herself airs. "

Her praises reached even the countess, suffering severely at the momentfrom the tyranny of an elderly Fraulein. 

"I must see this treasure, " thought the countess to herself. "I am tiredof these foreign minxes. "

But no matter at what cunning hour her ladyship might call, the"treasure" always happened for some reason or other to be abroad. 

"Your girl is always out when I come, " laughed the countess. "One wouldfancy there was some reason for it. "

"It does seem odd, " agreed Clementina, with a slight flush. 

Miss Hodskiss herself showed rather than spoke her appreciation of thegirl. She seemed unable to move or think without her. Not even from theinterviews with Lord C--- was the maid always absent. 

The marriage, it was settled, should be by licence. Mrs. Hodskiss madeup her mind at first to run down and see to the preliminaries, but reallywhen the time arrived it hardly seemed necessary to take that trouble. The ordering of the whole affair was so very simple, and the "treasure"appeared to understand the business most thoroughly, and to be willing totake the whole burden upon her own shoulders. It was not, therefore, until the evening before the wedding that the Hodskiss family arrived inforce, filling Aunt Jane's small dwelling to its utmost capacity. Theswelling figure of the contractor, standing beside the tiny porch, compelled the passer-by to think of the doll's house in which the dwarfresides during fair-time, ringing his own bell out of his own first-floorwindow. The countess and Lord C--- were staying with her ladyship'ssister, the Hon. Mrs. J---, at G--- Hall, some ten miles distant, andwere to drive over in the morning. The then Earl of --- was in Norway, salmon fishing. Domestic events did not interest him. 

Clementina complained of a headache after dinner, and went to bed early. The "treasure" also was indisposed. She seemed worried and excited. 

"That girl is as eager about the thing, " remarked Mrs. Hodskiss, "asthough it was her own marriage. "

In the morning Clementina was still suffering from her headache, butasserted her ability to go through the ceremony, provided everybody wouldkeep away, and not worry her. The "treasure" was the only person shefelt she could bear to have about her. Half an hour before it was timeto start for church her mother looked her up again. She had grown stillpaler, if possible, during the interval, and also more nervous andirritable. She threatened to go to bed and stop there if she was notleft quite alone. She almost turned her mother out of the room, lockingthe door behind her. Mrs. Hodskiss had never known her daughter to belike this before. 

The others went on, leaving her to follow in the last carriage with herfather. The contractor, forewarned, spoke little to her. Only once hehad occasion to ask her a question, and then she answered in a strained, unnatural voice. She appeared, so far as could be seen under her heavyveil, to be crying. 

"Well, this is going to be a damned cheerful wedding, " said Mr. Hodskiss, and lapsed into sulkiness. 

The wedding was not so quiet as had been anticipated. The village hadgot scent of it, and had spread itself upon the event, while half thehouse party from G--- Hall had insisted on driving over to take part inthe proceedings. The little church was better filled than it had beenfor many a long year past. 

The presence of the stylish crowd unnerved the ancient clergyman, longunaccustomed to the sight of a strange face, and the first sound of theancient clergyman's voice unnerved the stylish crowd. What littlearticulation he possessed entirely disappeared, no one could understand aword he said. He appeared to be uttering sounds of distress. Theancient gentleman's infliction had to be explained in low asides, and italso had to be explained why such an one had been chosen to perform theceremony. 

"It was a whim of Clementina's, " whispered her mother. "Her father andmyself were married from here, and he christened her. The dear child'sfull of sentiment. I think it so nice of her. "

Everybody agreed it was charming, but wished it were over. The generaleffect was weird in the extreme. 

Lord C--- spoke up fairly well, but the bride's responses were singularlyindistinct, the usual order of things being thus reversed. The story ofthe naval lieutenant was remembered, and added to, and some of the moresentimental of the women began to cry in sympathy. 

In the vestry things assumed a brighter tone. There was no lack ofwitnesses to sign the register. The verger pointed out to them theplace, and they wrote their names, as people in such cases do, withoutstopping to read. Then it occurred to some one that the bride had notyet signed. She stood apart, with her veil still down, and appeared tohave been forgotten. Encouraged, she came forward meekly, and took thepen from the hand of the verger. The countess came and stood behind her. 

"Mary, " wrote the bride, in a hand that looked as though it ought to havebeen firm, but which was not. 

"Dear me, " said the countess, "I never knew there was a Mary in yourname. How differently you write when you write slowly. "

The bride did not answer, but followed with "Susannah. "

"Why, what a lot of names you must have, my dear!" exclaimed thecountess. "When are you going to get to the ones we all know?"

"Ruth, " continued the bride without answering. 

Breeding is not always proof against strong emotion. The countesssnatched the bride's veil from her face, and Mary Susannah Ruth Sewellstood before her, flushed and trembling, but looking none the less prettybecause of that. At this point the crowd came in useful. 

"I am sure your ladyship does not wish a scene, " said Mary, speaking low. "The thing is done. "

"The thing can be undone, and will be, " retorted the countess in the sametone. "You, you--"

"My wife, don't forget that, mother, " said Lord C--- coming between them, and slipping Mary's hand on to his arm. "We are both sorry to have hadto go about the thing in this roundabout way, but we wanted to avoid afuss. I think we had better be getting away. I'm afraid Mr. Hodskiss isgoing to be noisy. "

* * * * *

The doctor poured himself out a glass of claret, and drank it off. Histhroat must have been dry. 

"And what became of Clementina?" I asked. "Did the naval lieutenant, while the others were at church, dash up in a post-chaise and carry heroff?"

"That's what ought to have happened, for the whole thing to be inkeeping, " agreed the doctor. "I believe as a matter of fact she didmarry him eventually, but not till some years later, after the contractorhad died. "

"And did Mr. Hodskiss make a noise in the vestry?" I persisted. Thedoctor never will finish a story. 

"I can't say for certain, " answered my host, "I only saw the gentlemanonce. That was at a shareholders' meeting. I should incline to theopinion that he did. "

"I suppose the bride and bridegroom slipped out as quietly as possibleand drove straight off, " I suggested. 

"That would have been the sensible thing for them to do, " agreed thedoctor. 

"But how did she manage about her travelling frock?" I continued. "Shecould hardly have gone back to her Aunt Jane's and changed her things. "The doctor has no mind for minutiae. 

"I cannot tell you about all that, " he replied. "I think I mentionedthat Mary was a practical girl. Possibly she had thought of thesedetails. "

"And did the countess take the matter quietly?" I asked. 

I like a tidy story, where everybody is put into his or her proper placeat the end. Your modern romance leaves half his characters lying aboutjust anyhow. 

"That also I cannot tell you for certain, " answered the doctor, "but Igive her credit for so much sense. Lord C--- was of age, and with Maryat his elbow, quite knew his own mind. I believe they travelled for twoor three years. The first time I myself set eyes on the countess (_nee_Mary Sewell) was just after the late earl's death. I thought she lookeda countess, every inch of her, but then I had not heard the story. Imistook the dowager for the housekeeper. "

BLASE BILLY

It was towards the end of August. He and I appeared to be the only twomen left to the Club. He was sitting by an open window, the _Times_lying on the floor beside him. I drew my chair a little closer andremarked:--"Good morning. "

He suppressed a yawn, and replied "Mornin'"--dropping the "g. " Thecustom was just coming into fashion; he was always correct. 

"Going to be a very hot day, I am afraid, " I continued. 

"'Fraid so, " was the response, after which he turned his head away andgently closed his eyes. 

I opined that conversation was not to his wish, but this only made memore determined to talk, and to talk to him above all others in London. The desire took hold of me to irritate him--to break down theimperturbable calm within which he moved and had his being; and Igathered myself together, and settled down to the task. 

"Interesting paper the _Times_, " I observed. 

"Very, " he replied, taking it from the floor and handing it to me. "Won'tyou read it?"

I had been careful to throw into my voice an aggressive cheeriness whichI had calculated would vex him, but his manner remained that of a man whois simply bored. I argued with him politely concerning the paper; but heinsisted, still with the same weary air, that he had done with it. Ithanked him effusively. I judged that he hated effusiveness. 

"They say that to read a _Times_ leader, " I persisted, "is a lesson inEnglish composition. "

"So I've been told, " he answered tranquilly. "Personally I don't takethem. "

The _Times_, I could see, was not going to be of much assistance to me. Ilit a cigarette, and remarked that he was not shooting. He admitted thefact. Under the circumstances, it would have taxed him to deny it, butthe necessity for confession aroused him. 

"To myself, " he said, "a tramp through miles of mud, in company with fourgloomy men in black velveteen, a couple of depressed-looking dogs, and aheavy gun, the entire cavalcade being organised for the purpose ofkilling some twelve-and-sixpence worth of poultry, suggests thedisproportionate. "

I laughed boisterously, and cried, "Good, good--very good!"

He was the type of man that shudders inwardly at the sound of laughter. Ihad the will to slap him on the back, but I thought maybe that would sendhim away altogether. 

I asked him if he hunted. He replied that fourteen hours' talk a dayabout horses, and only about horses tired him, and that in consequence hehad abandoned hunting. 

"You fish?" I said. 

"I was never sufficiently imaginative, " he answered. 

"You travel a good deal, " I suggested. 

He had apparently made up his mind to abandon himself to his fate, for heturned towards me with a resigned air. An ancient nurse of mine hadalways described me as the most "wearing" child she had ever come across. I prefer to speak of myself as persevering. 

"I should go about more, " he said, "were I able to see any differencebetween one place and another. "

"Tried Central Africa?" I inquired. 

"Once or twice, " he answered. "It always reminds me of Kew Gardens. "

"China?" I hazarded. 

"Cross between a willow-pattern plate and a New York slum, " was hiscomment. 

"The North Pole?" I tried, thinking the third time might be lucky. 

"Never got quite up to it, " he returned. "Reached Cape Hakluyt once. "

"How did that impress you?" I asked. 

"It didn't impress me, " he replied. 

The talk drifted to women and bogus companies, dogs, literature, and such-like matters. I found him well informed upon and bored by all. 

"They used to be amusing, " he said, speaking of the first named, "untilthey began to take themselves seriously. Now they are merely silly. "

I was forced into closer companionship with "Blase Billy" that autumn, for by chance a month later he and I found ourselves the guests of thesame delightful hostess, and I came to liking him better. He was auseful man to have about one. In matters of fashion one could alwaysfeel safe following his lead. One knew that his necktie, his collar, hissocks, if not the very newest departure, were always correct; and uponsocial paths, as guide, philosopher, and friend, he was invaluable. Heknew every one, together with his or her previous convictions. He wasacquainted with every woman's past, and shrewdly surmised every man'sfuture. He could point you out the coal-shed where the Countess ofGlenleman had gambolled in her days of innocence, and would take you tobreakfast at the coffee-shop off the Mile End Road where "Sam. Smith, Estd. 1820, " own brother to the world-famed society novelist, Smith-Stratford, lived an uncriticised, unparagraphed, unphotographedexistence upon the profits of "rashers" at three-ha'pence and"door-steps" at two a penny. He knew at what houses it was inadvisableto introduce soap, and at what tables it would be bad form to denouncepolitical jobbery. He could tell you offhand what trade-mark went withwhat crest, and remembered the price paid for every baronetcy createdduring the last twenty-five years. 

Regarding himself, he might have made claim with King Charles never tohave said a foolish thing, and never to have done a wise one. Hedespised, or affected to despise, most of his fellow-men, and those ofhis fellow-men whose opinion was most worth having unaffectedly despisedhim. 

Shortly described, one might have likened him to a Gaiety Johnny withbrains. He was capital company after dinner, but in the early morningone avoided him. 

So I thought of him until one day he fell in love; or to put it in thewords of Teddy Tidmarsh, who brought the news to us, "got mashed on GertyLovell. "

"The red-haired one, " Teddy explained, to distinguish her from hersister, who had lately adopted the newer golden shade. 

"Gerty Lovell!" exclaimed the captain, "why, I've always been told theLovell girls hadn't a penny among them. "

"The old man's stone broke, I know for a certainty, " volunteered Teddy, who picked up a mysterious but, in other respects, satisfactory income inan office near Hatton Garden, and who was candour itself concerning theprivate affairs of everybody but himself. 

"Oh, some rich pork-packing or diamond-sweating uncle has cropped up inAustralia, or America, or one of those places, " suggested the captain, "and Billy's got wind of it in good time. Billy knows his way about. "

We agreed that some such explanation was needed, though in all otherrespects Gerty Lovell was just the girl that Reason (not always consultedon these occasions) might herself have chosen for "Blase Billy's" mate. 

The sunlight was not too kind to her, but at evening parties, where thelighting has been well considered, I have seen her look quite girlish. Ather best she was not beautiful, but at her worst there was about her anair of breeding and distinction that always saved her from being passedover, and she dressed to perfection. In character she was the typicalsociety woman: always charming, generally insincere. She went toKensington for her religion and to Mayfair for her morals; accepted herliterature from Mudie's and her art from the Grosvenor Gallery; and couldand would gabble philanthropy, philosophy, and politics with equalfluency at every five-o'clock tea-table she visited. Her ideas couldalways be guaranteed as the very latest, and her opinion as that of theperson to whom she was talking. Asked by a famous novelist oneafternoon, at the Pioneer Club, to give him some idea of her, little Mrs. Bund, the painter's wife, had remained for a few moments with her prettylips pursed, and had then said:

"She is a woman to whom life could bring nothing more fully satisfyingthan a dinner invitation from a duchess, and whose nature would beincapable of sustaining deeper suffering than that caused by anill-fitting costume. "

At the time I should have said the epigram was as true as it was cruel, but I suppose we none of us quite know each other. 

I congratulated "Blase Billy, " or to drop his Club nickname and give himthe full benefit of his social label, "The Hon. William Cecil WychwoodStanley Drayton, " on the occasion of our next meeting, which happenedupon the steps of the Savoy Restaurant, and I thought--unless a quiver ofthe electric light deceived me--that he blushed. 

"Charming girl, " I said. "You're a lucky dog, Billy. "

It was the phrase that custom demands upon such occasions, and it came ofits own accord to my tongue without costing me the trouble ofcomposition, but he seized upon it as though it had been a gem offriendly sincerity. 

"You will like her even more when you know her better, " he said. "She isso different from the usual woman that one meets. Come and see her to-morrow afternoon, she will be so pleased. Go about four, I will tell herto expect you. "

I rang the bell at ten minutes past five. Billy was there. She greetedme with a little tremor of embarrassment, which sat oddly upon her, butwhich was not altogether unpleasing. She said it was kind of me to comeso early. I stayed for about half an hour, but conversation flagged, andsome of my cleverest remarks attracted no attention whatever. 

When I rose to take my leave, Billy said that he must be off too, andthat he would accompany me. Had they been ordinary lovers, I should havebeen careful to give them an opportunity of making their adieus insecret; but in the case of the Honourable William Drayton and the eldestMiss Lovell I concluded that such tactics were needless, so I waited tillhe had shaken hands, and went downstairs with him. 

But in the hall Billy suddenly ejaculated, "By Jove! Half a minute, " andran back up the stairs three at a time. Apparently he found what he hadgone for on the landing, for I did not hear the opening of the drawing-room door. Then the Honourable Billy redescended with a sober, nonchalent air. 

"Left my gloves behind me, " he explained, as he took my arm. "I amalways leaving my gloves about. "

I did not mention that I had seen him take them from his hat and slipthem into his coat-tail pocket. 

We at the Club did not see very much of Billy during the next threemonths, but the captain, who prided himself upon his playing of the_role_ of smoking-room cynic--though he would have been better in thepart had he occasionally displayed a little originality--was of opinionthat our loss would be more than made up to us after the marriage. Oncein the twilight I caught sight of a figure that reminded me of Billy's, accompanied by a figure that might have been that of the eldest MissLovell; but as the spot was Battersea Park, which is not a fashionableevening promenade, and the two figures were holding each other's hands, the whole picture being suggestive of the closing chapter of a _LondonJournal_ romance, I concluded I had made an error. 

But I did see them in the Adelphi stalls one evening, rapt in asentimental melodrama. I joined them between the acts, and poked fun atthe play, as one does at the Adelphi, but Miss Lovell begged me quiteearnestly not to spoil her interest, and Billy wanted to enter upon aserious argument as to whether a man was justified in behaving as WillTerriss had just behaved towards the woman he loved. I left them andreturned to my own party, to the satisfaction, I am inclined to think, ofall concerned. 

They married in due course. We were mistaken on one point. She broughtBilly nothing. But they both seemed quite content on his not tooextravagant fortune. They took a tiny house not far from VictoriaStation, and hired a brougham for the season. They did not entertainvery much, but they contrived to be seen everywhere it was right andfashionable they should be seen. The Honourable Mrs. Drayton was a muchyounger and brighter person than had been the eldest Miss Lovell, and asshe continued to dress charmingly, her social position rose rapidly. Billy went everywhere with her, and evidently took a keen pride in hersuccess. It was even said that he designed her dresses for her, and Ihave myself seen him earnestly studying the costumes in Russell andAllen's windows. 

The captain's prophecy remained unfulfilled. "Blase Billy"--if the namecould still be applied to him--hardly ever visited the Club after hismarriage. But I had grown to like him, and, as he had foretold, to likehis wife. I found their calm indifference to the burning questions ofthe day a positive relief from the strenuous atmosphere of literary andartistic circles. In the drawing-room of their little house in EatonRow, the comparative merits of George Meredith and George R. Sims werenot considered worth discussion. Both were regarded as persons whoafforded a certain amount of amusement in return for a certain amount ofcash. And on any Wednesday afternoon, Henrick Ibsen and Arthur Robertswould have been equally welcome, as adding piquancy to the smallgathering. Had I been compelled to pass my life in such a house, thisPhilistine attitude might have palled upon me; but, under thecircumstances, it refreshed me, and I made use of my welcome, which Ibelieve was genuine, to its full extent. 

As months went by, they seemed to me to draw closer to one another, though I am given to understand that such is not the rule in fashionablecircles. One evening I arrived a little before my time, and was shown upinto the drawing-room by the soft-footed butler. They were sitting inthe dusk with their arms round one another. It was impossible towithdraw, so I faced the situation and coughed. A pair of middle-classlovers could not have appeared more awkward or surprised. 

But the incident established an understanding between us, and I came tobe regarded as a friend before whom there was less necessity to act. 

Studying them, I came to the conclusion that the ways and manners of loveare very same-like throughout the world, as though the foolish boy, unheedful of human advance, kept but one school for minor poet and EastEnd shop-boy, for Girton girl and little milliner; taught but the onelesson to the end-of-the-nineteenth-century Johnny that he taught tobearded Pict and Hun four thousand years ago. 

Thus the summer and the winter passed pleasantly for the HonourableBilly, and then, as luck would have it, he fell ill just in the verymiddle of the London season, when invitations to balls and dinnerparties, luncheons and "At Homes, " were pouring in from every quarter;when the lawns at Hurlingham were at their smoothest, and the paddocks attheir smartest. 

It was unfortunate, too, that the fashions that season suited theHonourable Mrs. Billy as they had not suited her for years. In the earlyspring, she and Billy had been hard at work planning costumes calculatedto cause a flutter through Mayfair, and the dresses and the bonnets--eachone a work of art--were waiting on their stands to do their killing work. But the Honourable Mrs. Billy, for the first time in her life, had lostinterest in such things. 

Their friends were genuinely sorry, for society was Billy's element, andin it he was interesting and amusing. But, as Lady Gower said, there wasno earthly need for his wife to constitute herself a prisoner. Hershutting herself off from the world could do him no good and it wouldlook odd. 

Accordingly the Honourable Mrs. Drayton, to whom oddness was a crime, andthe voice of Lady Gower as the voice of duty, sacrificed her inclinationson the social shrine, laced the new costumes tight across her achingheart, and went down into society. 

But the Honourable Mrs. Drayton achieved not the success of formerseasons. Her small talk grew so very small, that even Park Lane found itunsatisfying. Her famous laugh rang mechanically. She smiled at thewisdom of dukes, and became sad at the funny stories of millionaires. Society voted her a good wife but bad company, and confined itsattentions to cards of inquiry. And for this relief the Honourable Mrs. Drayton was grateful, for Billy waned weaker and weaker. In the world ofshadows in which she moved, he was the one real thing. She was of verylittle practical use, but it comforted her to think that she was helpingto nurse him. 

But Billy himself it troubled. 

"I do wish you would go out more, " he would say. "It makes me feel thatI'm such a selfish brute, keeping you tied up here in this dismal littlehouse. Besides, " he would add, "people miss you; they will hate me forkeeping you away. " For, where his wife was concerned, Billy's knowledgeof the world availed him little. He really thought society craved forthe Honourable Mrs. Drayton, and would not be comforted where she wasnot. 

"I would rather stop with you, dear, " would be the answer; "I don't careto go about by myself. You must get well quickly and take me. "

And so the argument continued, until one evening, as she sat by herself, the nurse entered softly, closed the door behind her, and came over toher. 

"I wish you would go out to-night, ma'am, " said the nurse, "just for anhour or two. I think it would please the master; he is worrying himselfbecause he thinks it is his fault that you do not; and just now"--thewoman hesitated for a moment--"just now I want to keep him very quiet. "

"Is he weaker, nurse?"

"Well, he is not stronger, ma'am, and I think--I think we must humourhim. "

The Honourable Mrs. Drayton rose, and, crossing to the window, stood fora while looking out. 

"But where am I to go, nurse?" she said at length, turning with a smile. "I've no invitations anywhere. "

"Can't you make believe to have one?" said the nurse. "It is only seveno'clock. Say you are going to a dinner-party; you can come home earlythen. Go and dress yourself, and come down and say good-bye to him, andthen come in again about eleven, as though you had just returned. "

"You think I must, nurse?"

"I think it would be better, ma'am. I wish you would try it. "

The Honourable Mrs. Drayton went to the door, then paused. 

"He has such sharp ears, nurse; he will listen for the opening of thedoor and the sound of the carriage. "

"I will see to that, " said the nurse. "I will tell them to have thecarriage here at ten minutes to eight. Then you can drive to the end ofthe street, slip out, and walk back. I will let you in myself. "

"And about coming home?" asked the other woman. 

"You must slip out for a few minutes before eleven, and the carriage mustbe waiting for you at the corner again. Leave all that to me. "

In half an hour the Honourable Mrs. Drayton entered the sick-room, radiant in evening dress and jewels. Fortunately the lights were low, or"Blase-Billy" might have been doubtful as to the effect his wife waslikely to produce. For her face was not the face that one takes todinner-parties. 

"Nurse tells me you are going to the Grevilles this evening. I am soglad. I've been worrying myself about you, moped up here right throughthe season. "

He took her hands in his and held her out at arm's length from him. 

"How handsome you look, dear!" he said. "How they must have all beencursing me for keeping you shut up here, like a princess in an ogre'scastle! I shall never dare to face them again. "

She laughed, well pleased at his words. 

"I shall not be late, " she said. "I shall be so anxious to get back andsee how my boy has behaved. If you have not been good I shan't goagain. "

They kissed and parted, and at eleven she returned to the room. She toldhim what a delightful evening it had been, and bragged a little of herown success. 

The nurse told her that he had been more cheerful that evening than formany nights. 

So every day the farce was played for him. One day it was to a luncheonthat she went, in a costume by Redfern; the next night to a ball, in afrock direct from Paris; again to an "At Home, " or concert, or dinner-party. Loafers and passers-by would stop to stare at a haggard, red-eyedwoman, dressed as for a drawing-room, slipping thief-like in and out ofher own door. 

I heard them talking of her one afternoon, at a house where I called, andI joined the group to listen. 

"I always thought her heartless, but I gave her credit for sense, " awoman was saying. "One doesn't expect a woman to be fond of her husband, but she needn't make a parade of ignoring him when he is dying. "

I pleaded absence from town to inquire what was meant, and from all lipsI heard the same account. One had noticed her carriage at the door twoor three evenings in succession. Another had seen her returning home. Athird had seen her coming out, and so on. 

I could not fit the fact in with my knowledge of her, so the next eveningI called. The door was opened instantly by herself. 

"I saw you from the window, " she said. "Come in here; don't speak. "

I followed her, and she closed the door behind her. She was dressed in amagnificent costume, her hair sparkling with diamonds, and I looked myquestions. 

She laughed bitterly. 

"I am supposed to be at the opera to-night, " she explained. "Sit down, if you have a few minutes to spare. "

I said it was for a talk that I had come; and there, in the dark room, lighted only by the street lamp without, she told me all. And at the endshe dropped her head on her bare arms; and I turned away and looked outof the window for a while. 

"I feel so ridiculous, " she said, rising and coming towards me. "I sithere all the evening dressed like this. I'm afraid I don't act my partvery well; but, fortunately, dear Billy never was much of a judge of art, and it is good enough for him. I tell him the most awful lies about whateverybody has said to me, and what I've said to everybody, and how mygowns were admired. What do you think of this one?"

For answer I took the privilege of a friend. 

"I'm glad you think well of me, " she said. "Billy has such a highopinion of you. You will hear some funny tales. I'm glad you know. "

I had to leave London again, and Billy died before I returned. I heardthat she had to be fetched from a ball, and was only just in time totouch his lips before they were cold. But her friends excused her bysaying that the end had come very suddenly. 

I called on her a little later, and before I left I hinted to her whatpeople were saying, and asked her if I had not better tell them thetruth. 

"I would rather you didn't, " she answered. "It seems like making publicthe secret side of one's life. "

"But, " I urged, "they will think--"

She interrupted me. 

"Does it matter very much what they think?"

Which struck me as a very remarkable sentiment, coming from the Hon. Mrs. Drayton, _nee_ the elder Miss Lovell. 

THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN

Between a junior resident master of twenty-one, and a backward lad offifteen, there yawns an impassable gulf. Between a struggling journalistof one-and-thirty, and an M. D. Of twenty-five, with a brilliant recordbehind him, and a career of exceptional promise before him, a closefriendship is however permissible. 

My introduction to Cyril Harjohn was through the Rev. Charles Fauerberg. 

"Our young friend, " said the Rev. Mr. Fauerberg, standing in the mostapproved tutorial attitude, with his hand upon his pupil's shoulder, "ouryoung friend has been somewhat neglected, but I see in him possibilitieswarranting hope--warranting, I may say, very great hope. For the presenthe will be under my especial care, and you will not therefore concernyourself with his studies. He will sleep with Milling and the others indormitory number two. "

The lad formed a liking for me, and I think, and hope, I rendered hissojourn at "Alpha House" less irksome than otherwise it might have been. The Reverend Charles' method with the backward was on all fours with thatadopted for the bringing on of geese; he cooped them up and crammed them. The process is profitable to the trainer, but painful to the goose. 

Young Harjohn and myself left "Alpha House" at the end of the same term;he bound for Brasenose, I for Bloomsbury. He made a point of nevercoming up to London without calling on me, when we would dine together inone of Soho's many dingy, garlic-scented restaurants, and afterwards, over our bottle of cheap Beaune, discuss the coming of our lives; andwhen he entered Guy's I left John Street, and took chambers close to hisin Staple Inn. Those were pleasant days. Childhood is an over-ratedperiod, fuller of sorrow than of joy. I would not take my childhoodback, were it a gift, but I would give the rest of my life to live thetwenties over again. 

To Cyril I was the man of the world, and he looked to me for wisdom, notseeing always, I fear, that he got it; while from him I gatheredenthusiasm, and learnt the profit that comes to a man from the keeping ofideals. 

Often as we have talked, I have felt as though a visible light came fromhim, framing his face as with the halo of some pictured saint. Naturehad wasted him, putting him into this nineteenth century of ours. Hervictories are accomplished. Her army of heroes, the few sung, the manyforgotten, is disbanded. The long peace won by their blood and pain issettled on the land. She had fashioned Cyril Harjohn for one of hersoldiers. He would have been a martyr, in the days when thought led tothe stake, a fighter for the truth, when to speak one's mind meant death. To lead some forlorn hope for Civilisation would have been his true work;Fate had condemned him to sentry duty in a well-ordered barrack. 

But there is work to be done in the world, though the labour lies now inthe vineyard, not on the battlefield. A small but sufficient fortunepurchased for him freedom. To most men an assured income is the grave ofambition; to Cyril it was the foundation of desire. Relieved from thenecessity of working to live, he could afford the luxury of living towork. His profession was to him a passion; he regarded it, not with thecold curiosity of the scholar, but with the imaginative devotion of thedisciple. To help to push its frontiers forward, to carry its flagfarther into the untravelled desert that ever lies beyond the movingboundary of human knowledge, was his dream. 

One summer evening, I remember, we were sitting in his rooms, and duringa silence there came to us through the open window the moaning of thecity, as of a tired child. He rose and stretched his arms out towardsthe darkening streets, as if he would gather to him all the toiling menand women and comfort them. 

"Oh, that I could help you!" he cried, "my brothers and my sisters. Takemy life, oh God, and spend it for me among your people. "

The speech sounds theatrical, as I read it, written down, but to theyoung such words are not ridiculous, as to us older men. 

In the natural order of events, he fell in love, and with just the womanone would expect him to be attracted by. Elspeth Grant was of the typefrom which the world, by instinct rather than by convention, has drawnits Madonnas and its saints. To describe a woman in words is impossible. Her beauty was not a possession to be catalogued, but herself. One feltit as one feels the beauty of a summer's dawn breaking the shadows of asleeping city, but one cannot set it down. I often met her, and, whentalking to her, I knew myself--I, hack-journalist, frequenter of FleetStreet bars, retailer of smoke-room stories--a great gentleman, incapableof meanness, fit for all noble deeds. 

In her presence life became a thing beautiful and gracious; a school forcourtesy, and tenderness, and simplicity. 

I have wondered since, coming to see a little more clearly into the waysof men, whether it would not have been better had she been lessspiritual, had her nature possessed a greater alloy of earth, making itmore fit for the uses of this work-a-day world. But at the time, thesetwo friends of mine seemed to me to have been created for one another. 

She appealed to all that was highest in Cyril's character, and heworshipped her with an unconcealed adoration that, from any man less high-minded, would have appeared affectation, and which she accepted with thesweet content that Artemis might have accorded to the homage of Endymion. 

There was no formal engagement between them. Cyril seemed to shrink fromthe materialising of his love by any thought of marriage. To him she wasan ideal of womanhood rather than a flesh-and-blood woman. His love forher was a religion; it had no taint of earthly passion in itscomposition. 

Had I known the world better I might have anticipated the result; for thered blood ran in my friend's veins; and, alas, we dream our poems, notlive them. But at the time, the idea of any other woman coming betweenthem would have appeared to me folly. The suggestion that that otherwoman might be Geraldine Fawley I should have resented as an insult to myintelligence: that is the point of the story I do not understand to thisday. 

That he should be attracted by her, that he should love to linger nearher, watching the dark flush come and go across her face, seeking to callthe fire into her dark eyes was another matter, and quite comprehensible;for the girl was wonderfully handsome, with a bold, voluptuous beautywhich invited while it dared. But considered in any other light thanthat of an animal, she repelled. At times when, for her ends, it seemedworth the exertion, she would assume a certain wayward sweetness, but heracting was always clumsy and exaggerated, capable of deceiving no one buta fool. 

Cyril, at all events, was not taken in by it. One evening, at a Bohemiangathering, the _entree_ to which was notoriety rather than character, they had been talking together for some considerable time when, wishingto speak to Cyril, I strolled up to join them. As I came towards themshe moved away, her dislike for me being equal to mine for her; a thingwhich was, perhaps, well for me. 

"Miss Fawley prefers two as company to three, " I observed, looking afterher retreating figure. 

"I am afraid she finds you what we should call an anti-sympatheticelement, " he replied, laughing. 

"Do you like her?" I asked him, somewhat bluntly. 

His eyes rested upon her as she stood in the doorway, talking to a small, black-bearded man who had just been introduced to her. After a fewmoments she went out upon his arm, and then Cyril turned to me. 

"I think her, " he replied, speaking, as was necessary, very low, "theembodiment of all that is evil in womanhood. In old days she would havebeen a Cleopatra, a Theodora, a Delilah. To-day, lacking opportunity, she is the 'smart woman' grubbing for an opening into society--and oldFawley's daughter. I'm tired; let us go home. "

His allusion to her parentage was significant. Few people thought ofconnecting clever, handsome Geraldine Fawley with "Rogue Fawley, " Jewrenegade, ex-gaol bird, and outside broker; who, having expectations fromhis daughter, took care not to hamper her by ever being seen in hercompany. But no one who had once met the father could ever forget therelationship while talking to the daughter. The older face, with itscruelty, its cunning, and its greed stood reproduced, feature forfeature, line for line. It was as though Nature, for an artistic freak, had set herself the task of fashioning hideousness and beauty fromprecisely the same materials. Between the leer of the man and the smileof the girl, where lay the difference? It would have puzzled any studentof anatomy to point it out. Yet the one sickened, while to gain theother most men would have given much. 

Cyril's answer to my question satisfied me for the time. He met the girloften, as was natural. She was a singer of some repute, and our socialcircle was what is commonly called "literary and artistic. " To do herjustice, however, she made no attempt to fascinate him, nor even to beparticularly agreeable to him. Indeed, she seemed to be at pains to showhim her natural--in other words, her most objectionable side. 

Coming out of the theatre one first night, we met her in the lobby. Iwas following Cyril at some little distance, but as he stopped to speakto her the movement of the crowd placed me just behind them. 

"Will you be at Leightons' to-morrow?" I heard him ask her in a low tone. 

"Yes, " she answered, "and I wish you wouldn't come. "

"Why not?"

"Because you're a fool, and you bore me. "

Under ordinary circumstances I should have taken the speech forbadinage--it was the kind of wit the woman would have indulged in. ButCyril's face clouded with anger and vexation. I said nothing. I did notwish him to know that I had overheard. I tried to believe that he wasamusing himself, but my own explanation did not satisfy me. 

Next evening I went to Leightons' by myself. The Grants were in town, and Cyril was dining with them. I found I did not know many people, andcared little for those I did. I was about to escape when Miss Fawley'sname was announced. I was close to the door, and she had to stop andspeak to me. We exchanged a few commonplaces. She either made love to aman or was rude to him. She generally talked to me without looking atme, nodding and smiling meanwhile to people around. I have met manywomen equally ill-mannered, and without her excuse. For a moment, however, she turned her eyes to mine. 

"Where's your friend, Mr. Harjohn?" she asked. "I thought you wereinseparables. "

I looked at her in astonishment. 

"He is dining out to-night, " I replied. "I do not think he will come. "

She laughed. I think it was the worst part about the woman, her laugh;it suggested so much cruelty. 

"I think he will, " she said. 

It angered me into an indiscretion. She was moving away. I stepped infront of her and stopped her. 

"What makes you think so?" I asked, and my voice, I know, betrayed theanxiety I felt as to her reply. She looked me straight in the face. There was one virtue she possessed--the virtue that animals hold abovemankind--truthfulness. She knew I disliked her--hate would be, perhaps, a more exact expression, did not the word sound out of date, and she madeno pretence of not knowing it and returning the compliment. 

"Because I am here, " she answered. "Why don't you save him? Have you noinfluence over him? Tell the Saint to keep him; I don't want him. Youheard what I said to him last night. I shall only marry him for the sakeof his position, and the money he can earn if he likes to work and notplay the fool. Tell him what I have said; I shan't deny it. "

She passed on to greet a decrepit old lord with a languishing smile, andI stood staring after her with, I fear, a somewhat stupid expression, until some young fool came up grinning, to ask me whether I had seen aghost or backed a "wrong 'un. "

There was no need to wait; I felt no curiosity. Something told me thewoman had spoken the truth. It was mere want of motive that made melinger. I saw him come in, and watched him hanging round her, like adog, waiting for a kind word, or failing that, a look. I knew she sawme, and I knew it added to her zest that I was there. Not till we werein the street did I speak to him. He started as I touched him. We wereneither of us good actors. He must have read much in my face, and I sawthat he had read it; and we walked side by side in silence, I thinkingwhat to say, wondering whether I should do good or harm, wishing that wewere anywhere but in these silent, life-packed streets, so filled withthe unseen. It was not until we had nearly reached the Albert Hall thatwe broke the silence. Then it was he who spoke:

"Do you think I haven't told myself all that?" he said. "Do you think Idon't know I'm a damned fool, a cad, a liar! What the devil's the goodof talking about it?"

"But I can't understand it, " I said. 

"No, " he replied, "because you're a fool, because you have only seen oneside of me. You think me a grand gentleman, because I talk big, and amfull of noble sentiment. Why, you idiot, the Devil himself could takeyou in. _He_ has his fine moods, I suppose, talks like a saint, and sayshis prayers with the rest of us. Do you remember the first night at oldFauerberg's? You poked your silly head into the dormitory, and saw mekneeling by the bedside, while the other fellows stood by grinning. Youclosed the door softly--you thought I never saw you. I was not praying, I was trying to pray. "

"It showed that you had pluck, if it showed nothing else, " I answered. "Most boys would not have tried, and you kept it up. "

"Ah, yes, " he answered, "I promised the Mater I would, and I did. Poorold soul, she was as big a fool as you are. She believed in me. Don'tyou remember, finding me one Saturday afternoon all alone, stuffingmyself with cake and jam?"

I laughed at the recollection, though Heaven knows I was in no laughingmood. I had found him with an array of pastry spread out before him, sufficient to make him ill for a week, and I had boxed his ears, and hadthrown the whole collection into the road. 

"The Mater gave me half-a-crown a week for pocket-money, " he continued, "and I told the fellows I had only a shilling, so that I could gorgemyself with the other eighteenpence undisturbed. Pah! I was a littlebeast even in those days!"

"It was only a schoolboy trick, " I argued, "it was natural enough. "

"Yes, " he answered, "and this is only a man's trick, and is naturalenough; but it is going to ruin my life, to turn me into a beast insteadof a man. Good God! do you think I don't know what that woman will dofor me? She will drag me down, down, down, to her own level. All myideas, all my ambition, all my life's work will be bartered for a smugpractice, among paying patients. I shall scheme and plot to make a bigincome that we may live like a couple of plump animals, that we may dressourselves gaudily and parade our wealth. Nothing will satisfy her. Suchwomen are leeches; their only cry is 'give, give, give. ' So long as Ican supply her with money she will tolerate me, and to get it for her Ishall sell my heart, and my brain, and my soul. She will load herselfwith jewels, and go about from house to house, half naked, to leer atevery man she comes across: that is 'life' to such women. And I shalltrot behind her, the laughing stock of every fool, the contempt of everyman. "

His vehemence made any words I could say sound weak before they wereuttered. What argument could I show stronger than that he had alreadyput before himself? I knew his answer to everything I could urge. 

My mistake had been in imagining him different from other men. I beganto see that he was like the rest of us: part angel, part devil. But thenew point he revealed to me was that the higher the one, the lower theother. It seems as if nature must balance her work; the nearer theleaves to heaven, the deeper the roots striking down into the darkness. Iknew that his passion for this woman made no change in his truer love. The one was a spiritual, the other a mere animal passion. The memory ofincidents that had puzzled me came back to enlighten me. I rememberedhow often on nights when I had sat up late, working, I had heard hissteps pass my door, heavy and uncertain; how once in a dingy quarter ofLondon, I had met one who had strangely resembled him. I had followedhim to speak, but the man's bleared eyes had stared angrily at me, and Ihad turned away, calling myself a fool for my mistake. But as I lookedat the face beside me now, I understood. 

And then there rose up before my eyes the face I knew better, the eagernoble face that to merely look upon had been good. We had reached asmall, evil-smelling street, leading from Leicester Square towardsHolborn. I caught him by the shoulders and turned him round with hisback against some church railings. I forget what I said. We are strangemixtures. I thought of the shy, backward boy I had coached and bulliedat old Fauerberg's, of the laughing handsome lad I had watched grow intomanhood. The very restaurant we had most frequented in his old Oxforddays--where we had poured out our souls to one another, was in this verystreet where we were standing. For the moment I felt towards him asperhaps his mother might have felt; I wanted to scold him and to cry withhim; to shake him and to put my arms about him. I pleaded with him, andurged him, and called him every name I could put my tongue to. It musthave seemed an odd conversation. A passing policeman, making a notunnatural mistake, turned his bull's-eye upon us, and advised us sternlyto go home. We laughed, and with that laugh Cyril came back to his ownself, and we walked on to Staple Inn more soberly. He promised me to goaway by the very first train the next morning, and to travel for somefour or five months, and I undertook to make all the necessaryexplanations for him. 

We both felt better for our talk, and when I wished him good-night at hisdoor, it was the real Cyril Harjohn whose hand I gripped--the real Cyril, because the best that is in a man is his real self. If there be anyfuture for man beyond this world, it is the good that is in him that willlive. The other side of him is of the earth; it is that he will leavebehind him. 

He kept his word. In the morning he was gone, and I never saw him again. I had many letters from him, hopeful at first, full of strong resolves. He told me he had written to Elspeth, not telling her everything, forthat she would not understand, but so much as would explain; and from herhe had had sweet womanly letters in reply. I feared she might have beencold and unsympathetic, for often good women, untouched by temptationthemselves, have small tenderness for those who struggle. But hergoodness was something more than a mere passive quantity; she loved himthe better because he had need of her. I believe she would have savedhim from himself, had not fate interfered and taken the matter out of herhands. Women are capable of big sacrifices; I think this woman wouldhave been content to lower herself, if by so doing she could have raisedhim. 

But it was not to be. From India he wrote to me that he was coming home. I had not met the Fawley woman for some time, and she had gone out of mymind until one day, chancing upon a theatrical paper, some weeks old, Iread that "Miss Fawley had sailed for Calcutta to fulfil an engagement oflong standing. "

I had his last letter in my pocket. I sat down and worked out thequestion of date. She would arrive in Calcutta the day before he left. Whether it was chance or intention on her part I never knew; as likely asnot the former, for there is a fatalism in this world shaping our ends. 

I heard no more from him, I hardly expected to do so, but three monthslater a mutual acquaintance stopped me on the Club steps. 

"Have you heard the news, " he said, "about young Harjohn?"

"No, " I replied. "Is he married?"

"Married, " he answered, "No, poor devil, he's dead!"

"Thank God, " was on my lips, but fortunately I checked myself. "How didit happen?" I asked. 

"At a shooting party, up at some Rajah's place. Must have caught his gunin some brambles, I suppose. The bullet went clean through his head. "

"Dear me, " I said, "how very sad!" I could think of nothing else to sayat the moment. 

THE MATERIALISATION OF CHARLES AND MIVANWAY

The fault that most people will find with this story is that it isunconvincing. Its scheme is improbable, its atmosphere artificial. Toconfess that the thing really happened--not as I am about to set it down, for the pen of the professional writer cannot but adorn and embroider, even to the detriment of his material--is, I am well aware, only anaggravation of my offence, for the facts of life are the impossibilitiesof fiction. A truer artist would have left this story alone, or at mosthave kept it for the irritation of his private circle. My lower instinctis to make use of it. A very old man told me the tale. He was landlordof the Cromlech Arms, the only inn of a small, rock-sheltered village onthe north-east coast of Cornwall, and had been so for nine and fortyyears. It is called the Cromlech Hotel now, and is under new management, and during the season some four coach-loads of tourists sit down each dayto _table d'hote_ lunch in the low-ceilinged parlour. But I am speakingof years ago, when the place was a mere fishing harbour, undiscovered bythe guide books. 

The old landlord talked, and I hearkened the while we both sat drinkingthin ale from earthenware mugs, late one summer's evening, on the benchthat runs along the wall just beneath the latticed windows. And duringthe many pauses, when the old landlord stopped to puff his pipe insilence, and lay in a new stock of breath, there came to us the murmuringvoices of the Atlantic; and often, mingled with the pompous roar of thebig breakers farther out, we would hear the rippling laugh of some smallwave that, maybe, had crept in to listen to the tale the landlord told. 

The mistake that Charles Seabohn, Junior partner of the firm of Seabohn &Son, civil engineers of London and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and MivanwayEvans, youngest daughter of the Rev. Thomas Evans, Pastor of thePresbyterian Church at Bristol, made originally, was marrying too young. Charles Seabohn could hardly have been twenty years of age, and Mivanwaycould have been little more than seventeen, when they first met upon thecliffs, two miles beyond the Cromlech Arms. Young Charles Seabohn, coming across the village in the course of a walking tour, had decided tospend a day or two exploring the picturesque coast, and Mivanway's fatherhad hired that year a neighbouring farmhouse wherein to spend his summervacation. 

Early one morning--for at twenty one is virtuous, and takes exercisebefore breakfast--as young Charles Seabohn lay upon the cliffs, watchingthe white waters coming and going upon the black rocks below, he becameaware of a form rising from the waves. The figure was too far off forhim to see it clearly, but judging from the costume, it was a femalefigure, and promptly the mind of Charles, poetically inclined, turned tothoughts of Venus--or Aphrodite, as he, being a gentleman of delicatetaste would have preferred to term her. He saw the figure disappearbehind a head-land, but still waited. In about ten minutes or a quarterof an hour it reappeared, clothed in the garments of theeighteen-sixties, and came towards him. Hidden from sight himself behinda group of rocks, he could watch it at his leisure, ascending the steeppath from the beach, and an exceedingly sweet and dainty figure it wouldhave appeared, even to eyes less susceptible than those of twenty. Sea-water--I stand open to correction--is not, I believe, considered anythingof a substitute for curling tongs, but to the hair of the youngest MissEvans it had given an additional and most fascinating wave. Nature's redand white had been most cunningly laid on, and the large childish eyesseemed to be searching the world for laughter, with which to feed a pairof delicious, pouting lips. Charles's upturned face, petrified intoadmiration, was just the sort of thing for which they were on the look-out. A startled "Oh!" came from the slightly parted lips, followed bythe merriest of laughs, which in its turn was suddenly stopped by a deepblush. Then the youngest Miss Evans looked offended, as though the wholeaffair had been Charles's fault, which is the way of women. And Charles, feeling himself guilty under that stern gaze of indignation, roseawkwardly and apologised meekly, whether for being on the cliffs at allor for having got up too early, he would have been unable to explain. 

The youngest Miss Evans graciously accepted the apology thus tenderedwith a bow, and passed on, and Charles stood staring after her till thevalley gathered her into its spreading arms and hid her from his view. 

That was the beginning of all things. I am speaking of the Universe asviewed from the standpoint of Charles and Mivanway. 

Six months later they were man and wife, or perhaps it would be morecorrect to say boy and wifelet. Seabohn senior counselled delay, but wasoverruled by the impatience of his junior partner. The Reverend Mr. Evans, in common with most theologians, possessed a goodly supply ofunmarried daughters, and a limited income. Personally he saw nonecessity for postponement of the marriage. 

The month's honeymoon was spent in the New Forest. That was a mistake tobegin with. The New Forest in February is depressing, and they hadchosen the loneliest spot they could find. A fortnight in Paris or Romewould have been more helpful. As yet they had nothing to talk aboutexcept love, and that they had been talking and writing about steadilyall through the winter. On the tenth morning Charles yawned, andMivanway had a quiet half-hour's cry about it in her own room. On thesixteenth evening, Mivanway, feeling irritable, and wondering why (asthough fifteen damp, chilly days in the New Forest were not sufficient tomake any woman irritable), requested Charles not to disarrange her hair;and Charles, speechless with astonishment, went out into the garden, andswore before all the stars that he would never caress Mivanway's hairagain as long as he lived. 

One supreme folly they had conspired to commit, even before thecommencement of the honeymoon. Charles, after the manner of very younglovers, had earnestly requested Mivanway to impose upon him some task. Hedesired to do something great and noble to show his devotion. Dragonswas the thing he had in mind, though he may not have been aware of it. Dragons also, no doubt, flitted through Mivanway's brain, butunfortunately for lovers the supply of dragons has lapsed. Mivanway, liking the conceit, however, thought over it, and then decided thatCharles must give up smoking. She had discussed the matter with herfavourite sister, and that was the only thing the girls could think of. Charles's face fell. He suggested some more Herculean labour, somesacrifice more worthy to lay at Mivanway's feet. But Mivanway hadspoken. She might think of some other task, but the smoking prohibitionwould, in any case, remain. She dismissed the subject with a pretty_hauteur_ that would have graced Marie Antoinette. 

Thus tobacco, the good angel of all men, no longer came each day to teachCharles patience and amiability, and he fell into the ways of shorttemper and selfishness. 

They took up their residence in a suburb of Newcastle, and this was alsounfortunate for them, because there the society was scanty and middle-aged; and, in consequence, they had still to depend much upon their ownresources. They knew little of life, less of each other, and nothing atall of themselves. Of course they quarrelled, and each quarrel left thewound a little more raw. No kindly, experienced friend was at hand tolaugh at them. Mivanway would write down all her sorrows in a bulkydiary, which made her feel worse; so that before she had written for tenminutes her pretty, unwise head would drop upon her dimpled arm, and thebook--the proper place for which was behind the fire--would become dampwith her tears; and Charles, his day's work done and the clerks gone, would linger in his dingy office and hatch trifles into troubles. 

The end came one evening after dinner, when, in the heat of a sillysquabble, Charles boxed Mivanway's ears. That was very ungentlemanlyconduct, and he was heartily ashamed of himself the moment he had doneit, which was right and proper for him to be. The only excuse to beurged on his behalf is that girls sufficiently pretty to have been spoiltfrom childhood by everyone about them can at times be intenselyirritating. Mivanway rushed up to her room, and locked herself in. Charles flew after her to apologise, but only arrived in time to have thedoor slammed in his face. 

It had only been the merest touch. A boy's muscles move quicker than histhoughts. But to Mivanway it was a blow. This was what it had come to!This was the end of a man's love!

She spent half the night writing in the precious diary, with the resultthat in the morning she came down feeling more bitter than she had goneup. Charles had walked the streets of Newcastle all night, and that hadnot done him any good. He met her with an apology combined with anexcuse, which was bad tactics. Mivanway, of course, fastened upon theexcuse, and the quarrel recommenced. She mentioned that she hated him;he hinted that she had never loved him, and she retorted that he hadnever loved her. Had there been anybody by to knock their heads togetherand suggest breakfast, the thing might have blown over, but the combinedeffect of a sleepless night and an empty stomach upon each proveddisastrous. Their words came poisoned from their brains, and eachbelieved they meant what they said. That afternoon Charles sailed fromHull, on a ship bound for the Cape, and that evening Mivanway arrived atthe paternal home in Bristol with two trunks and the curt informationthat she and Charles had separated for ever. The next morning boththought of a soft speech to say to the other, but the next morning wasjust twenty-four hours too late. 

Eight days afterwards Charles's ship was run down in a fog, near thecoast of Portugal, and every soul on board was supposed to have perished. Mivanway read his name among the list of lost; the child died within her, and she knew herself for a woman who had loved deeply, and will not loveagain. 

Good luck intervening, however, Charles and one other man were rescued bya small trading vessel, and landed in Algiers. There Charles learnt ofhis supposed death, and the idea occurred to him to leave the reportuncontradicted. For one thing, it solved a problem that had beentroubling him. He could trust his father to see to it that his own smallfortune, with possibly something added, was handed over to Mivanway, andshe would be free if she wished to marry again. He was convinced thatshe did not care for him, and that she had read of his death with a senseof relief. He would make a new life for himself, and forget her. 

He continued his journey to the Cape, and once there he soon gained forhimself an excellent position. The colony was young, engineers werewelcome, and Charles knew his business. He found the life interestingand exciting. The rough, dangerous up-country work suited him, and thetime passed swiftly. 

But in thinking he would forget Mivanway, he had not taken intoconsideration his own character, which at bottom was a very gentlemanlycharacter. Out on the lonely veldt he found himself dreaming of her. Thememory of her pretty face and merry laugh came back to him at all hours. Occasionally he would curse her roundly, but that only meant that he wassore because of the thought of her; what he was really cursing washimself and his own folly. Softened by the distance, her quick temper, her very petulance became mere added graces; and if we consider women ashuman beings and not as angels, it was certainly a fact that he had losta very sweet and lovable woman. Ah! if she only were by his side now--nowthat he was a man capable of appreciating her, and not a foolish, selfishboy. This thought would come to him as he sat smoking at the door of histent, and then he would regret that the stars looking down upon him werenot the same stars that were watching her, it would have made him feelnearer to her. For, though young people may not credit it, one growsmore sentimental as one grows older; at least, some of us do, and theyperhaps not the least wise. 

One night he had a vivid dream of her. She came to him and held out herhand, and he took it, and they said good-bye to one another. They werestanding on the cliff where he had first met her, and one of them wasgoing upon a long journey, though he was not sure which. 

In the towns men laugh at dreams, but away from civilisation we listenmore readily to the strange tales that Nature whispers to us. CharlesSeabohn recollected this dream when he awoke in the morning. 

"She is dying, " he said, "and she has come to wish me good-bye. "

He made up his mind to return to England at once; perhaps if he madehaste he would be in time to kiss her. But he could not start that day, for work was to be done; and Charles Seabohn, lover though he still was, had grown to be a man, and knew that work must not be neglected eventhough the heart may be calling. So for a day or two he stayed, and onthe third night he dreamed of Mivanway again, and this time she laywithin the little chapel at Bristol where, on Sunday mornings, he hadoften sat with her. He heard her father's voice reading the burialservice over her, and the sister she had loved best was sitting besidehim, crying softly. Then Charles knew that there was no need for him tohasten. So he remained to finish his work. That done, he would returnto England. He would like again to stand upon the cliffs, above thelittle Cornish village, where they had first met. 

Thus a few months later Charles Seabohn, or Charles Denning, as he calledhimself, aged and bronzed, not easily recognisable by those who had notknown him well, walked into the Cromlech Arms, as six years before he hadwalked in with his knapsack on his back, and asked for a room, saying hewould be stopping in the village for a short while. 

In the evening he strolled out and made his way to the cliffs. It wastwilight when he reached the place of rocks to which the fancy-lovingCornish folk had given the name of the Witches' Cauldron. It was fromthis spot that he had first watched Mivanway coming to him from the sea. 

He took the pipe from his mouth, and leaning against a rock, whose ruggedoutline seemed fashioned into the face of an old friend, gazed down thenarrow pathway now growing indistinct in the dim light. And as he gazedthe figure of Mivanway came slowly up the pathway from the sea, andpaused before him. 

He felt no fear. He had half expected it. Her coming was the complementof his dreams. She looked older and graver than he remembered her, butfor that the face was the sweeter. 

He wondered if she would speak to him, but she only looked at him withsad eyes; and he stood there in the shadow of the rocks without moving, and she passed on into the twilight. 

Had he on his return cared to discuss the subject with his landlord, hadhe even shown himself a ready listener--for the old man loved togossip--he might have learnt that a young widow lady named Mrs. CharlesSeabohn, accompanied by an unmarried sister, had lately come to reside inthe neighbourhood, having, upon the death of a former tenant, taken thelease of a small farmhouse sheltered in the valley a mile beyond thevillage, and that her favourite evening's walk was to the sea and back bythe steep footway leading past the Witches' Cauldron. 

Had he followed the figure of Mivanway into the valley, he would haveknown that out of sight of the Witches' Cauldron it took to running fasttill it reached a welcome door, and fell panting into the arms of anotherfigure that had hastened out to meet it. 

"My dear, " said the elder woman, "you are trembling like a leaf. Whathas happened?"

"I have seen him, " answered Mivanway. 

"Seen whom?"

"Charles. "

"Charles!" repeated the other, looking at Mivanway as though she thoughther mad. 

"His spirit, I mean, " explained Mivanway, in an awed voice. "It wasstanding in the shadow of the rocks, in the exact spot where we firstmet. It looked older and more careworn; but, oh! Margaret, so sad andreproachful. "

"My dear, " said her sister, leading her in, "you are overwrought. I wishwe had never come back to this house. "

"Oh! I was not frightened, " answered Mivanway, "I have been expecting itevery evening. I am so glad it came. Perhaps it will come again, and Ican ask it to forgive me. "

So next night Mivanway, though much against her sister's wishes andadvice, persisted in her usual walk, and Charles at the same twilighthour started from the inn. 

Again Mivanway saw him standing in the shadow of the rocks. Charles hadmade up his mind that if the thing happened again he would speak, butwhen the silent figure of Mivanway, clothed in the fading light, stoppedand gazed at him, his will failed him. 

That it was the spirit of Mivanway standing before him he had not thefaintest doubt. One may dismiss other people's ghosts as the phantasiesof a weak brain, but one knows one's own to be realities, and Charles forthe last five years had mingled with a people whose dead dwell aboutthem. Once, drawing his courage around him, he made to speak, but as hedid so the figure of Mivanway shrank from him, and only a sigh escapedhis lips, and hearing that the figure of Mivanway turned and again passeddown the path into the valley, leaving Charles gazing after it. 

But the third night both arrived at the trysting spot with determinationscrewed up to the sticking point. 

Charles was the first to speak. As the figure of Mivanway came towardshim, with its eyes fixed sadly on him, he moved from the shadow of therocks, and stood before it. 

"Mivanway!" he said. 

"Charles!" replied the figure of Mivanway. Both spoke in an awed whispersuitable to the circumstances, and each stood gazing sorrowfully upon theother. 

"Are you happy?" asked Mivanway. 

The question strikes one as somewhat farcical, but it must be rememberedthat Mivanway was the daughter of a Gospeller of the old school, and hadbeen brought up to beliefs that were not then out of date. 

"As happy as I deserve to be, " was the sad reply, and the answer--theinference was not complimentary to Charles's deserts--struck a chill toMivanway's heart. 

"How could I be happy having lost you?" went on the voice of Charles. 

Now this speech fell very pleasantly upon Mivanway's ears. In the firstplace it relieved her of her despair regarding Charles's future. Nodoubt his present suffering was keen, but there was hope for him. Secondly, it was a decidedly "pretty" speech for a ghost, and I am not atall sure that Mivanway was the kind of woman to be averse to a littlemild flirtation with the spirit of Charles. 

"Can you forgive me?" asked Mivanway. 

"Forgive _you_!" replied Charles, in a tone of awed astonishment. "Canyou forgive me? I was a brute--a fool--I was not worthy to love you. "

A most gentlemanly spirit it seemed to be. Mivanway forgot to be afraidof it. 

"We were both to blame, " answered Mivanway. But this time there was lesssubmission in her tones. "But I was the most at fault. I was a petulantchild. I did not know how deeply I loved you. "

"You loved me!" repeated the voice of Charles, and the voice lingeredover the words as though it found them sweet. 

"Surely you never doubted it, " answered the voice of Mivanway. "I neverceased to love you. I shall love you always and ever. "

The figure of Charles sprang forward as though it would clasp the ghostof Mivanway in its arms, but halted a step or two off. 

"Bless me before you go, " he said, and with uncovered head the figure ofCharles knelt to the figure of Mivanway. 

Really, ghosts could be exceedingly nice when they liked. Mivanway bentgraciously towards her shadowy suppliant, and, as she did so, her eyecaught sight of something on the grass beside it, and that something wasa well-coloured meerschaum pipe. There was no mistaking it for anythingelse, even in that treacherous light; it lay glistening where Charles, infalling upon his knees had jerked it from his breast-pocket. 

Charles, following Mivanway's eyes, saw it also, and the memory of theprohibition against smoking came back to him. 

Without stopping to consider the futility of the action--nay, the directconfession implied thereby--he instinctively grabbed at the pipe, andrammed it back into his pocket; and then an avalanche of mingledunderstanding and bewilderment, fear and joy, swept Mivanway's brainbefore it. She felt she must do one of two things, laugh or scream andgo on screaming, and she laughed. Peal after peal of laughter she sentechoing among the rocks, and Charles springing to his feet was just intime to catch her as she fell forward a dead weight into his arms. 

Ten minutes later the eldest Miss Evans, hearing heavy footsteps, went tothe door. She saw what she took to be the spirit of Charles Seabohn, staggering under the weight of the lifeless body of Mivanway, and thesight not unnaturally alarmed her. Charles's suggestion of brandy, however, sounded human, and the urgent need of attending to Mivanway kepther mind from dwelling upon problems tending towards insanity. 

Charles carried Mivanway to her room, and laid her upon the bed. 

"I'll leave her with you, " he whispered to the eldest Miss Evans. "Itwill be better for her not to see me until she is quite recovered. Shehas had a shock. "

Charles waited in the dark parlour for what seemed to him an exceedinglylong time. But at last the eldest Miss Evans returned. 

"She's all right now, " were the welcome words he heard. 

"I'll go and see her, " he said. 

"But she's in bed, " exclaimed the scandalised Miss Evans. 

And then as Charles only laughed, "Oh, ah--yes, I suppose--of course, "she added. 

And the eldest Miss Evans, left alone, sat down and wrestled with theconviction that she was dreaming. 

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

My work pressed upon me, but the louder it challenged me--such is theheart of the timid fighter--the less stomach I felt for the contest. Iwrestled with it in my study, only to be driven to my books. I walkedout to meet it in the streets, only to seek shelter from it in music-hallor theatre. Thereupon it waxed importunate and over-bearing, till theshadow of it darkened all my doings. The thought of it sat beside me atthe table, and spoilt my appetite. The memory of it followed me abroad, and stood between me and my friends, so that all talk died upon my lips, and I moved among men as one ghost-ridden. 

Then the throbbing town, with its thousand distracting voices, grewmaddening to me. I felt the need of converse with solitude, that masterand teacher of all the arts, and I bethought me of the Yorkshire Wolds, where a man may walk all day, meeting no human creature, hearing no voicebut the curlew's cry; where, lying prone upon the sweet grass, he mayfeel the pulsation of the earth, travelling at its eleven hundred miles aminute through the ether. So one morning I bundled many things, someneedful, more needless, into a bag, hurrying lest somebody or somethingshould happen to stay me, and that night I lay in a small northern townthat stands upon the borders of smokedom at the gate of the great moors;and at seven the next morning I took my seat beside a one-eyed carrierbehind an ancient piebald mare. The one-eyed carrier cracked his whip, the piebald horse jogged forward. The nineteenth century, with itsturmoil, fell away behind us; the distant hills, creeping nearer, swallowed us up, and we became but a moving speck upon the face of thequiet earth. 

Late in the afternoon we arrived at a village, the memory of which hadbeen growing in my mind. It lies in the triangle formed by the slopingwalls of three great fells, and not even the telegraph wire has reachedit yet, to murmur to it whispers of the restless world--or had not at thetime of which I write. Nought disturbs it save, once a day, the one-eyedcarrier--if he and his piebald mare have not yet laid their ancient bonesto rest--who, passing through, leaves a few letters and parcels to becalled for by the people of the scattered hill-farms round about. It isthe meeting-place of two noisy brooks. Through the sleepy days and thehushed nights, one hears them ever chattering to themselves as childrenplaying alone some game of make-believe. Coming from their far-off homesamong the hills, they mingle their waters here, and journey on incompany, and then their converse is more serious, as becomes those whohave joined hands and are moving onward towards life together. Laterthey reach sad, weary towns, black beneath a never-lifted pall of smoke, where day and night the clang of iron drowns all human voices, where thechildren play with ashes, where the men and women have dull, patientfaces; and so on, muddy and stained, to the deep sea that ceaselesslycalls to them. Here, however, their waters are fresh and clear, andtheir passing makes the only stir that the valley has ever known. Surely, of all peaceful places, this was the one where a tired worker might findstrength. 

My one-eyed friend had suggested I should seek lodgings at the house ofone Mistress Cholmondley, a widow lady, who resided with her onlydaughter in the white-washed cottage that is the last house in thevillage, if you take the road that leads over Coll Fell. 

"Tha' can see th' house from here, by reason o' its standing so highabove t'others, " said the carrier, pointing with his whip. "It's theeror nowhere, aw'm thinking, for folks don't often coom seeking lodgings inthese parts. "

The tiny dwelling, half smothered in June roses, looked idyllic, andafter a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my way to itby the path that passes through the churchyard. I had conjured up thevision of a stout, pleasant, comfort-radiating woman, assisted by somebright, fresh girl, whose rosy cheeks and sunburnt hands would help mebanish from my mind all clogging recollections of the town; and hopeful, I pushed back the half-opened door and entered. 

The cottage was furnished with a taste that surprised me, but inthemselves my hosts disappointed me. My bustling, comely housewifeturned out a wizened, blear-eyed dame. All day long she dozed in her bigchair, or crouched with shrivelled hands spread out before the fire. Mydream of winsome maidenhood vanished before the reality of aweary-looking, sharp-featured woman of between forty and fifty. Perhapsthere had been a time when the listless eyes had sparkled with roguishmerriment, when the shrivelled, tight-drawn lips had pouted temptingly;but spinsterhood does not sweeten the juices of a woman, and strongcountry air, though, like old ale, it is good when taken occasionally, dulls the brain if lived upon. A narrow, uninteresting woman I foundher, troubled with a shyness that sat ludicrously upon her age, and thatyet failed to save her from the landlady's customary failing of loquacityconcerning "better days, " together with an irritating, if harmless, affectation of youthfulness. 

All other details were, however, most satisfactory; and at the windowcommanding the road that leads through the valley towards the distantworld I settled down to face my work. 

But the spirit of industry, once driven forth, returns with coy steps. Iwrote for perhaps an hour, and then throwing down my halting pen I lookedabout the room, seeking distraction. A Chippendale book-case stoodagainst the wall and I strolled over to it. The key was in the lock, andopening its glass doors, I examined the well-filled shelves. They held acurious collection: miscellanies with quaint, glazed bindings; novels andpoems; whose authors I had never heard of; old magazines long dead, theirvery names forgotten; "keepsakes" and annuals, redolent of an age ofvastly pretty sentiments and lavender-coloured silks. On the top shelf, however, was a volume of Keats wedged between a number of the_Evangelical Rambler_ and Young's _Night Thoughts_, and standing on tip-toe, I sought to draw it from its place. 

The book was jambed so tightly that my efforts brought two or threeothers tumbling about me, covering me with a cloud of fine dust, and tomy feet there fell, with a rattle of glass and metal, a small miniaturepainting, framed in black wood. 

I picked it up, and, taking it to the window, examined it. It was thepicture of a young girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years ago--Imean thirty years ago then. I fear it must be nearer fifty, speaking asfrom now--when our grandmothers wore corkscrew curls, and low-cut bodicesthat one wonders how they kept from slipping down. The face wasbeautiful, not merely with the conventional beauty of tiresome regularityand impossible colouring such as one finds in all miniatures, but withsoul behind the soft deep eyes. As I gazed, the sweet lips seemed tolaugh at me, and yet there lurked a sadness in the smile, as though theartist, in some rare moment, had seen the coming shadow of life acrossthe sunshine of the face. Even my small knowledge of Art told me thatthe work was clever, and I wondered why it should have lain so longneglected, when as a mere ornament it was valuable. It must have beenplaced in the book-case years ago by someone, and forgotten. 

I replaced it among its dusty companions, and sat down once more to mywork. But between me and the fading light came the face of theminiature, and would not be banished. Wherever I turned it looked out atme from the shadows. I am not naturally fanciful, and the work I wasengaged upon--the writing of a farcical comedy--was not of the kind toexcite the dreamy side of a man's nature. I grew angry with myself, andmade a further effort to fix my mind upon the paper in front of me. Butmy thoughts refused to return from their wanderings. Once, glancing backover my shoulder, I could have sworn I saw the original of the picturesitting in the big chintz-covered chair in the far corner. It wasdressed in a faded lilac frock, trimmed with some old lace, and I couldnot help noticing the beauty of the folded hands, though in the portraitonly the head and shoulders had been drawn. 

Next morning I had forgotten the incident, but with the lighting of thelamp the memory of it awoke within me, and my interest grew so strongthat again I took the miniature from its hiding-place and looked at it. 

And then the knowledge suddenly came to me that I knew the face. Wherehad I seen her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her. The picturesmiled at me, as if rallying me on my forgetfulness. I put it back uponits shelf, and sat racking my brains trying to recollect. We had metsomewhere--in the country--a long time ago, and had talked ofcommon-place things. To the vision of her clung the scent of roses andthe murmuring voices of haymakers. Why had I never seen her again? Whyhad she passed so completely out of my mind?

My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I questioned her assuming acareless tone. Reason with or laugh at myself as I would, this shadowymemory was becoming a romance to me. It was as though I were talking ofsome loved, dead friend, even to speak of whom to commonplace people wasa sacrilege. I did not want the woman to question me in return. 

"Oh, yes, " answered my landlady. Ladies had often lodged with her. Sometimes people stayed the whole summer, wandering about the woods andfells, but to her thinking the great hills were lonesome. Some of herlodgers had been young ladies, but she could not remember any of themhaving impressed her with their beauty. But then it was said women werenever a judge of other women. They had come and gone. Few had everreturned, and fresh faces drove out the old. 

"You have been letting lodgings for a long time?" I asked. "I suppose itcould be fifteen--twenty years ago that strangers to you lived in thisroom?"

"Longer than that, " she said quietly, dropping for the moment allaffectation. "We came here from the farm when my father died. He hadhad losses, and there was but little left. That is twenty-seven yearsago now. "

I hastened to close the conversation, fearing long-winded recollectionsof "better days. " I have heard such so often from one landlady andanother. I had not learnt much. Who was the original of the miniature, how it came to be lying forgotten in the dusty book-case were stillmysteries; and with a strange perversity I could not have explained tomyself I shrank from putting a direct question. 

So two days more passed by. My work took gradually a firmer grip upon mymind, and the face of the miniature visited me less often. But in theevening of the third day, which was a Sunday, a curious thing happened. 

I was returning from a stroll, and dusk was falling as I reached thecottage. I had been thinking of my farce, and I was laughing to myselfat a situation that seemed to me comical, when, passing the window of myroom, I saw looking out the sweet fair face that had become so familiarto me. It stood close to the latticed panes, a slim, girlish figure, clad in the old-fashioned lilac-coloured frock in which I had imagined iton the first night of my arrival, the beautiful hands clasped across thebreast, as then they had been folded on the lap. Her eyes were gazingdown the road that passes through the village and goes south, but theyseemed to be dreaming, not seeing, and the sadness in them struck uponone almost as a cry. I was close to the window, but the hedge screenedme, and I remained watching, until, after a minute I suppose, though itappeared longer, the figure drew back into the darkness of the room anddisappeared. 

I entered, but the room was empty. I called, but no one answered. Theuncomfortable suggestion took hold of me that I must be growing a littlecrazy. All that had gone before I could explain to myself as a meretrain of thought, but this time it had come to me suddenly, uninvited, while my thoughts had been busy elsewhere. This thing had appeared notto my brain but to my senses. I am not a believer in ghosts, but I am inthe hallucinations of a weak mind, and my own explanation was inconsequence not very satisfactory to myself. 

I tried to dismiss the incident, but it would not leave me, and laterthat same evening something else occurred that fixed it still clearer inmy thoughts. I had taken out two or three books at random with which toamuse myself, and turning over the leaves of one of them, a volume ofverses by some obscure poet, I found its sentimental passages much scoredand commented upon in pencil as was common fifty years ago--as may becommon now, for your Fleet Street cynic has not altered the world and itsways to quite the extent that he imagines. 

One poem in particular had evidently appealed greatly to the reader'ssympathies. It was the old, old story of the gallant who woos and ridesaway, leaving the maiden to weep. The poetry was poor, and at anothertime its conventionality would have excited only my ridicule. But, reading it in conjunction with the quaint, naive notes scattered aboutits margins, I felt no inclination to jeer. These hackneyed stories thatwe laugh at are deep profundities to the many who find in them someshadow of their own sorrows, and she--for it was a woman's handwriting--towhom this book belonged had loved its trite verses, because in them shehad read her own heart. This, I told myself, was her story also. Acommon enough story in life as in literature, but novel to those who liveit. 

There was no reason for my connecting her with the original of theminiature, except perhaps a subtle relationship between the thin nervoushandwriting and the mobile features; yet I felt instinctively they wereone and the same, and that I was tracing, link by link, the history of myforgotten friend. 

I felt urged to probe further, and next morning while my landlady wasclearing away my breakfast things, I fenced round the subject once again. 

"By the way, " I said, "while I think of it, if I leave any books orpapers here behind me, send them on at once. I have a knack of doingthat sort of thing. I suppose, " I added, "your lodgers often do leavesome of their belongings behind them. "

It sounded to myself a clumsy ruse. I wondered if she would suspect whatwas behind it. 

"Not often, " she answered. "Never that I can remember, except in thecase of one poor lady who died here. "

I glanced up quickly. 

"In this room?" I asked. 

My landlady seemed troubled at my tone. 

"Well, not exactly in this very room. We carried her upstairs, but shedied immediately. She was dying when she came here. I should not havetaken her in had I known. So many people are prejudiced against a housewhere death has occurred, as if there were anywhere it had not. It wasnot quite fair to us. "

I did not speak for a while, and the rattle of the plates and knivescontinued undisturbed. 

"What did she leave here?" I asked at length. 

"Oh, just a few books and photographs, and such-like small things thatpeople bring with them to lodgings, " was the reply. "Her people promisedto send for them, but they never did, and I suppose I forgot them. Theywere not of any value. "

The woman turned as she was leaving the room. 

"It won't drive you away, sir, I hope, what I have told you, " she said. "It all happened a long while ago. 

"Of course not, " I answered. "It interested me, that was all. " And thewoman went out, closing the door behind her. 

So here was the explanation, if I chose to accept it. I sat long thatmorning, wondering to myself whether things I had learnt to laugh atcould be after all realities. And a day or two afterwards I made adiscovery that confirmed all my vague surmises. 

Rummaging through this same dusty book-case, I found in one of the ill-fitting drawers, beneath a heap of torn and tumbled books, a diarybelonging to the fifties, stuffed with many letters and shapelessflowers, pressed between stained pages; and there--for the writer ofstories, tempted by human documents, is weak--in faded ink, brown andwithered like the flowers, I read the story I already knew. 

Such a very old story it was, and so conventional. He was an artist--wasever story of this type written where the hero was not an artist? Theyhad been children together, loving each other without knowing it till oneday it was revealed to them. Here is the entry:--

 "May 18th. --I do not know what to say, or how to begin. Chris loves me. I have been praying to God to make me worthy of him, and dancing round the room in my bare feet for fear of waking them below. He kissed my hands and clasped them round his neck, saying they were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he knelt and kissed them again. I am holding them before me and kissing them myself. I am glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you so good to me? Help me to be a true wife to him. Help me that I may never give him an instant's pain! Oh, that I had more power of loving, that I might love him better, "--and thus foolish thoughts for many pages, but foolish thoughts of the kind that has kept this worn old world, hanging for so many ages in space, from turning sour. 

Later, in February, there is another entry that carries on the story:--

 "Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the last moment, saying it was the most precious thing he possessed, and that when I looked at it I was to think of him who loved it. Of course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone in my room. It is the picture of myself that he has been so secret about, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as this. But I wish he had not made me look so sad. I am kissing the little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh, sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it was right for him to go, and I am glad he has been able to manage it. He could not study properly in this quiet country place, and now he will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long before I see him again, my love! my king!"

With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish rhapsodies arewritten down, but these letters of his, I gather, as I turn the pages, grow after a while colder and fewer, and a chill fear that dare not bepenned creeps in among the words. 

 "March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am so hungry for one, for the last I have almost kissed to pieces. I suppose he will write more often when he gets to London. He is working hard, I know, and it is selfish of me to expect him to write more often, but I would sit up all night for a week rather than miss writing to him. I suppose men are not like that. O God, help me, help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am to-night! He was always careless. I will punish him for it when he comes back, but not very much. "

Truly enough a conventional story. 

Letters do come from him after that, but apparently they are less andless satisfactory, for the diary grows angry and bitter, and the fadedwriting is blotted at times with tears. Then towards the end of anotheryear there comes this entry, written in a hand of strange neatness andprecision:--

 "It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. I have written to him, giving him up. I have told him I have ceased to care for him, and that it is better we should both be free. It is best that way. He would have had to ask me to release him, and that would have given him pain. He was always gentle. Now he will be able to marry her with an easy conscience, and he need never know what I have suffered. She is more fitted for him than I am. I hope he will be happy. I think I have done the right thing. "

A few lines follow, left blank, and then the writing is resumed, but in astronger, more vehement hand. 

 "Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I would kill her if I could. I hope she will make him wretched, and that he will come to hate her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I let them persuade me to send that lying letter? He will show it to her, and she will see through it and laugh at me. I could have held him to his promise; he could not have got out of it. 

 "What do I care about dignity, and womanliness, and right, and all the rest of the canting words! I want him. I want his kisses and his arms about me. He is mine! He loved me once! I have only given him up because I thought it a fine thing to play the saint. It is only an acted lie. I would rather be evil, and he loved me. Why do I deceive myself? I want him. I care for nothing else at the bottom of my heart--his love, his kisses!"

And towards the end. "My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame, nostrength? O God, help me!"

* * * * *

And there the diary closes. 

I looked among the letters lying between the pages of the book. Most ofthem were signed simply "Chris. " or "Christopher. " But one gave his namein full, and it was a name I know well as that of a famous man, whosehand I have often shaken. I thought of his hard-featured, handsome wife, and of his great chill place, half house, half exhibition, in Kensington, filled constantly with its smart, chattering set, among whom he seemedalways to be the uninvited guest; of his weary face and bitter tongue. And thinking thus there rose up before me the sweet, sad face of thewoman of the miniature, and, meeting her eyes as she smiled at me fromout of the shadows, I looked at her my wonder. 

I took the miniature from its shelf. There would be no harm now inlearning her name. So I stood with it in my hand till a little later mylandlady entered to lay the cloth. 

"I tumbled this out of your book-case, " I said, "in reaching down somebooks. It is someone I know, someone I have met, but I cannot thinkwhere. Do you know who it is?"

The woman took it from my hand, and a faint flush crossed her witheredface. "I had lost it, " she answered. "I never thought of looking there. It's a portrait of myself, painted years ago, by a friend. "

I looked from her to the miniature, as she stood among the shadows, withthe lamplight falling on her face, and saw her perhaps for the firsttime. 

"How stupid of me, " I answered. "Yes, I see the likeness now. "

THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE

It has been told me by those in a position to know--and I can believeit--that at nineteen months of age he wept because his grandmother wouldnot allow him to feed her with a spoon, and that at three and a half hewas fished, in an exhausted condition, out of the water-butt, whither hehad climbed for the purpose of teaching a frog to swim. 

Two years later he permanently injured his left eye, showing the cat howto carry kittens without hurting them, and about the same period wasdangerously stung by a bee while conveying it from a flower where, as itseemed to him, it was only wasting its time, to one more rich in honey-making properties. 

His desire was always to help others. He would spend whole morningsexplaining to elderly hens how to hatch eggs, and would give up anafternoon's black-berrying to sit at home and crack nuts for his petsquirrel. Before he was seven he would argue with his mother upon themanagement of children, and reprove his father for the way he wasbringing him up. 

As a child nothing could afford him greater delight than "minding" otherchildren, or them less. He would take upon himself this harassing dutyentirely of his own accord, without hope of reward or gratitude. It wasimmaterial to him whether the other children were older than himself oryounger, stronger or weaker, whenever and wherever he found them he setto work to "mind" them. Once, during a school treat, piteous cries wereheard coming from a distant part of the wood, and upon search being made, he was discovered prone upon the ground, with a cousin of his, a boytwice his own weight, sitting upon him and steadily whacking him. Havingrescued him, the teacher said:

"Why don't you keep with the little boys? What are you doing along withhim?"

"Please, sir, " was the answer, "I was minding him. "

He would have "minded" Noah if he had got hold of him. 

He was a good-natured lad, and at school he was always willing for thewhole class to copy from his slate--indeed he would urge them to do so. He meant it kindly, but inasmuch as his answers were invariably quitewrong--with a distinctive and inimitable wrongness peculiar tohimself--the result to his followers was eminently unsatisfactory; andwith the shallowness of youth that, ignoring motives, judges solely fromresults, they would wait for him outside and punch him. 

All his energies went to the instruction of others, leaving none for hisown purposes. He would take callow youths to his chambers and teach themto box. 

"Now, try and hit me on the nose, " he would say, standing before them inan attitude of defence. "Don't be afraid. Hit as hard as ever you can. "

And they would do it. And so soon as he had recovered from his surprise, and a little lessened the bleeding, he would explain to them how they haddone it all wrong, and how easily he could have stopped the blow if theyhad only hit him properly. 

Twice at golf he lamed himself for over a week, showing a novice how to"drive"; and at cricket on one occasion I remember seeing his middlestump go down like a ninepin just as he was explaining to the bowler howto get the balls in straight. After which he had a long argument withthe umpire as to whether he was in or out. 

He has been known, during a stormy Channel passage, to rush excitedlyupon the bridge in order to inform the captain that he had "just seen alight about two miles away to the left"; and if he is on the top of anomnibus he generally sits beside the driver, and points out to him thevarious obstacles likely to impede their progress. 

It was upon an omnibus that my own personal acquaintanceship with himbegan. I was sitting behind two ladies when the conductor came up tocollect fares. One of them handed him a sixpence telling him to take toPiccadilly Circus, which was twopence. 

"No, " said the other lady to her friend, handing the man a shilling, "Iowe you sixpence, you give me fourpence and I'll pay for the two. "

The conductor took the shilling, punched two twopenny tickets, and thenstood trying to think it out. 

"That's right, " said the lady who had spoken last, "give my friendfourpence. "

The conductor did so. 

"Now you give that fourpence to me. "

The friend handed it to her. 

"And you, " she concluded to the conductor, "give me eightpence, then weshall be all right. "

The conductor doled out to her the eightpence--the sixpence he had takenfrom the first lady, with a penny and two halfpennies out of his ownbag--distrustfully, and retired, muttering something about his duties notincluding those of a lightning calculator. 

"Now, " said the elder lady to the younger, "I owe you a shilling. "

I deemed the incident closed, when suddenly a florid gentleman on theopposite seat called out in stentorian tones:--

"Hi, conductor! you've cheated these ladies out of fourpence. "

"'Oo's cheated 'oo out 'o fourpence?" replied the indignant conductorfrom the top of the steps, "it was a twopenny fare. "

"Two twopences don't make eightpence, " retorted the florid gentlemanhotly. "How much did you give the fellow, my dear?" he asked, addressingthe first of the young ladies. 

"I gave him sixpence, " replied the lady, examining her purse. "And thenI gave you fourpence, you know, " she added, addressing her companion. 

"That's a dear two pen'oth, " chimed in a common-looking man on the seatbehind. 

"Oh, that's impossible, dear, " returned the other, "because I owed yousixpence to begin with. "

"But I did, " persisted the first lady. 

"You gave me a shilling, " said the conductor, who had returned, pointingan accusing forefinger at the elder of the ladies. 

The elder lady nodded. 

"And I gave you sixpence and two pennies, didn't I?"

The lady admitted it. 

"An' I give 'er"--he pointed towards the younger lady--"fourpence, didn'tI?"

"Which I gave you, you know, dear, " remarked the younger lady. 

"Blow me if it ain't _me_ as 'as been cheated out of the fourpence, "cried the conductor. 

"But, " said the florid gentleman, "the other lady gave you sixpence. "

"Which I give to 'er, " replied the conductor, again pointing the fingerof accusation at the elder lady. "You can search my bag if yer like. Iain't got a bloomin' sixpence on me. "

By this time everybody had forgotten what they had done, and contradictedthemselves and one another. The florid man took it upon himself to puteverybody right, with the result that before Piccadilly Circus wasreached three passengers had threatened to report the conductor forunbecoming language. The conductor had called a policeman and had takenthe names and addresses of the two ladies, intending to sue them for thefourpence (which they wanted to pay, but which the florid man would notallow them to do); the younger lady had become convinced that the elderlady had meant to cheat her, and the elder lady was in tears. 

The florid gentleman and myself continued to Charing Cross Station. Atthe booking office window it transpired that we were bound for the samesuburb, and we journeyed down together. He talked about the fourpenceall the way. 

At my gate we shook hands, and he was good enough to express delight atthe discovery that we were near neighbours. What attracted him to myselfI failed to understand, for he had bored me considerably, and I had, tothe best of my ability, snubbed him. Subsequently I learned that it wasa peculiarity of his to be charmed with anyone who did not openly insulthim. 

Three days afterwards he burst into my study unannounced--he appeared toregard himself as my bosom friend--and asked me to forgive him for nothaving called sooner, which I did. 

"I met the postman as I was coming along, " he said, handing me a blueenvelope, "and he gave me this, for you. "

I saw it was an application for the water-rate. 

"We must make a stand against this, " he continued. "That's for water tothe 29th September. You've no right to pay it in June. "

I replied to the effect that water-rates had to be paid, and that itseemed to me immaterial whether they were paid in June or September. 

"That's not it, " he answered, "it's the principle of the thing. Whyshould you pay for water you have never had? What right have they tobully you into paying what you don't owe?"

He was a fluent talker, and I was ass enough to listen to him. By theend of half an hour he had persuaded me that the question was bound upwith the inalienable rights of man, and that if I paid that fourteen andtenpence in June instead of in September, I should be unworthy of theprivileges my forefathers had fought and died to bestow upon me. 

He told me the company had not a leg to stand upon, and at hisinstigation I sat down and wrote an insulting letter to the chairman. 

The secretary replied that, having regard to the attitude I had taken up, it would be incumbent upon themselves to treat it as a test case, andpresumed that my solicitors would accept service on my behalf. 

When I showed him this letter he was delighted. 

"You leave it to me, " he said, pocketing the correspondence, "and we'llteach them a lesson. "

I left it to him. My only excuse is that at the time I was immersed inthe writing of what in those days was termed a comedy-drama. The littlesense I possessed must, I suppose, have been absorbed by the play. 

The magistrate's decision somewhat damped my ardour, but only inflamedhis zeal. Magistrates, he said, were muddle-headed old fogies. This wasa matter for a judge. 

The judge was a kindly old gentleman, and said that bearing in mind theunsatisfactory wording of the sub-clause, he did not think he could allowthe company their costs, so that, all told, I got off for something underfifty pounds, inclusive of the original fourteen and tenpence. 

Afterwards our friendship waned, but living as we did in the sameoutlying suburb, I was bound to see a good deal of him; and to hear more. 

At parties of all kinds he was particularly prominent, and on suchoccasions, being in his most good-natured mood, was most to be dreaded. No human being worked harder for the enjoyment of others, or producedmore universal wretchedness. 

One Christmas afternoon, calling upon a friend, I found some fourteen orfifteen elderly ladies and gentlemen trotting solemnly round a row ofchairs in the centre of the drawing-room while Poppleton played thepiano. Every now and then Poppleton would suddenly cease, and everyonewould drop wearily into the nearest chair, evidently glad of a rest; allbut one, who would thereupon creep quietly away, followed by the envyinglooks of those left behind. I stood by the door watching the weirdscene. Presently an escaped player came towards me, and I enquired ofhim what the ceremony was supposed to signify. 

"Don't ask me, " he answered grumpily. "Some of Poppleton's damnedtomfoolery. " Then he added savagely, "We've got to play forfeits afterthis. "

The servant was still waiting a favourable opportunity to announce me. Igave her a shilling not to, and got away unperceived. 

After a satisfactory dinner, he would suggest an impromptu dance, andwant you to roll up mats, or help him move the piano to the other end ofthe room. 

He knew enough round games to have started a small purgatory of his own. Just as you were in the middle of an interesting discussion, or adelightful _tete-a-tete_ with a pretty woman, he would swoop down uponyou with: "Come along, we're going to play literary consequences, " anddragging you to the table, and putting a piece of paper and a pencilbefore you, would tell you to write a description of your favouriteheroine in fiction, and would see that you did it. 

He never spared himself. It was always he who would volunteer to escortthe old ladies to the station, and who would never leave them until hehad seen them safely into the wrong train. He it was who would play"wild beasts" with the children, and frighten them into fits that wouldlast all night. 

So far as intention went, he was the kindest man alive. He never visitedpoor sick persons without taking with him in his pocket some littledelicacy calculated to disagree with them and make them worse. Hearranged yachting excursions for bad sailors, entirely at his ownexpense, and seemed to regard their subsequent agonies as ingratitude. 

He loved to manage a wedding. Once he planned matters so that the bridearrived at the altar three-quarters of an hour before the groom, whichled to unpleasantness upon a day that should have been filled only withjoy, and once he forgot the clergyman. But he was always ready to admitwhen he made a mistake. 

At funerals, also, he was to the fore, pointing out to the grief-strickenrelatives how much better it was for all concerned that the corpse wasdead, and expressing a pious hope that they would soon join it. 

The chiefest delight of his life, however, was to be mixed up in otherpeople's domestic quarrels. No domestic quarrel for miles round wascomplete without him. He generally came in as mediator, and finished asleading witness for the appellant. 

As a journalist or politician his wonderful grasp of other people'sbusiness would have won for him esteem. The error he made was working itout in practice. 

THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS

The first time we met, to speak, he was sitting with his back against apollard willow, smoking a clay pipe. He smoked it very slowly, but veryconscientiously. After each whiff he removed the pipe from his mouth andfanned away the smoke with his cap. 

"Feeling bad?" I asked from behind a tree, at the same time making readyfor a run, big boys' answers to small boys' impertinences being usuallyof the nature of things best avoided. 

To my surprise and relief--for at second glance I perceived I had under-estimated the length of his legs--he appeared to regard the question as anatural and proper one, replying with unaffected candour, "Not yet. "

My desire became to comfort him--a sentiment I think he understood andwas grateful for. Advancing into the open, I sat down over against him, and watched him for a while in silence. Presently he said:--

"Have you ever tried drinking beer?"

I admitted I had not. 

"Oh, it is beastly stuff, " he rejoined with an involuntary shudder. 

Rendered forgetful of present trouble by bitter recollection of the past, he puffed away at his pipe carelessly and without judgment. 

"Do you often drink it?" I inquired. 

"Yes, " he replied gloomily; "all we fellows in the fifth form drink beerand smoke pipes. "

A deeper tinge of green spread itself over his face. 

He rose suddenly and made towards the hedge. Before he reached it, however, he stopped and addressed me, but without turning round. 

"If you follow me, young 'un, or look, I'll punch your head, " he saidswiftly, and disappeared with a gurgle. 

He left at the end of the terms and I did not see him again until we wereboth young men. Then one day I ran against him in Oxford Street, and heasked me to come and spend a few days with his people in Surrey. 

I found him wan-looking and depressed, and every now and then he sighed. During a walk across the common he cheered up considerably, but themoment we got back to the house door he seemed to recollect himself, andbegan to sigh again. He ate no dinner whatever, merely sipping a glassof wine and crumbling a piece of bread. I was troubled at noticing this, but his relatives--a maiden aunt, who kept house, two elder sisters, anda weak-eyed female cousin who had left her husband behind her inIndia--were evidently charmed. They glanced at each other, and noddedand smiled. Once in a fit of abstraction he swallowed a bit of crust, and immediately they all looked pained and surprised. 

In the drawing-room, under cover of a sentimental song, sung by thefemale cousin, I questioned his aunt on the subject. 

"What's the matter with him?" I said. "Is he ill?"

The old lady chuckled. 

"You'll be like that one day, " she whispered gleefully. 

"When, " I asked, not unnaturally alarmed. 

"When you're in love, " she answered. 

"Is _he_ in love?" I inquired after a pause. 

"Can't you see he is?" she replied somewhat scornfully. 

I was a young man, and interested in the question. 

"Won't he ever eat any dinner till he's got over it?" I asked. 

She looked round sharply at me, but apparently decided that I was onlyfoolish. 

"You wait till your time comes, " she answered, shaking her curls at me. "You won't care much about your dinner--not if you are _really_ in love. "

In the night, about half-past eleven, I heard, as I thought, footsteps inthe passage, and creeping to the door and opening it I saw the figure ofmy friend in dressing-gown and slippers, vanishing down the stairs. Myidea was that, his brain weakened by trouble, he had developedsleep-walking tendencies. Partly out of curiosity, partly to watch overhim, I slipped on a pair of trousers and followed him. 

He placed his candle on the kitchen table and made a bee-line for thepantry door, from where he subsequently emerged with two pounds of coldbeef on a plate and about a quart of beer in a jug; and I came away, leaving him fumbling for pickles. 

I assisted at his wedding, where it seemed to me he endeavoured todisplay more ecstasy than it was possible for any human being to feel;and fifteen months later, happening to catch sight of an advertisement inthe births column of _The Times_, I called on my way home from the Cityto congratulate him. He was pacing up and down the passage with his haton, pausing at intervals to partake of an uninviting-looking meal, consisting of a cold mutton chop and a glass of lemonade, spread out upona chair. Seeing that the cook and the housemaid were wandering about thehouse evidently bored for want of something to do, and that the dining-room, where he would have been much more out of the way, was empty andquite in order, I failed at first to understand the reason for hisdeliberate choice of discomfort. I, however, kept my reflections tomyself, and inquired after the mother and child. 

"Couldn't be better, " he replied with a groan. "The doctor said he'dnever had a more satisfactory case in all his experience. "

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that, " I answered; "I was afraid you'd beenworrying yourself. "

"Worried!" he exclaimed. "My dear boy, I don't know whether I'm standingon my head or my heels" (he gave one that idea). "This is the firstmorsel of food that's passed my lips for twenty-four hours. "

At this moment the nurse appeared at the top of the stairs. He flewtowards her, upsetting the lemonade in his excitement. 

"What is it?" he asked hoarsely. "Is it all right?"

The old lady glanced from him to his cold chop, and smiled approvingly. 

"They're doing splendidly, " she answered, patting him on the shoulder ina motherly fashion. "Don't you worry. "

"I can't help it, Mrs. Jobson, " he replied, sitting down upon the bottomstair, and leaning his head against the banisters. 

"Of course you can't, " said Mrs. Jobson admiringly; "and you wouldn't bemuch of a man if you could. " Then it was borne in upon me why he worehis hat, and dined off cold chops in the passage. 

The following summer they rented a picturesque old house in Berkshire, and invited me down from a Saturday to Monday. Their place was near theriver, so I slipped a suit of flannels in my bag, and on the Sundaymorning I came down in them. He met me in the garden. He was dressed ina frock coat and a white waistcoat; and I noticed that he kept looking atme out of the corner of his eye, and that he seemed to have a trouble onhis mind. The first breakfast bell rang, and then he said, "You haven'tgot any proper clothes with you, have you?"

"Proper clothes!" I exclaimed, stopping in some alarm. "Why, hasanything given way?"

"No, not that, " he explained. "I mean clothes to go to church in. "

"Church, " I said. "You're surely not going to church a fine day likethis? I made sure you'd be playing tennis, or going on the river. Youalways used to. "

"Yes, " he replied, nervously flicking a rose-bush with a twig he hadpicked up. "You see, it isn't ourselves exactly. Maud and I wouldrather like to, but our cook, she's Scotch, and a little strict in hernotions. "

"And does she insist on your going to church every Sunday morning?" Iinquired. 

"Well, " he answered, "she thinks it strange if we don't, and so wegenerally do, just in the morning--and evening. And then in theafternoon a few of the village girls drop in, and we have a littlesinging and that sort of thing. I never like hurting anyone's feelingsif I can help it. "

I did not say what I thought. Instead I said, "I've got that tweed suitI wore yesterday. I can put that on if you like. "

He ceased flicking the rose-bush, and knitted his brows. He seemed to berecalling it to his imagination. 

"No, " he said, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it would shock her. It's myfault, I know, " he added, remorsefully. "I ought to have told you. "

Then an idea came to him. 

"I suppose, " he said, "you wouldn't care to pretend you were ill, andstop in bed just for the day?"

I explained that my conscience would not permit my being a party to suchdeception

"No, I thought you wouldn't, " he replied. "I must explain it to her. Ithink I'll say you've lost your bag. I shouldn't like her to think badof us. "

Later on a fourteenth cousin died, leaving him a large fortune. Hepurchased an estate in Yorkshire, and became a "county family, " and thenhis real troubles began. 

From May to the middle of August, save for a little fly fishing, whichgenerally resulted in his getting his feet wet and catching a cold, lifewas fairly peaceful; but from early autumn to late spring he found thework decidedly trying. He was a stout man, constitutionally nervous offire-arms, and a six-hours' tramp with a heavy gun across ploughedfields, in company with a crowd of careless persons who kept blazing awaywithin an inch of other people's noses, harassed and exhausted him. Hehad to get out of bed at four on chilly October mornings to gocub-hunting, and twice a week throughout the winter--except when ablessed frost brought him a brief respite--he had to ride to hounds. Thathe usually got off with nothing more serious than mere bruises and slightconcussions of the spine, he probably owed to the fortunate circumstancesof his being little and fat. At stiff timber he shut his eyes and rodehard; and ten yards from a river he would begin to think about bridges. 

Yet he never complained. 

"If you are a country gentleman, " he would say, "you must behave as acountry gentleman, and take the rough with the smooth. "

As ill fate would have it a chance speculation doubled his fortune, andit became necessary that he should go into Parliament and start a yacht. Parliament made his head ache, and the yacht made him sick. Notwithstanding, every summer he would fill it with a lot of expensivepeople who bored him, and sail away for a month's misery in theMediterranean. 

During one cruise his guests built up a highly-interesting gamblingscandal. He himself was confined to his cabin at the time, and knewnothing about it; but the Opposition papers, getting hold of the story, referred casually to the yacht as a "floating hell, " and _The PoliceNews_ awarded his portrait the place of honour as the chief criminal ofthe week. 

Later on he got into a cultured set, ruled by a thick-lippedundergraduate. His favourite literature had hitherto been of the Corelliand _Tit-Bits_ order, but now he read Meredith and the yellow book, andtried to understand them; and instead of the Gaiety, he subscribed to theIndependent Theatre, and fed "his soul, " on Dutch Shakespeares. What heliked in art was a pretty girl by a cottage-door with an eligible youngman in the background, or a child and a dog doing something funny. Theytold him these things were wrong and made him buy "Impressions" thatstirred his liver to its deepest depths every time he looked atthem--green cows on red hills by pink moonlight, or scarlet-hairedcorpses with three feet of neck. 

He said meekly that such seemed to him unnatural, but they answered thatnature had nothing to do with the question; that the artist saw thingslike that, and that whatever an artist saw--no matter in what conditionhe may have been when he saw it--that was art. 

They took him to Wagner festivals and Burne-Jones's private views. Theyread him all the minor poets. They booked seats for him at all Ibsen'splays. They introduced him into all the most soulful circles of artisticsociety. His days were one long feast of other people's enjoyments. 

One morning I met him coming down the steps of the Arts Club. He lookedweary. He was just off to a private view at the New Gallery. In theafternoon he had to attend an amateur performance of "The Cenci, " givenby the Shelley Society. Then followed three literary and artistic AtHomes, a dinner with an Indian nabob who couldn't speak a word ofEnglish, "Tristam and Isolde" at Covent Garden Theatre, and a ball atLord Salisbury's to wind up the day. 

I laid my hand upon his shoulder. 

"Come with me to Epping Forest, " I said. "There's a four-horse brakestarts from Charing Cross at eleven. It's Saturday, and there's bound tobe a crowd down there. I'll play you a game of skittles, and we willhave a shy at the cocoa-nuts. You used to be rather smart at cocoa-nuts. We can have lunch there and be back at seven, dine at the Troc. , spendthe evening at the Empire, and sup at the Savoy. What do you say?"

He stood hesitating on the steps, a wistful look in his eyes. 

His brougham drew up against the curb, and he started as if from a dream. 

"My dear fellow, " he replied, "what would people say?" And shaking me bythe hand, he took his seat, and the footman slammed the door upon him. 

A MAN OF HABIT

There were three of us in the smoke-room of the _Alexandra_--a very goodfriend of mine, myself, and, in the opposite corner, a shy-looking, unobtrusive man, the editor, as we subsequently learned, of a New YorkSunday paper. 

My friend and I were discussing habits, good and bad. 

"After the first few months, " said my friend, "it is no more effort for aman to be a saint than to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter ofhabit. "

"I know, " I interrupted, "it is every whit as easy to spring out of bedthe instant you are called as to say 'All Right, ' and turn over for justanother five minutes' snooze, when you have got into the way of it. Itis no more trouble not to swear than to swear, if you make a custom ofit. Toast and water is as delicious as champagne, when you have acquiredthe taste for it. Things are also just as easy the other way about. Itis a mere question of making your choice and sticking to it. "

He agreed with me. 

"Now take these cigars of mine, " he said, pushing his open case towardsme. 

"Thank you, " I replied hurriedly, "I'm not smoking this passage. "

"Don't be alarmed, " he answered, "I meant merely as an argument. Now oneof these would make you wretched for a week. "

I admitted his premise. 

"Very well, " he continued. "Now I, as you know, smoke them all day long, and enjoy them. Why? Because I have got into the habit. Years ago, when I was a young man, I smoked expensive Havanas. I found that I wasruining myself. It was absolutely necessary that I should take a cheaperweed. I was living in Belgium at the time, and a friend showed me these. I don't know what they are--probably cabbage leaves soaked in guano; theytasted to me like that at first--but they were cheap. Buying them by thefive hundred, they cost me three a penny. I determined to like them, andstarted with one a day. It was terrible work, I admit, but as I said tomyself, nothing could be worse than the Havanas themselves had been inthe beginning. Smoking is an acquired taste, and it must be as easy tolearn to like one flavour as another. I persevered and I conquered. Before the year was over I could think of them without loathing, at theend of two I could smoke them without positive discomfort. Now I preferthem to any other brand on the market. Indeed, a good cigar disagreeswith me. "

I suggested it might have been less painful to have given up smokingaltogether. 

"I did think of it, " he replied, "but a man who doesn't smoke alwaysseems to me bad company. There is something very sociable about smoke. "

He leant back and puffed great clouds into the air, filling the small denwith an odour suggestive of bilge water and cemeteries. 

"Then again, " he resumed after a pause, "take my claret. No, you don'tlike it. " (I had not spoken, but my face had evidently betrayed me. )"Nobody does, at least no one I have ever met. Three years ago, when Iwas living in Hammersmith, we caught two burglars with it. They brokeopen the sideboard, and swallowed five bottlefuls between them. Apoliceman found them afterwards, sitting on a doorstep a hundred yardsoff, the 'swag' beside them in a carpet bag. They were too ill to offerany resistance, and went to the station like lambs, he promising to sendthe doctor to them the moment they were safe in the cells. Ever sincethen I have left out a decanterful upon the table every night. 

"Well, I like that claret, and it does me good. I come in sometimes deadbeat. I drink a couple of glasses, and I'm a new man. I took to it inthe first instance for the same reason that I took to the cigars--it wascheap. I have it sent over direct from Geneva, and it costs me sixshillings a dozen. How they do it I don't know. I don't want to know. As you may remember, it's fairly heady and there's body in it. 

"I knew one man, " he continued, "who had a regular Mrs. Caudle of a wife. All day long she talked to him, or at him, or of him, and at night hefell asleep to the rising and falling rhythm of what she thought abouthim. At last she died, and his friends congratulated him, telling himthat now he would enjoy peace. But it was the peace of the desert, andthe man did not enjoy it. For two-and-twenty years her voice had filledthe house, penetrated through the conservatory, and floated in faintshrilly waves of sound round the garden, and out into the road beyond. The silence now pervading everywhere frightened and disturbed him. Theplace was no longer home to him. He missed the breezy morning insult, the long winter evening's reproaches beside the flickering fire. Atnight he could not sleep. For hours he would lie tossing restlessly, hisears aching for the accustomed soothing flow of invective. 

"'Ah!' he would cry bitterly to himself, 'it is the old story, we neverknow the value of a thing until we have lost it. '

"He grew ill. The doctors dosed him with sleeping draughts in vain. Atlast they told him bluntly that his life depended upon his findinganother wife, able and willing to nag him to sleep. 

"There were plenty of wives of the type he wanted in the neighbourhood, but the unmarried women were, of necessity, inexperienced, and his healthwas such that he could not afford the time to train them. 

"Fortunately, just as despair was about to take possession of him, a mandied in the next parish, literally talked to death, the gossip said, byhis wife. He obtained an introduction, and called upon her the day afterthe funeral. She was a cantankerous old woman, and the wooing was aharassing affair, but his heart was in his work, and before six monthswere gone he had won her for his own. 

"She proved, however, but a poor substitute. The spirit was willing butthe flesh was weak. She had neither that command of language nor of windthat had distinguished her rival. From his favourite seat at the bottomof the garden he could not hear her at all, so he had his chair broughtup into the conservatory. It was all right for him there so long as shecontinued to abuse him; but every now and again, just as he was gettingcomfortably settled down with his pipe and his newspaper, she wouldsuddenly stop. 

"He would drop his paper and sit listening, with a troubled, anxiousexpression. 

"'Are you there, dear?' he would call out after a while. 

"'Yes, I'm here. Where do you think I am you old fool?' she would gaspback in an exhausted voice. 

"His face would brighten at the sound of her words. 'Go on, dear, ' hewould answer. 'I'm listening. I like to hear you talk. '

"But the poor woman was utterly pumped out, and had not so much as asnort left. 

"Then he would shake his head sadly. 'No, she hasn't poor dear Susan'sflow, ' he would say. 'Ah! what a woman that was!'

"At night she would do her best, but it was a lame and haltingperformance by comparison. After rating him for little overthree-quarters of an hour, she would sink back on the pillow, and want togo to sleep. But he would shake her gently by the shoulder. 

"'Yes, dear, ' he would say, 'you were speaking about Jane, and the way Ikept looking at her during lunch. '

"It's extraordinary, " concluded my friend, lighting a fresh cigar, "whatcreatures of habit we are. "

"Very, " I replied. "I knew a man who told tall stories till when he tolda true one nobody believed it. "

"Ah, that was a very sad case, " said my friend. 

"Speaking of habit, " said the unobtrusive man in the corner, "I can tellyou a true story that I'll bet my bottom dollar you won't believe. "

"Haven't got a bottom dollar, but I'll bet you half a sovereign I do, "replied my friend, who was of a sporting turn. "Who shall be judge?"

"I'll take your word for it, " said the unobtrusive man, and startedstraight away. 

* * * * *

"He was a Jefferson man, this man I'm going to tell you of, " he begun. "He was born in the town, and for forty-seven years he never slept anight outside it. He was a most respectable man--a drysalter from nineto four, and a Presbyterian in his leisure moments. He said that a goodlife merely meant good habits. He rose at seven, had family prayer atseven-thirty, breakfasted at eight, got to his business at nine, had hishorse brought round to the office at four, and rode for an hour, reachedhome at five, had a bath and a cup of tea, played with and read to thechildren (he was a domesticated man) till half-past six, dressed anddined at seven, went round to the club and played whist till quarterafter ten, home again to evening prayer at ten-thirty, and bed at eleven. For five-and-twenty years he lived that life with never a variation. Itworked into his system and became mechanical. The church clocks were setby him. He was used by the local astronomers to check the sun. 

"One day a distant connection of his in London, an East Indian Merchantand an ex-Lord Mayor died, leaving him sole legatee and executor. Thebusiness was a complicated one and needed management. He determined toleave his son by his first wife, now a young man of twenty-four, incharge at Jefferson, and to establish himself with his second family inEngland, and look after the East Indian business. 

"He set out from Jefferson City on October the fourth, and arrived inLondon on the seventeenth. He had been ill during the whole of thevoyage, and he reached the furnished house he had hired in Bayswatersomewhat of a wreck. A couple of days in bed, however, pulled him round, and on the Wednesday evening he announced his intention of going into theCity the next day to see to his affairs. 

"On the Thursday morning he awoke at one o'clock. His wife told him shehad not disturbed him, thinking the sleep would do him good. He admittedthat perhaps it had. Anyhow, he felt very well, and he got up anddressed himself. He said he did not like the idea of beginning his firstday by neglecting a religious duty, and his wife agreeing with him, theyassembled the servants and the children in the dining-room, and hadfamily prayer at half-past one. After which he breakfasted and set off, reaching the City about three. 

"His reputation for punctuality had preceded him, and surprise waseverywhere expressed at his late arrival. He explained thecircumstances, however, and made his appointments for the following dayto commence from nine-thirty. 

"He remained at the office until late, and then went home. For dinner, usually the chief meal of the day, he could manage to eat only a biscuitand some fruit. He attributed his loss of appetite to want of hiscustomary ride. He was strangely unsettled all the evening. He said hesupposed he missed his game of whist, and determined to look about himwithout loss of time for some quiet, respectable club. At eleven heretired with his wife to bed, but could not sleep. He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed, but grew only more and more wakeful and energetic. A little after midnight an overpowering desire seized him to go and wishthe children good-night. He slipped on a dressing-gown and stole intothe nursery. He did not intend it, but the opening of the door awokethem, and he was glad. He wrapped them up in the quilt, and, sitting onthe edge of the bed, told them moral stories till one o'clock. 

"Then he kissed them, bidding them be good and go to sleep; and findinghimself painfully hungry, crept downstairs, where in the back kitchen hemade a hearty meal off cold game pie and cucumber. 

"He retired to bed feeling more peaceful, yet still could not sleep, solay thinking about his business affairs till five, when he dropped off. 

"At one o'clock to the minute he awoke. His wife told him she had madeevery endeavour to rouse him, but in vain. The man was vexed andirritated. If he had not been a very good man indeed, I believe he wouldhave sworn. The same programme was repeated as on the Thursday, andagain he reached the City at three. 

"This state of things went on for a month. The man fought againsthimself, but was unable to alter himself. Every morning, or rather everyafternoon at one he awoke. Every night at one he crept down into thekitchen and foraged for food. Every morning at five he fell asleep. 

"He could not understand it, nobody could understand it. The doctortreated him for water on the brain, hypnotic irresponsibility andhereditary lunacy. Meanwhile his business suffered, and his health grewworse. He seemed to be living upside down. His days seemed to haveneither beginning nor end, but to be all middle. There was no time forexercise or recreation. When he began to feel cheerful and sociableeverybody else was asleep. 

"One day by chance the explanation came. His eldest daughter waspreparing her home studies after dinner. 

"'What time is it now in New York?' she asked, looking up from hergeography book. 

"'New York, ' said her father, glancing at his watch, 'let me see. It'sjust ten now, and there's a little over four and a half hours'difference. Oh, about half-past five in the afternoon. '

"'Then in Jefferson, ' said the mother, 'it would be still earlier, wouldn't it?'

"'Yes, ' replied the girl, examining the map, 'Jefferson is nearly twodegrees further west. '

"'Two degrees, ' mused the father, 'and there's forty minutes to a degree. That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson--'

"He leaped to his feet with a cry:

"'I've got it!' he shouted, 'I see it. '

"'See what?' asked his wife, alarmed. 

"'Why, it's four o'clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That'swhat I'm wanting. '

"There could be no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he hadlived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not Londonclockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself. The habits ofa quarter of a century were not to be shifted at the bidding of the sun. 

"He examined the problem in all its bearings, and decided that the onlysolution was for him to return to the order of his old life. He saw thedifficulties in his way, but they were less than those he was at presentencountering. He was too formed by habit to adapt himself tocircumstances. Circumstances must adapt themselves to him. 

"He fixed his office hours from three till ten, leaving himself at half-past nine. At ten he mounted his horse and went for a canter in the Row, and on very dark nights he carried a lantern. News of it got abroad, andcrowds would assemble to see him ride past. 

"He dined at one o'clock in the morning, and afterwards strolled down tohis club. He had tried to discover a quiet, respectable club where themembers were willing to play whist till four in the morning, but failing, had been compelled to join a small Soho gambling-hell, where they taughthim poker. The place was occasionally raided by the police, but thanksto his respectable appearance, he generally managed to escape. 

"At half-past four he returned home, and woke up the family for eveningprayers. At five he went to bed and slept like a top. 

"The City chaffed him, and Bayswater shook its head over him, but that hedid not mind. The only thing that really troubled him was loss ofspiritual communion. At five o'clock on Sunday afternoons he felt hewanted chapel, but had to do without it. At seven he ate his simple mid-day meal. At eleven he had tea and muffins, and at midnight he began tocrave again for hymns and sermons. At three he had a bread-and-cheesesupper, and retired early at four a. M. , feeling sad and unsatisfied. 

"He was essentially a man of habit. "

* * * * *

The unobtrusive stranger ceased, and we sat gazing in silence at theceiling. 

At length my friend rose, and taking half-a-sovereign from his pocket, laid it upon the table, and linking his arm in mine went out with me uponthe deck. 

THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN

You ask him to dine with you on Thursday to meet a few people who areanxious to know him. 

"Now don't make a muddle of it, " you say, recollectful of former mishaps, "and come on the Wednesday. "

He laughs good-naturedly as he hunts through the room for his diary. 

"Shan't be able to come Wednesday, " he says, "shall be at the MansionHouse, sketching dresses, and on Friday I start for Scotland, so as to beat the opening of the Exhibition on Saturday. It's bound to be all rightthis time. Where the deuce is that diary! Never mind, I'll make a noteof it on this--you can see me do it. "

You stand over him while he writes the appointment down on a sheet offoolscap, and watch him pin it up over his desk. Then you come awaycontented. 

"I do hope he'll turn up, " you say to your wife on the Thursday evening, while dressing. 

"Are you sure you made it clear to him?" she replies, suspiciously, andyou instinctively feel that whatever happens she is going to blame youfor it. 

Eight o'clock arrives, and with it the other guests. At half-past eightyour wife is beckoned mysteriously out of the room, where the parlour-maid informs her that the cook has expressed a determination, in case offurther delay, to wash her hands, figuratively speaking, of the wholeaffair. 

Your wife, returning, suggests that if the dinner is to be eaten at allit had better be begun. She evidently considers that in pretending toexpect him you have been merely playing a part, and that it would havebeen manlier and more straightforward for you to have admitted at thebeginning that you had forgotten to invite him. 

During the soup and the fish you recount anecdotes of his unpunctuality. By the time the _entree_ arrives the empty chair has begun to cast agloom over the dinner, and with the joint the conversation drifts intotalk about dead relatives. 

On Friday, at a quarter past eight, he dashes to the door and ringsviolently. Hearing his voice in the hall, you go to meet him. 

"Sorry I'm late, " he sings out cheerily. "Fool of a cabman took me toAlfred Place instead of--"

"Well, what do you want now you are come?" you interrupt, feelinganything but genially inclined towards him. He is an old friend, so youcan be rude to him. 

He laughs, and slaps you on the shoulder. 

"Why, my dinner, my dear boy, I'm starving. "

"Oh, " you grunt in reply. "Well, you go and get it somewhere else, then. You're not going to have it here. "

"What the devil do you mean?" he says. "You asked me to dinner. "

"I did nothing of the kind, " you tell him. "I asked you to dinner onThursday, not on Friday. "

He stares at you incredulously. 

"How did I get Friday fixed in my mind?" inquiringly. 

"Because yours is the sort of mind that would get Friday firmly fixedinto it, when Thursday was the day, " you explain. "I thought you had tobe off to Edinburgh to-night, " you add. 

"Great Scott!" he cries, "so I have. "

And without another word he dashes out, and you hear him rushing down theroad, shouting for the cab he has just dismissed. 

As you return to your study you reflect that he will have to travel allthe way to Scotland in evening dress, and will have to send out the hotelporter in the morning to buy him a suit of ready-made clothes, and areglad. 

Matters work out still more awkwardly when it is he who is the host. Iremember being with him on his house-boat one day. It was a little aftertwelve, and we were sitting on the edge of the boat, dangling our feet inthe river--the spot was a lonely one, half-way between Wallingford andDay's Lock. Suddenly round the bend appeared two skiffs, each onecontaining six elaborately-dressed persons. As soon as they caught sightof us they began waving handkerchiefs and parasols. 

"Hullo!" I said, "here's some people hailing you. "

"Oh, they all do that about here, " he answered, without looking up. "Somebeanfeast from Abingdon, I expect. "

The boats draw nearer. When about two hundred yards off an elderlygentleman raised himself up in the prow of the leading one and shouted tous. 

McQuae heard his voice, and gave a start that all but pitched him intothe water. 

"Good God!" he cried, "I'd forgotten all about it. "

"About what?" I asked. 

"Why, it's the Palmers and the Grahams and the Hendersons. I've askedthem all over to lunch, and there's not a blessed thing on board but twomutton chops and a pound of potatoes, and I've given the boy a holiday. "

Another day I was lunching with him at the Junior Hogarth, when a mannamed Hallyard, a mutual friend, strolled across to us. 

"What are you fellows going to do this afternoon?" he asked, seatinghimself the opposite side of the table. 

"I'm going to stop here and write letters, " I answered. 

"Come with me if you want something to do, " said McQuae. "I'm going todrive Leena down to Richmond. " ("Leena" was the young lady herecollected being engaged to. It transpired afterwards that he wasengaged to three girls at the time. The other two he had forgotten allabout. ) "It's a roomy seat at the back. "

"Oh, all right, " said Hallyard, and they went away together in a hansom. 

An hour and a half later Hallyard walked into the smoking-room lookingdepressed and worn, and flung himself into a chair. 

"I thought you were going to Richmond with McQuae, " I said. 

"So did I, " he answered. 

"Had an accident?" I asked. 

"Yes. "

He was decidedly curt in his replies. 

"Cart upset?" I continued. 

"No, only me. "

His grammar and his nerves seemed thoroughly shaken. 

I waited for an explanation, and after a while he gave it. 

"We got to Putney, " he said, "with just an occasional run into a tram-car, and were going up the hill, when suddenly he turned a corner. Youknow his style at a corner--over the curb, across the road, and into theopposite lamp-post. Of course, as a rule one is prepared for it, but Inever reckoned on his turning up there, and the first thing I recollectis finding myself sitting in the middle of the street with a dozen foolsgrinning at me. 

"It takes a man a few minutes in such a case to think where he is andwhat has happened, and when I got up they were some distance away. I ranafter them for a quarter of a mile, shouting at the top of my voice, andaccompanied by a mob of boys, all yelling like hell on a Bank Holiday. But one might as well have tried to hail the dead, so I took the 'busback. 

"They might have guessed what had happened, " he added, "by the shiftingof the cart, if they'd had any sense. I'm not a light-weight. "

He complained of soreness, and said he would go home. I suggested a cab, but he replied that he would rather walk. 

I met McQuae in the evening at the St. James's Theatre. It was a firstnight, and he was taking sketches for _The Graphic_. The moment he sawme he made his way across to me. 

"The very man I wanted to see, " he said. "Did I take Hallyard with me inthe cart to Richmond this afternoon?"

"You did, " I replied. 

"So Leena says, " he answered, greatly bewildered, "but I'll swear hewasn't there when we got to the Queen's Hotel. "

"It's all right, " I said, "you dropped him at Putney. "

"Dropped him at Putney!" he repeated. "I've no recollection of doingso. "

"He has, " I answered. "You ask him about it. He's full of it. "

Everybody said he never would get married; that it was absurd to supposehe ever would remember the day, the church, and the girl, all in onemorning; that if he did get as far as the altar he would forget what hehad come for, and would give the bride away to his own best man. Hallyardhad an idea that he was already married, but that the fact had slippedhis memory. I myself felt sure that if he did marry he would forget allabout it the next day. 

But everybody was wrong. By some miraculous means the ceremony gotitself accomplished, so that if Hallyard's idea be correct (as to whichthere is every possibility), there will be trouble. As for my own fears, I dismissed them the moment I saw the lady. She was a charming, cheerfullittle woman, but did not look the type that would let him forget allabout it. 

I had not seen him since his marriage, which had happened in the spring. Working my way back from Scotland by easy stages, I stopped for a fewdays at Scarboro'. After _table d'hote_ I put on my mackintosh, and wentout for a walk. It was raining hard, but after a month in Scotland onedoes not notice English weather, and I wanted some air. Struggling alongthe dark beach with my head against the wind, I stumbled over a crouchingfigure, seeking to shelter itself a little from the storm under the leeof the Spa wall. 

I expected it to swear at me, but it seemed too broken-spirited to mindanything. 

"I beg your pardon, " I said. "I did not see you. "

At the sound of my voice it started to its feet. 

"Is that you, old man?" it cried. 

"McQuae!" I exclaimed. 

"By Jove!" he said, "I was never so glad to see a man in all my lifebefore. "

And he nearly shook my hand off. 

"But what in thunder!" I said, "are you doing here? Why, you're drenchedto the skin. "

He was dressed in flannels and a tennis-coat. 

"Yes, " he answered. "I never thought it would rain. It was a lovelymorning. "

I began to fear he had overworked himself into a brain fever. 

"Why don't you go home?" I asked. 

"I can't, " he replied. "I don't know where I live. I've forgotten theaddress. "

"For heaven's sake, " he said, "take me somewhere, and give me somethingto eat. I'm literally starving. "

"Haven't you any money?" I asked him, as we turned towards the hotel. 

"Not a sou, " he answered. "We got in here from York, the wife and I, about eleven. We left our things at the station, and started to hunt forapartments. As soon as we were fixed, I changed my clothes and came outfor a walk, telling Maud I should be back at one to lunch. Like a fool, I never took the address, and never noticed the way I was going. 

"It's an awful business, " he continued. "I don't see how I'm ever goingto find her. I hoped she might stroll down to the Spa in the evening, and I've been hanging about the gates ever since six. I hadn't thethreepence to go in. "

"But have you no notion of the sort of street or the kind of house itwas?" I enquired. 

"Not a ghost, " he replied. "I left it all to Maud, and didn't trouble. "

"Have you tried any of the lodging-houses?" I asked. 

"Tried!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I've been knocking at doors, and askingif Mrs. McQuae lives there steadily all the afternoon, and they slam thedoor in my face, mostly without answering. I told a policeman--I thoughtperhaps he might suggest something--but the idiot only burst outlaughing, and that made me so mad that I gave him a black eye, and had tocut. I expect they're on the lookout for me now. "

"I went into a restaurant, " he continued gloomily, "and tried to get themto trust me for a steak. But the proprietress said she'd heard that talebefore, and ordered me out before all the other customers. I think I'dhave drowned myself if you hadn't turned up. "

After a change of clothes and some supper, he discussed the case morecalmly, but it was really a serious affair. They had shut up their flat, and his wife's relatives were travelling abroad. There was no one towhom he could send a letter to be forwarded; there was no one with whomshe would be likely to communicate. Their chance of meeting again inthis world appeared remote. 

Nor did it seem to me--fond as he was of his wife, and anxious as heundoubtedly was to recover her--that he looked forward to the actualmeeting, should it ever arrive, with any too pleasurable anticipation. 

"She will think it strange, " he murmured reflectively, sitting on theedge of the bed, and thoughtfully pulling off his socks. "She is sure tothink it strange. "

The following day, which was Wednesday, we went to a solicitor, and laidthe case before him, and he instituted inquiries among all the lodging-house keepers in Scarborough, with the result that on Thursday afternoonMcQuae was restored (after the manner of an Adelphi hero in the last act)to his home and wife. 

I asked him next time I met him what she had said. 

"Oh, much what I expected, " he replied. 

But he never told me what he had expected. 

A CHARMING WOMAN

"Not _the Mr. ---_, _really_?"

In her deep brown eyes there lurked pleased surprise, struggling withwonder. She looked from myself to the friend who introduced us with abewitching smile of incredulity, tempered by hope. 

He assured her, adding laughingly, "The only genuine and original, " andleft us. 

"I've always thought of you as a staid, middle-aged man, " she said, witha delicious little laugh, then added in low soft tones, "I'm so verypleased to meet you, really. "

The words were conventional, but her voice crept round one like a warmcaress. 

"Come and talk to me, " she said, seating herself upon a small settee, andmaking room for me. 

I sat down awkwardly beside her, my head buzzing just a little, as withone glass too many of champagne. I was in my literary childhood. Onesmall book and a few essays and criticisms, scattered through variousobscure periodicals had been as yet my only contributions to currentliterature. The sudden discovery that I was the Mr. Anybody, and thatcharming women thought of me, and were delighted to meet me, was a brain-disturbing thought. 

"And it was really you who wrote that clever book?" she continued, "andall those brilliant things, in the magazines and journals. Oh, it mustbe delightful to be clever. "

She gave breath to a little sigh of vain regret that went to my heart. Toconsole her I commenced a laboured compliment, but she stopped me withher fan. On after reflection I was glad she had--it would have been oneof those things better expressed otherwise. 

"I know what you are going to say, " she laughed, "but don't. Besides, from you I should not know quite how to take it. You can be sosatirical. "

I tried to look as though I could be, but in her case would not. 

She let her ungloved hand rest for an instant upon mine. Had she left itthere for two, I should have gone down on my knees before her, or havestood on my head at her feet--have made a fool of myself in some way oranother before the whole room full. She timed it to a nicety. 

"I don't want _you_ to pay me compliments, " she said, "I want us to befriends. Of course, in years, I'm old enough to be your mother. " (Bythe register I should say she might have been thirty-two, but lookedtwenty-six. I was twenty-three, and I fear foolish for my age. ) "Butyou know the world, and you're so different to the other people onemeets. Society is so hollow and artificial; don't you find it so? Youdon't know how I long sometimes to get away from it, to know someone towhom I could show my real self, who would understand me. You'll come andsee me sometimes--I'm always at home on Wednesdays--and let me talk toyou, won't you, and you must tell me all your clever thoughts. "

It occurred to me that, maybe, she would like to hear a few of them thereand then, but before I had got well started a hollow Society man came upand suggested supper, and she was compelled to leave me. As shedisappeared, however, in the throng, she looked back over her shoulderwith a glance half pathetic, half comic, that I understood. It said, "Pity me, I've got to be bored by this vapid, shallow creature, " and Idid. 

I sought her through all the rooms before I went. I wished to assure herof my sympathy and support. I learned, however, from the butler that shehad left early, in company with the hollow Society man. 

A fortnight later I ran against a young literary friend in Regent Street, and we lunched together at the Monico. 

"I met such a charming woman last night, " he said, "a Mrs. CliftonCourtenay, a delightful woman. "

"Oh, do _you_ know her?" I exclaimed. "Oh, we're very old friends. She'salways wanting me to go and see her. I really must. "

"Oh, I didn't know _you_ knew her, " he answered. Somehow, the fact of myknowing her seemed to lessen her importance in his eyes. But soon herecovered his enthusiasm for her. 

"A wonderfully clever woman, " he continued. "I'm afraid I disappointedher a little though. " He said this, however, with a laugh thatcontradicted his words. "She would not believe I was _the_ Mr. Smith. She imagined from my book that I was quite an old man. "

I could see nothing in my friend's book myself to suggest that the authorwas, of necessity, anything over eighteen. The mistake appeared to me todisplay want of acumen, but it had evidently pleased him greatly. 

"I felt quite sorry for her, " he went on, "chained to that bloodless, artificial society in which she lives. 'You can't tell, ' she said to me, 'how I long to meet someone to whom I could show my real self--who wouldunderstand me. ' I'm going to see her on Wednesday. "

I went with him. My conversation with her was not as confidential as Ihad anticipated, owing to there being some eighty other people present ina room intended for the accommodation of eight; but after surging roundfor an hour in hot and aimless misery--as very young men at suchgatherings do, knowing as a rule only the man who has brought them, andbeing unable to find him--I contrived to get a few words with her. 

She greeted me with a smile, in the light of which I at once forgot mypast discomfort, and let her fingers rest, with delicious pressure, for amoment upon mine. 

"How good of you to keep your promise, " she said. "These people havebeen tiring me so. Sit here, and tell me all you have been doing. "

She listened for about ten seconds, and then interrupted me with--

"And that clever friend of yours that you came with. I met him at dearLady Lennon's last week. Has _he_ written anything?"

I explained to her that he had. 

"Tell me about it?" she said. "I get so little time for reading, andthen I only care to read the books that help me, " and she gave me agrateful look more eloquent than words. 

I described the work to her, and wishing to do my friend justice I evenrecited a few of the passages upon which, as I knew, he especially pridedhimself. 

One sentence in particular seemed to lay hold of her. "A good woman'sarms round a man's neck is a lifebelt thrown out to him from heaven. "

"How beautiful!" she murmured. "Say it again. "

I said it again, and she repeated it after me. 

Then a noisy old lady swooped down upon her, and I drifted away into acorner, where I tried to look as if I were enjoying myself, and failed. 

Later on, feeling it time to go, I sought my friend, and found himtalking to her in a corner. I approached and waited. They werediscussing the latest east-end murder. A drunken woman had been killedby her husband, a hard-working artizan, who had been maddened by the ruinof his home. 

"Ah, " she was saying, "what power a woman has to drag a man down or lifthim up. I never read a case in which a woman is concerned withoutthinking of those beautiful lines of yours: 'A good woman's arms round aman's neck is a lifebelt thrown out to him from heaven. '"

* * * * *

Opinions differed concerning her religion and politics. Said the LowChurch parson: "An earnest Christian woman, sir, of that unostentatioustype that has always been the bulwark of our Church. I am proud to knowthat woman, and I am proud to think that poor words of mine have been thehumble instrument to wean that true woman's heart from the frivolities offashion, and to fix her thoughts upon higher things. A good Churchwoman, sir, a good Churchwoman, in the best sense of the word. "

Said the pale aristocratic-looking young Abbe to the Comtesse, the lightof old-world enthusiasm shining from his deep-set eyes: "I have greathopes for our dear friend. She finds it hard to sever the ties of timeand love. We are all weak, but her heart turns towards our mother Churchas a child, though suckled among strangers, yearns after many years forthe bosom that has borne it. We have spoken, and I, even I, may be thevoice in the wilderness leading the lost sheep back to the fold. "

Said Sir Harry Bennett, the great Theosophist lecturer, writing to afriend: "A singularly gifted woman, and a woman evidently thirsting forthe truth. A woman capable of willing her own life. A woman not afraidof thought and reason, a lover of wisdom. I have talked much with her atone time or another, and I have found her grasp my meaning with aquickness of perception quite unusual in my experience; and the argumentsI have let fall, I am convinced, have borne excellent fruit. I lookforward to her becoming, at no very distant date, a valued member of ourlittle band. Indeed, without betraying confidence, I may almost say Iregard her conversion as an accomplished fact. "

Colonel Maxim always spoke of her as "a fair pillar of the State. "

"With the enemy in our midst, " said the florid old soldier, "it behovesevery true man--aye, and every true woman--to rally to the defence of thecountry; and all honour, say I, to noble ladies such as Mrs. CliftonCourtenay, who, laying aside their natural shrinking from publicity, comeforward in such a crisis as the present to combat the forces of disorderand disloyalty now rampant in the land. "

"But, " some listener would suggest, "I gathered from young Jocelyn thatMrs. Clifton Courtenay held somewhat advanced views on social andpolitical questions. "

"Jocelyn, " the Colonel would reply with scorn; "pah! There may have beena short space of time during which the fellow's long hair and windyrhetoric impressed her. But I flatter myself I've put _my_ spoke in Mr. Jocelyn's wheel. Why, damme, sir, she's consented to stand for GrandDame of the Bermondsey Branch of the Primrose League next year. What'sJocelyn to say to that, the scoundrel!"

What Jocelyn said was:--

"I know the woman is weak. But I do not blame her; I pity her. When thetime comes, as soon it will, when woman is no longer a puppet, dancing tothe threads held by some brainless man--when a woman is not threatenedwith social ostracism for daring to follow her own conscience instead ofthat of her nearest male relative--then will be the time to judge her. Itis not for me to betray the confidence reposed in me by a sufferingwoman, but you can tell that interesting old fossil, Colonel Maxim, thathe and the other old women of the Bermondsey Branch of the PrimroseLeague may elect Mrs. Clifton Courtenay for their President, and make themost of it; they have only got the outside of the woman. Her heart isbeating time to the tramp of an onward-marching people; her soul's eyesare straining for the glory of a coming dawn. "

But they all agreed she was a charming woman. 

WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT

I never met it myself, but I knew Whibley very well indeed, so that Icame to hear a goodish deal about it. 

It appeared to be devoted to Whibley, and Whibley was extremely fond ofit. Personally I am not interested in spirits, and no spirit has everinterested itself in me. But I have friends whom they patronise, and mymind is quite open on the subject. Of Whibley's Spirit I wish to speakwith every possible respect. It was, I am willing to admit, ashard-working and conscientious a spirit as any one could wish to livewith. The only thing I have to say against it is that it had no sense. 

It came with a carved cabinet that Whibley had purchased in WardourStreet for old oak, but which, as a matter of fact, was chestnut wood, manufactured in Germany, and at first was harmless enough, saying nothingbut "Yes!" or "No!" and that only when spoken to. 

Whibley would amuse himself of an evening asking it questions, beingcareful to choose tolerably simple themes, such as, "Are you there?" (towhich the Spirit would sometimes answer "Yes!" and sometimes "No!") "Canyou hear me?" "Are you happy?"--and so on. The Spirit made the cabinetcrack--three times for "Yes" and twice for "No. " Now and then it wouldreply both "Yes!" and "No!" to the same question, which Whibleyattributed to over-scrupulousness. When nobody asked it anything itwould talk to itself, repeating "Yes!" "No!" "No!" "Yes!" over andover again in an aimless, lonesome sort of a way that made you feel sorryfor it. 

After a while Whibley bought a table, and encouraged it to launch outinto more active conversation. To please Whibley, I assisted at some ofthe earlier seances, but during my presence it invariably maintained areticence bordering on positive dulness. I gathered from Whibley that itdisliked me, thinking that I was unsympathetic. The complaint wasunjust; I was not unsympathetic, at least not at the commencement. Icame to hear it talk, and I wanted to hear it talk; I would have listenedto it by the hour. What tired me was its slowness in starting, and itsfoolishness when it had started, in using long words that it did not knowhow to spell. I remember on one occasion, Whibley, Jobstock (Whibley'spartner), and myself, sitting for two hours, trying to understand whatthe thing meant by "H-e-s-t-u-r-n-e-m-y-s-f-e-a-r. " It used no stopswhatever. It never so much as hinted where one sentence ended andanother began. It never even told us when it came to a proper name. Itsidea of an evening's conversation was to plump down a hundred or sovowels and consonants in front of you and leave you to make whateversense out of them you could. 

We fancied at first it was talking about somebody named Hester (it hadspelt Hester with a "u" before we allowed a margin for spelling), and wetried to work the sentence out on that basis, "Hester enemies fear, " wethought it might be. Whibley had a niece named Hester, and we decidedthe warning had reference to her. But whether she was our enemy, and wewere to fear her, or whether we had to fear her enemies (and, if so, whowere they?), or whether it was our enemies who were to be frightened byHester, or her enemies, or enemies generally, still remained doubtful. Weasked the table if it meant the first suggestion, and it said "No. " Weasked what it did mean, and it said "Yes. "

This answer annoyed me, but Whibley explained that the Spirit was angrywith us for our stupidity (which seemed quaint). He informed us that italways said first "No, " and then "Yes, " when it was angry, and as it washis Spirit, and we were in his house, we kept our feelings to ourselvesand started afresh. 

This time we abandoned the "Hestur" theory altogether. Jobstocksuggested "Haste" for the first word, and, thought the Spirit might havegone on phonetically. 

"Haste! you are here, Miss Sfear!" was what he made of it. 

Whibley asked him sarcastically if he'd kindly explain what that meant. 

I think Jobstock was getting irritable. We had been sitting cramped upround a wretched little one-legged table all the evening, and this wasalmost the first bit of gossip we had got out of it. To further excusehim, it should also be explained that the gas had been put out byWhibley, and that the fire had gone out of its own accord. He repliedthat it was hard labour enough to find out what the thing said withouthaving to make sense of it. 

"It can't spell, " he added, "and it's got a nasty, sulky temper. If itwas my spirit I'd hire another spirit to kick it. "

Whibley was one of the mildest little men I ever knew, but chaff or abuseof his Spirit roused the devil in him, and I feared we were going to havea scene. Fortunately, I was able to get his mind back to theconsideration of "Hesturnemysfear" before anything worse happened than afew muttered remarks about the laughter of fools, and want of reverencefor sacred subjects being the sign of a shallow mind. 

We tried "He's stern, " and "His turn, " and the "fear of Hesturnemy, " andtried to think who "Hesturnemy" might be. Three times we went over thewhole thing again from the beginning, which meant six hundred and sixtiltings of the table, and then suddenly the explanation struckme--"Eastern Hemisphere. "

Whibley had asked it for any information it might possess concerning hiswife's uncle, from whom he had not heard for months, and that apparentlywas its idea of an address. 

The fame of Whibley's Spirit became noised abroad, with the result thatWhibley was able to command the willing service of more congenialassistants, and Jobstock and myself were dismissed. But we bore nomalice. 

Under these more favourable conditions the Spirit plucked up wonderfully, and talked everybody's head off. It could never have been a cheerfulcompanion, however, for its conversation was chiefly confined to warningsand prognostications of evil. About once a fortnight Whibley would dropround on me, in a friendly way, to tell me that I was to beware of a manwho lived in a street beginning with a "C, " or to inform me that if Iwould go to a town on the coast where there were three churches I shouldmeet someone who would do me an irreparable injury, and, that I did notrush off then and there in search of that town he regarded as flying inthe face of Providence. 

In its passion for poking its ghostly nose into other people's affairs itreminded me of my earthly friend Poppleton. Nothing pleased it betterthan being appealed to for aid and advice, and Whibley, who was a perfectslave to it, would hunt half over the parish for people in trouble andbring them to it. 

It would direct ladies, eager for divorce court evidence, to go to thethird house from the corner of the fifth street, past such and such achurch or public-house (it never would give a plain, straightforwardaddress), and ring the bottom bell but one twice. They would thank iteffusively, and next morning would start to find the fifth street pastthe church, and would ring the bottom bell but one of the third housefrom the corner twice, and a man in his shirt sleeves would come to thedoor and ask them what they wanted. 

They could not tell what they wanted, they did not know themselves, andthe man would use bad language, and slam the door in their faces. 

Then they would think that perhaps the Spirit meant the fifth street theother way, or the third house from the opposite corner, and would tryagain, with still more unpleasant results. 

One July I met Whibley, mooning disconsolately along Princes Street, Edinburgh. 

"Hullo!" I exclaimed, "what are you doing here? I thought you were busyover that School Board case. "

"Yes, " he answered, "I ought really to be in London, but the truth is I'mrather expecting something to happen down here. "

"Oh!" I said, "and what's that?"

"Well, " he replied hesitatingly, as though he would rather not talk aboutit, "I don't exactly know yet. "

"You've come from London to Edinburgh, and don't know what you've comefor!" I cried. 

"Well, you see, " he said, still more reluctantly, as it seemed to me, "itwas Maria's idea; she wished--"

"Maria!" I interrupted, looking perhaps a little sternly at him, "who'sMaria?" (His wife's name I knew was Emily Georgina Anne. )

"Oh! I forgot, " he explained; "she never would tell her name before you, would she? It's the Spirit, you know. "

"Oh! that, " I said, "it's she that has sent you here. Didn't she tellyou what for?"

"No, " he answered, "that's what worries me. All she would say was, 'Goto Edinburgh--something will happen. '"

"And how long are you going to remain here?" I inquired. 

"I don't know, " he replied. "I've been here a week already, and Jobstockwrites quite angrily. I wouldn't have come if Maria hadn't been sourgent. She repeated it three evenings running. "

I hardly knew what to do. The little man was so dreadfully in earnestabout the business that one could not argue much with him. 

"You are sure, " I said, after thinking a while, "that this Maria is agood Spirit? There are all sorts going about, I'm told. You're surethis isn't the spirit of some deceased lunatic, playing the fool withyou?"

"I've thought of that, " he admitted. "Of course that might be so. Ifnothing happens soon I shall almost begin to suspect it. "

"Well, I should certainly make some inquiries into its character before Itrusted it any further, " I answered, and left him. 

About a month later I ran against him outside the Law Courts. 

"It was all right about Maria; something did happen in Edinburgh while Iwas there. That very morning I met you one of my oldest clients diedquite suddenly at his house at Queensferry, only a few miles outside thecity. "

"I'm glad of that, " I answered, "I mean, of course, for Maria's sake. Itwas lucky you went then. "

"Well, not altogether, " he replied, "at least, not in a worldly sense. Heleft his affairs in a very complicated state, and his eldest son wentstraight up to London to consult me about them, and, not finding methere, and time being important, went to Kebble. I was ratherdisappointed when I got back and heard about it. "

"Umph!" I said; "she's not a smart spirit, anyway. "

"No, " he answered, "perhaps not. But, you see, something did reallyhappen. "

After that his affection for "Maria" increased tenfold, while herattachment to himself became a burden to his friends. She grew too bigfor her table, and, dispensing with all mechanical intermediaries, talkedto him direct. She followed him everywhere. Mary's lamb couldn't havebeen a bigger nuisance. She would even go with him into the bedroom, andcarry on long conversations with him in the middle of the night. Hiswife objected; she said it seemed hardly decent, but there was no keepingher out. 

She turned up with him at picnics and Christmas parties. Nobody heardher speak to him, but it seemed necessary for him to reply to her aloud, and to see him suddenly get up from his chair and slip away to talkearnestly to nothing in a corner disturbed the festivities. 

"I should really be glad, " he once confessed to me, "to get a little timeto myself. She means kindly, but it _is_ a strain. And then the othersdon't like it. It makes them nervous. I can see it does. "

One evening she caused quite a scene at the club. Whibley had beenplaying whist, with the Major for a partner. At the end of the game theMajor, leaning across the table toward him, asked, in a tone of deadlycalm, "May I inquire, sir, whether there was any earthly reason" (heemphasised "earthly") "for your following my lead of spades with youronly trump?"

"I--I--am very sorry, Major, " replied Whibley apologetically. "I--I--somehow felt I--I ought to play that queen. "

"Entirely your own inspiration, or suggested?" persisted the Major, whohad, of course, heard of "Maria. "

Whibley admitted the play had been suggested to him. The Major rose fromthe table. 

"Then, sir, " said he, with concentrated indignation, "I decline tocontinue this game. A human fool I can tolerate for a partner, but if Iam to be hampered by a damned spirit--"

"You've no right to say that, " cried Whibley hotly. 

"I apologise, " returned the Major coldly; "we will say a blessed spirit. I decline to play whist with spirits of any kind; and I advise you, sir, if you intend giving many exhibitions with the lady, first to teach herthe rudiments of the game. "

Saying which the Major put on his hat and left the club, and I madeWhibley drink a stiff glass of brandy and water, and sent him and "Maria"home in a cab. 

Whibley got rid of "Maria" at last. It cost him in round figures abouteight thousand pounds, but his family said it was worth it. 

A Spanish Count hired a furnished house a few doors from Whibley's, andone evening he was introduced to Whibley, and came home and had a chatwith him. Whibley told him about "Maria, " and the Count quite fell inlove with her. He said that if only he had had such a spirit to help andadvise him, it might have altered his whole life. 

He was the first man who had ever said a kind word about the spirit, andWhibley loved him for it. The Count seemed as though he could never seeenough of Whibley after that evening, and the three of them--Whibley, theCount, and "Maria"--would sit up half the night talking together. 

The precise particulars I never heard. Whibley was always very reticenton the matter. Whether "Maria" really did exist, and the Countdeliberately set to work to bamboozle her (she was fool enough foranything), or whether she was a mere hallucination of Whibley's, and theman tricked Whibley by "hypnotic suggestions" (as I believe it iscalled), I am not prepared to say. The only thing certain is that"Maria" convinced Whibley that the Count had discovered a secret goldmine in Peru. She said she knew all about it, and counselled Whibley tobeg the Count to let him put a few thousands into the working of it. "Maria, " it appeared, had known the Count from his boyhood, and couldanswer for it that he was the most honourable man in all South America. Possibly enough he was. 

The Count was astonished to find that Whibley knew all about his mine. Eight thousand pounds was needed to start the workings, but he had notmentioned it to any one, as he wanted to keep the whole thing to himself, and thought he could save the money on his estates in Portugal. However, to oblige "Maria, " he would let Whibley supply the money. Whibleysupplied it--in cash, and no one has ever seen the Count since. 

That broke up Whibley's faith in "Maria, " and a sensible doctor, gettinghold of him threatened to prescribe a lunatic asylum for him if ever hefound him carrying on with any spirits again. That completed the cure. 

THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG

I first met Jack Burridge nearly ten years ago on a certain North-countryrace-course. 

The saddling bell had just rung for the chief event of the day. I wassauntering along with my hands in my pockets, more interested in thecrowd than in the race, when a sporting friend, crossing on his way tothe paddock, seized me by the arm and whispered hoarsely in my ear:--

"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller. "

"Put my--?" I began. 

"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller, " he repeated still more impressively, anddisappeared in the throng. 

I stared after him in blank amazement. Why should I put my shirt on Mrs. Waller? Even if it would fit a lady. And how about myself?

I was passing the grand stand, and, glancing up, I saw "Mrs. Waller, twelve to one, " chalked on a bookmaker's board. Then it dawned upon methat "Mrs. Waller" was a horse, and, thinking further upon the matter, Ievolved the idea that my friend's advice, expressed in more becominglanguage, was "Back 'Mrs. Waller' for as much as you can possiblyafford. "

"Thank you, " I said to myself, "I have backed cast-iron certaintiesbefore. Next time I bet upon a horse I shall make the selection byshutting my eyes and putting a pin through the card. "

But the seed had taken root. My friend's words surged in my brain. Thebirds passing overhead twittered, "Put your shirt on 'Mrs. Waller. '"

I reasoned with myself. I reminded myself of my few former ventures. Butthe craving to put, if not my shirt, at all events half a sovereign on"Mrs. Waller" only grew the stronger the more strongly I battled againstit. I felt that if "Mrs. Waller" won and I had nothing on her, I shouldreproach myself to my dying day. 

I was on the other side of the course. There was no time to get back tothe enclosure. The horses were already forming for the start. A fewyards off, under a white umbrella, an outside bookmaker was shouting hisfinal prices in stentorian tones. He was a big, genial-looking man, withan honest red face. 

"What price 'Mrs. Waller'?" I asked him. 

"Fourteen to one, " he answered, "and good luck to you. "

I handed him half a sovereign, and he wrote me out a ticket. I crammedit into my waistcoat pocket, and hurried off to see the race. To myintense astonishment "Mrs. Waller" won. The novel sensation of havingbacked the winner so excited me that I forgot all about my money, and itwas not until a good hour afterwards that I recollected my bet. 

Then I started off to search for the man under the white umbrella. Iwent to where I thought I had left him, but no white umbrella could Ifind. 

Consoling myself with the reflection that my loss served me right forhaving been fool enough to trust an outside "bookie, " I turned on my heeland began to make my way back to my seat. Suddenly a voice hailed me:--

"Here you are, sir. It's Jack Burridge you want. Over here, sir. "

I looked round, and there was Jack Burridge at my elbow. 

"I saw you looking about, sir, " he said, "but I could not make you hear. You was looking the wrong side of the tent. "

It was pleasant to find that his honest face had not belied him. 

"It is very good of you, " I said; "I had given up all hopes of seeingyou. Or, " I added with a smile, "my seven pounds. "

"Seven pun' ten, " he corrected me; "you're forgetting your own thin 'un. "

He handed me the money and went back to his stand. 

On my way into the town I came across him again. A small crowd wascollected, thoughtfully watching a tramp knocking about amiserable-looking woman. 

Jack, pushing to the front, took in the scene and took off his coat inthe same instant. 

"Now then, my fine old English gentleman, " he sang out, "come and have atry at me for a change. "

The tramp was a burly ruffian, and I have seen better boxers than Jack. He got himself a black eye, and a nasty cut over the lip, before hehardly knew where he was. But in spite of that--and a good deal more--hestuck to his man and finished him. 

At the end, as he helped his adversary up, I heard him say to the fellowin a kindly whisper:--

"You're too good a sort, you know, to whollop a woman. Why, you verynear give me a licking. You must have forgot yourself, matey. "

The fellow interested me. I waited and walked on with him. He told meabout his home in London, at Mile End--about his old father and mother, his little brothers and sisters--and what he was saving up to do forthem. Kindliness oozed from every pore in his skin. 

Many that we met knew him, and all, when they saw his round, red face, smiled unconsciously. At the corner of the High Street a pale-facedlittle drudge of a girl passed us, saying as she slipped by"Good-evening, Mr. Burridge. "

He made a dart and caught her by the shoulder. 

"And how is father?" he asked. 

"Oh, if you please, Mr. Burridge, he is out again. All the mills isclosed, " answered the child. 

"And mother?"

"She don't get no better, sir. "

"And who's keeping you all?"

"Oh, if you please, sir, Jimmy's earning something now, " replied themite. 

He took a couple of sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket, and closed thechild's hand upon them. 

"That's all right, my lass, that's all right, " he said, stopping herstammering thanks. "You write to me if things don't get better. Youknow where to find Jack Burridge. "

Strolling about the streets in the evening, I happened to pass the innwhere he was staying. The parlour window was open, and out into themisty night his deep, cheery voice, trolling forth an old-fashioneddrinking song, came rolling like a wind, cleansing the corners of one'sheart with its breezy humanness. He was sitting at the head of the tablesurrounded by a crowd of jovial cronies. I lingered for a while watchingthe scene. It made the world appear a less sombre dwelling-place than Ihad sometimes pictured it. 

I determined, on my return to London, to look him up, and accordingly oneevening started to find the little by-street off the Mile End Road inwhich he lived. As I turned the corner he drove up in his dog-cart; itwas a smart turn-out. On the seat beside him sat a neat, withered littleold woman, whom he introduced to me as his mother. 

"I tell 'im it's a fine gell as 'e oughter 'ave up 'ere aside 'im, " saidthe old lady, preparing to dismount, "an old woman like me takes all thepaint off the show. "

"Get along with yer, " he replied laughingly, jumping down and handing thereins to the lad who had been waiting, "you could give some of the younguns points yet, mother. I allus promised the old lady as she should ridebehind her own 'oss one day, " he continued, turning to me, "didn't I, mother?"

"Ay, ay, " replied the old soul, as she hobbled nimbly up the steps, "ye're a good son, Jack, ye're a good son. "

He led the way into the parlour. As he entered every face lightened upwith pleasure, a harmony of joyous welcome greeted him. The old hardworld had been shut out with the slam of the front door. I seemed tohave wandered into Dickensland. The red-faced man with the smalltwinkling eyes and the lungs of leather loomed before me, a large, fathousehold fairy. From his capacious pockets came forth tobacco for theold father; a huge bunch of hot-house grapes for a neighbour's sicklychild, who was stopping with them; a book of Henty's--beloved of boys--fora noisy youngster who called him "uncle"; a bottle of port wine for awan, elderly woman with a swollen face--his widowed sister-in-law, as Isubsequently learned; sweets enough for the baby (whose baby I don'tknow) to make it sick for a week; and a roll of music for his youngestsister. 

"We're a-going to make a lady of her, " he said, drawing the child's shyface against his gaudy waistcoat, and running his coarse hand through herpretty curls; "and she shall marry a jockey when she grows up. "

After supper he brewed some excellent whisky punch, and insisted upon theold lady joining us, which she eventually did with much coughing andprotestation; but I noticed that she finished the tumblerful. For thechildren he concocted a marvellous mixture, which he called an"eye-composer, " the chief ingredients being hot lemonade, ginger wine, sugar, oranges, and raspberry vinegar. It had the desired effect. 

I stayed till late, listening to his inexhaustible fund of stories. Overmost of them he laughed with us himself--a great gusty laugh that madethe cheap glass ornaments upon the mantelpiece to tremble; but now andthen a recollection came to him that spread a sudden gravity across hisjovial face, bringing a curious quaver into his deep voice. 

Their tongues a little loosened by the punch, the old folks would havesung his praises to the verge of tediousness had he not almost sternlyinterrupted them. 

"Shut up, mother, " he cried at last, quite gruffly, "what I does I doesto please myself. I likes to see people comfortable about me. If theywasn't, it's me as would be more upset than them. "

I did not see him again for nearly two years. Then one October evening, strolling about the East End, I met him coming out of a little Chapel inthe Burdett Road. He was so changed that I should not have known him hadnot I overheard a woman as she passed him say, "Good-evening, Mr. Burridge. "

A pair of bushy side-whiskers had given to his red face an aggressivelyrespectable appearance. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit of black, and carried an umbrella in one hand and a book in the other. 

In some mysterious way he managed to look both thinner and shorter thanmy recollection of him. Altogether, he suggested to me the idea that hehimself--the real man--had by some means or other been extracted, leavingonly his shrunken husk behind. The genial juices of humanity had beensqueezed out of him. 

"Not Jack Burridge!" I exclaimed, confronting him in astonishment. 

His little eyes wandered shiftily up and down the street. "No, sir, " hereplied (his tones had lost their windy boisterousness--a hard, metallicvoice spoke to me), "not the one as you used to know, praise be theLord. "

"And have you given up the old business?" I asked. 

"Yes, sir, " he replied, "that's all over; I've been a vile sinner in mytime, God forgive me for it. But, thank Heaven, I have repented intime. "

"Come and have a drink, " I said, slipping my arm through his, "and tellme all about it. "

He disengaged himself from me, firmly but gently. "You mean well, sir, "he said, "but I have given up the drink. "

Evidently he would have been rid of me, but a literary man, scentingmaterial for his stockpot, is not easily shaken off. I asked after theold folks, and if they were still stopping with him. 

"Yes, " he said, "for the present. Of course, a man can't be expected tokeep people for ever; so many mouths to fill is hard work these times, and everybody sponges on a man just because he's good-natured. "

"And how are you getting on?" I asked. 

"Tolerably well, thank you, sir. The Lord provides for His servants, " hereplied with a smug smile. "I have got a little shop now in theCommercial Road. "

"Whereabouts?" I persisted. "I would like to call and see you. "

He gave me the address reluctantly, and said he would esteem it a greatpleasure if I would honour him by a visit, which was a palpable lie. 

The following afternoon I went. I found the place to be a pawnbroker'sshop, and from all appearances he must have been doing a very briskbusiness. He was out himself attending a temperance committee, but hisold father was behind the counter, and asked me inside. Though it was achilly day there was no fire in the parlour, and the two old folks satone each side of the empty hearth, silent and sad. They seemed littlemore pleased to see me than their son, but after a while Mrs. Burridge'snatural garrulity asserted itself, and we fell into chat. 

I asked what had become of his sister-in-law, the lady with the swollenface. 

"I couldn't rightly tell you, sir, " answered the old lady, "she ain'tlivin' with us now. You see, sir, " she continued, "John's got differentnotions to what 'e used to 'ave. 'E don't cotten much to them as ain'tfound grace, and poor Jane never did 'ave much religion!"

"And the little one?" I inquired. "The one with the curls?"

"What, Bessie, sir?" said the old lady. "Oh, she's out at service, sir;John don't think it good for young folks to be idle. "

"Your son seems to have changed a good deal, Mrs. Burridge, " I remarked. 

"Ay, sir, " she assented, "you may well say that. It nearly broke my 'artat fust; everythin' so different to what it 'ad been. Not as I'd standin the boy's light. If our being a bit uncomfortable like in this worldis a-going to do 'im any good in the next me and father ain't the ones tobegrudge it, are we, old man?"

The "old man" concurred grumpily. 

"Was it a sudden conversion?" I asked. "How did it come about?"

"It was a young woman as started 'im off, " explained the old lady. "Shecome round to our place one day a-collectin' for somethin' or other, andJack, in 'is free-'anded way, 'e give 'er a five-pun' note. Next weekshe come agen for somethin' else, and stopped and talked to 'im about 'issoul in the passage. She told 'im as 'e was a-goin' straight to 'ell, and that 'e oughter give up the bookmakin' and settle down to arespec'ble, God-fearin' business. At fust 'e only laughed, but shelammed in tracts at 'im full of the most awful language; and one day shefetched 'im round to one of them revivalist chaps, as fair settled 'im. 

"'E ain't never been his old self since then. 'E give up the bettin' andbought this 'ere, though what's the difference blessed if I can see. Itmakes my 'eart ache, it do, to 'ear my Jack a-beatin' down the poorpeople--and it ain't like 'im. It went agen 'is grain at fust, I couldsee; but they told him as 'ow it was folks's own fault that they waspoor, and as 'ow it was the will of God, because they was a drinkin', improvident lot. 

"Then they made 'im sign the pledge. 'E'd allus been used to 'is glass, Jack 'ad, and I think as knockin' it off 'ave soured 'im a bit--seems asif all the sperit 'ad gone out of 'im--and of course me and father 'ave'ad to give up our little drop too. Then they told 'im as 'e must giveup smokin'- that was another way of goin' straight to 'ell--and thatain't made 'im any the more cheerful like, and father misses 'is littlebit--don't ye, father?"

"Ay, " answered the old fellow savagely; "can't say I thinks much of these'ere folks as is going to heaven; blowed if I don't think they'll be achirpier lot in t'other place. "

An angry discussion in the shop interrupted us. Jack had returned, andwas threatening an excited woman with the police. It seemed she hadmiscalculated the date, and had come a day too late with her interest. 

Having got rid of her, he came into the parlour with the watch in hishand. 

"It's providential she was late, " he said, looking at it; "it's worth tentimes what I lent on it. "

He packed his father back into the shop, and his mother down into thekitchen to get his tea, and for a while we sat together talking. 

I found his conversation a strange mixture of self-laudation, showingthrough a flimsy veil of self-disparagement, and of satisfaction at theconviction that he was "saved, " combined with equally evidentsatisfaction that most other people weren't--somewhat trying, however;and, remembering an appointment, rose to go. 

He made no effort to stay me, but I could see that he was bursting totell me something. At last, taking a religious paper from his pocket, and pointing to a column, he blurted out:

"You don't take any interest in the Lord's vineyard, I suppose, sir?"

I glanced at the part of the paper indicated. It announced a new missionto the Chinese, and heading the subscription list stood the name, "Mr. John Burridge, one hundred guineas. "

"You subscribe largely, Mr. Burridge, " I said, handing him back thepaper. 

He rubbed his big hands together. "The Lord will repay a hundredfold, "he answered. 

"In which case it's just as well to have a note of the advance down inblack and white, eh?" I added. 

His little eyes looked sharply at me; but he made no reply, and, shakinghands, I left him. 

THE HOBBY RIDER

Bump. Bump. Bump-bump. Bump. 

I sat up in bed and listened intently. It seemed to me as if someonewith a muffled hammer were trying to knock bricks out of the wall. 

"Burglars, " I said to myself (one assumes, as a matter of course, thateverything happening in this world after 1 a. M. Is due to burglars), andI reflected what a curiously literal, but at the same time slow andcumbersome, method of housebreaking they had adopted. 

The bumping continued irregularly, yet uninterruptedly. 

My bed was by the window. I reached out my hand and drew aside a cornerof the curtain. The sunlight streamed into the room. I looked at mywatch: it was ten minutes past five. 

A most unbusinesslike hour for burglars, I thought. Why, it will bebreakfast-time before they get in. 

Suddenly there came a crash, and some substance striking against theblind fell upon the floor. I sprang out of bed and threw open thewindow. 

A red-haired young gentleman, scantily clad in a sweater and a pair offlannel trousers, stood on the lawn below me. 

"Good morning, " he said cheerily. "Do you mind throwing me back myball?"

"What ball?" I said. 

"My tennis ball, " he answered. "It must be somewhere in the room; itwent clean through the window. "

I found the ball and threw it back to him. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Playing tennis?"

"No, " he said. "I am just practising against the side of the house. Itimproves your game wonderfully. "

"It don't improve my night's rest, " I answered somewhat surlily I fear. "I came down here for peace and quiet. Can't you do it in the daytime?"

"Daytime!" he laughed. "Why it has been daytime for the last two hours. Never mind, I'll go round the other side. "

He disappeared round the corner, and set to work at the back, where hewoke up the dog. I heard another window smash, followed by a sound as ofsomebody getting up violently in a distant part of the house, and shortlyafterwards I must have fallen asleep again. 

I had come to spend a few weeks at a boarding establishment in Deal. Hewas the only other young man in the house, and I was naturally thrown agood deal upon his society. He was a pleasant, genial young fellow, buthe would have been better company had he been a little less enthusiasticas regards tennis. 

He played tennis ten hours a day on the average. He got up romanticparties to play it by moonlight (when half his time was generally takenup in separating his opponents), and godless parties to play it onSundays. On wet days I have seen him practising services by himself in amackintosh and goloshes. 

He had been spending the winter with his people at Tangiers, and I askedhim how he liked the place. 

"Oh, a beast of a hole!" he replied. "There is not a court anywhere inthe town. We tried playing on the roof, but the _mater_ thought itdangerous. "

Switzerland he had been delighted with. He counselled me next time Iwent to stay at Zermatt. 

"There is a capital court at Zermatt, " he said. "You might almost fancyyourself at Wimbledon. "

A mutual acquaintance whom I subsequently met told me that at the top ofthe Jungfrau he had said to him, his eyes fixed the while upon a smallsnow plateau enclosed by precipices a few hundred feet below them--

"By Jove! That wouldn't make half a bad little tennis court--that flatbit down there. Have to be careful you didn't run back too far. "

When he was not playing tennis, or practising tennis, or reading abouttennis, he was talking about tennis. Renshaw was the prominent figure inthe tennis world at that time, and he mentioned Renshaw until there grewup within my soul a dark desire to kill Renshaw in a quiet, unostentatious way, and bury him. 

One drenching afternoon he talked tennis to me for three hours on end, referring to Renshaw, so far as I kept count, four thousand nine hundredand thirteen times. After tea he drew his chair to the window beside me, and commenced--

"Have you ever noticed how Renshaw--"

I said--

"Suppose someone took a gun--someone who could aim very straight--andwent out and shot Renshaw till he was quite dead, would you tennisplayers drop him and talk about somebody else?"

"Oh, but who would shoot Renshaw?" he said indignantly. 

"Never mind, " I said, "supposing someone did?"

"Well, then, there would be his brother, " he replied. 

I had forgotten that. 

"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are, " I said. "Supposesomeone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"

"Never, " he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a namewherever tennis is spoken of. "

I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer beenother than it was. 

The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent amateurphotographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to return to tennis, and sought to interest him in talk about services and returns andvolleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not heedthem. 

Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends, andmade them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to fondmothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on the home. Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends thought, but the more they talked against her the more he clung to her. Then ahappy idea occurred to the father. He got Begglely to photograph her inseven different positions. 

When her lover saw the first, he said--

"What an awful looking thing! Who did it?"

When Begglely showed him the second, he said--

"But, my dear fellow, it's not a bit like her. You've made her look anugly old woman. "

At the third he said--

"Whatever have you done to her feet? They can't be that size, you know. It isn't in nature!"

At the fourth he exclaimed--

"But, heavens, man! Look at the shape you've made her. Where on earthdid you get the idea from?"

At the first glimpse of the fifth he staggered. 

"Great Scott!" he cried with a shudder, "what a ghastly expression you'vegot into it! It isn't human!"

Begglely was growing offended, but the father, who was standing by, cameto his defence. 

"It's nothing to do with Begglely, " exclaimed the old gentleman suavely. "It can't be _his_ fault. What is a photographer? Simply an instrumentin the hands of science. He arranges his apparatus, and whatever is infront of it comes into it. "

"No, " continued the old gentleman, laying a constrained hand uponBegglely, who was about to resume the exhibition, "don't--don't show himthe other two. "

I was sorry for the poor girl, for I believe she really cared for theyoungster; and as for her looks, they were quite up to the average. Butsome evil sprite seemed to have got into Begglely's camera. It seizedupon defects with the unerring instinct of a born critic, and dilatedupon them to the obscuration of all virtues. A man with a pimple becamea pimple with a man as background. People with strongly marked featuresbecame merely adjuncts to their own noses. One man in the neighbourhoodhad, undetected, worn a wig for fourteen years. Begglely's cameradiscovered the fraud in an instant, and so completely exposed it that theman's friends wondered afterwards how the fact ever could have escapedthem. The thing seemed to take a pleasure in showing humanity at itsvery worst. Babies usually came out with an expression of low cunning. Most young girls had to take their choice of appearing either assimpering idiots or embryo vixens. To mild old ladies it generally gavea look of aggressive cynicism. Our vicar, as excellent an old gentlemanas ever breathed, Begglely presented to us as a beetle-browed savage of apeculiarly low type of intellect; while upon the leading solicitor of thetown he bestowed an expression of such thinly-veiled hypocrisy that fewwho saw the photograph cared ever again to trust him with their affairs. 

As regards myself I should, perhaps, make no comment, I am possibly aprejudiced party. All I will say, therefore, is that if I in any wayresemble Begglely's photograph of me, then the critics are fullyjustified in everything they have at any time, anywhere, said of me--andmore. Nor, I maintain--though I make no pretence of possessing thefigure of Apollo--is one of my legs twice the length of the other, andneither does it curve upwards. This I can prove. Begglely allowed thatan accident had occurred to the negative during the process ofdevelopment, but this explanation does not appear on the picture, and Icannot help feeling that an injustice has been done me. 

His perspective seemed to be governed by no law either human or divine. Ihave seen a photograph of his uncle and a windmill, judging from which Idefy any unprejudiced person to say which is the bigger, the uncle or themill. 

On one occasion he created quite a scandal in the parish by exhibiting awell-known and eminently respectable maiden lady nursing a young man onher knee. The gentleman's face was indistinct, and he was dressed in acostume which, upon a man of his size--one would have estimated him asrising 6 ft. 4 in. --appeared absurdly juvenile. He had one arm round herneck, and she was holding his other hand and smirking. 

I, knowing something of Begglely's machine, willingly accepted the lady'sexplanation, which was to the effect that the male in question was hernephew, aged eleven; but the uncharitable ridiculed this statement, andappearances were certainly against her. 

It was in the early days of the photographic craze, and an inexperiencedworld was rather pleased with the idea of being taken on the cheap. Theconsequence was that nearly everyone for three miles round sat or stoodor leant or laid to Begglely at one time or another, with the result thata less conceited parish than ours it would have been difficult todiscover. No one who had once looked upon a photograph of himself takenby Begglely ever again felt any pride in his personal appearance. Thepicture was invariably a revelation to him. 

Later, some evil-disposed person invented Kodaks, and Begglely wenteverywhere slung on to a thing that looked like an overgrown missionarybox, and that bore a legend to the effect that if Begglely would pull thebutton, a shameless Company would do the rest. Life became a misery toBegglely's friends. Nobody dared to do anything for fear of being takenin the act. He took an instantaneous photograph of his own fatherswearing at the gardener, and snapped his youngest sister and her loverat the exact moment of farewell at the garden gate. Nothing was sacredto him. He Kodaked his aunt's funeral from behind, and showed the chiefmourner but one whispering a funny story into the ear of the third cousinas they stood behind their hats beside the grave. 

Public indignation was at its highest when a new comer to theneighbourhood, a young fellow named Haynoth, suggested the gettingtogether of a party for a summer's tour in Turkey. Everybody took up theidea with enthusiasm, and recommended Begglely as the "party. " We hadgreat hopes from that tour. Our idea was that Begglely would pull hisbutton outside a harem or behind a sultana, and that a Bashi Bazouk or aJanissary would do the rest for us. 

We were, however, partly doomed to disappointment--I say, "partly, "because, although Begglely returned alive, he came back entirely cured ofhis photographic craze. He said that every English-speaking man, woman, or child whom he met abroad had its camera with it, and that after a timethe sight of a black cloth or the click of a button began to madden him. 

He told us that on the summit of Mount Tutra, in the Carpathians, theEnglish and American amateur photographers waiting to take "the grandpanorama" were formed by the Hungarian police in queue, two abreast, eachwith his or her camera under his or her arm, and that a man had to standsometimes as long as three and a half hours before his turn came round. He also told us that the beggars in Constantinople went about withplacards hung round their necks, stating their charges for beingphotographed. One of these price lists he brought back with him as asample. 

It ran:--

One snap shot, back or front . . . . . . . . 2 frcs. , , with expression . . . . . . 3, ,, surprised in quaint attitude . 4, ,, while saying prayers . . . . . . 5, ,, while fighting . . . . . . 10, , He said that in some instances where a man had an exceptionallyvillainous cast of countenance, or was exceptionally deformed, as much astwenty francs were demanded and readily obtained. 

He abandoned photography and took to golf. He showed people how, bydigging a hole here and putting a brickbat or two there, they couldconvert a tennis-lawn into a miniature golf link, --and did it for them. He persuaded elderly ladies and gentlemen that it was the mildestexercise going, and would drag them for miles over wet gorse and heather, and bring them home dead beat, coughing, and full of evil thoughts. 

The last time I saw him was in Switzerland, a few months ago. Heappeared indifferent to the subject of golf, but talked much about whist. We met by chance at Grindelwald, and agreed to climb the Faulhorntogether next morning. Half-way up we rested, and I strolled on a littleway by myself to gain a view. Returning, I found him with a "Cavendish"in his hand and a pack of cards spread out before him on the grass, solving a problem. 

THE MAN WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK

He got in at Ipswich with seven different weekly papers under his arm. Inoticed that each one insured its reader against death or injury byrailway accident. He arranged his luggage upon the rack above him, tookoff his hat and laid it on the seat beside him, mopped his bald head witha red silk handkerchief, and then set to work steadily to write his nameand address upon each of the seven papers. I sat opposite to him andread _Punch_. I always take the old humour when travelling; I find itsoothing to the nerves. 

Passing over the points at Manningtree the train gave a lurch, and ahorse-shoe he had carefully placed in the rack above him slipped throughthe netting, falling with a musical ring upon his head. 

He appeared neither surprised nor angry. Having staunched the wound withhis handkerchief, he stooped and picked the horse-shoe up, glanced at itwith, as I thought, an expression of reproach, and dropped it gently outof the window. 

"Did it hurt you?" I asked. 

It was a foolish question. I told myself so the moment I had uttered it. The thing must have weighed three pounds at the least; it was anexceptionally large and heavy shoe. The bump on his head was swellingvisibly before my eyes. Anyone but an idiot must have seen that he washurt. I expected an irritable reply. I should have given one myself hadI been in his place. Instead, however, he seemed to regard the inquiryas a natural and kindly expression of sympathy. 

"It did, a little, " he replied. 

"What were you doing with it?" I asked. It was an odd sort of thing fora man to be travelling with. 

"It was lying in the roadway just outside the station, " he explained; "Ipicked it up for luck. "

He refolded his handkerchief so as to bring a cooler surface in contactwith the swelling, while I murmured something genial about theinscrutability of Providence. 

"Yes, " he said, "I've had a deal of luck in my time, but it's neverturned out well. "

"I was born on a Wednesday, " he continued, "which, as I daresay you know, is the luckiest day a man can be born on. My mother was a widow, andnone of my relatives would do anything for me. They said it would belike taking coals to Newcastle, helping a boy born on a Wednesday; and myuncle, when he died, left every penny of his money to my brother Sam, asa slight compensation to him for having been born on a Friday. All Iever got was advice upon the duties and responsibilities of wealth, whenit arrived, and entreaties that I would not neglect those with claimsupon me when I came to be a rich man. "

He paused while folding up his various insurance papers and placing themin the inside breast-pocket of his coat. 

"Then there are black cats, " he went on; "they're said to be lucky. Why, there never was a blacker cat than the one that followed me into my roomsin Bolsover Street the very first night I took them. "

"Didn't it bring you luck?" I enquired, finding that he had stopped. 

A far-away look came into his eyes. 

"Well, of course it all depends, " he answered dreamily. "Maybe we'dnever have suited one another; you can always look at it that way. Still, I'd like to have tried. "

He sat staring out of the window, and for a while I did not care tointrude upon his evidently painful memories. 

"What happened then?" I asked, however, at last. 

He roused himself from his reverie. 

"Oh, " he said. "Nothing extraordinary. She had to leave London for atime, and gave me her pet canary to take charge of while she was away. "

"But it wasn't your fault, " I urged. 

"No, perhaps not, " he agreed; "but it created a coldness which otherswere not slow to take advantage of. "

"I offered her the cat, too, " he added, but more to himself than to me. 

We sat and smoked in silence. I felt that the consolations of a strangerwould sound weak. 

"Piebald horses are lucky, too, " he observed, knocking the ashes from hispipe against the window sash. "I had one of them once. "

"What did it do to you?" I enquired. 

"Lost me the best crib I ever had in my life, " was the simple rejoinder. "The governor stood it a good deal longer than I had any right to expect;but you can't keep a man who is _always_ drunk. It gives a firm a badname. "

"It would, " I agreed. 

"You see, " he went on, "I never had the head for it. To some men itwould not have so much mattered, but the very first glass was enough toupset me. I'd never been used to it. "

"But why did you take it?" I persisted. "The horse didn't make youdrink, did he?"

"Well, it was this way, " he explained, continuing to rub gently the lumpwhich was now about the size of an egg. "The animal had belonged to agentleman who travelled in the wine and spirit line, and who had beenaccustomed to visit in the way of business almost every public-house hecame to. The result was you couldn't get that little horse past a public-house--at least I couldn't. He sighted them a quarter of a mile off, andmade straight for the door. I struggled with him at first, but it wasfive to ten minutes' work getting him away, and folks used to gatherround and bet on us. I think, maybe, I'd have stuck to it, however, ifit hadn't been for a temperance chap who stopped one day and lectured thecrowd about it from the opposite side of the street. He called mePilgrim, and said the little horse was 'Pollion, ' or some such name, andkept on shouting out that I was to fight him for a heavenly crown. Afterthat they called us "Polly and the Pilgrim, fighting for the crown. " Itriled me, that did, and at the very next house at which he pulled up Igot down and said I'd come for two of Scotch. That was the beginning. Ittook me years to break myself of the habit. 

"But there, " he continued, "it has always been the same. I hadn't been afortnight in my first situation before my employer gave me a gooseweighing eighteen pounds as a Christmas present. "

"Well, that couldn't have done you any harm, " I remarked. "That waslucky enough. "

"So the other clerks said at the time, " he replied. "The old gentlemanhad never been known to give anything away before in his life. 'He'staken a fancy to you, ' they said; 'you are a lucky beggar!'"

He sighed heavily. I felt there was a story attached. 

"What did you do with it?" I asked. 

"That was the trouble, " he returned. "I didn't know what to do with it. It was ten o'clock on Christmas Eve, just as I was leaving, that he gaveit to me. 'Tiddling Brothers have sent me a goose, Biggles, ' he said tome as I helped him on with his great-coat. 'Very kind of 'em, but Idon't want it myself; you can have it!'

"Of course I thanked him, and was very grateful. He wished me a merryChristmas and went out. I tied the thing up in brown paper, and took itunder my arm. It was a fine bird, but heavy. 

"Under all the circumstances, and it being Christmas time, I thought Iwould treat myself to a glass of beer. I went into a quiet little houseat the corner of the Lane and laid the goose on the counter. 

"'That's a big 'un, ' said the landlord; 'you'll get a good cut off him to-morrow. '

"His words set me thinking, and for the first time it struck me that Ididn't want the bird--that it was of no use to me at all. I was goingdown to spend the holidays with my young lady's people in Kent. "

"Was this the canary young lady?" I interrupted. 

"No, " he replied. "This was before that one. It was this goose I'mtelling you of that upset this one. Well, her folks were big farmers; itwould have been absurd taking a goose down to them, and I knew no one inLondon to give it to, so when the landlord came round again I asked himif he would care to buy it. I told him he could have it cheap. 

"'I don't want it myself, ' he answered. 'I've got three in the housealready. Perhaps one of these gentlemen would like to make an offer. '

"He turned to a couple of chaps who were sitting drinking gin. Theydidn't look to me worth the price of a chicken between them. Theseediest said he'd like to look at it, however, and I undid the parcel. He mauled the thing pretty considerably, and cross-examined me as to howI come by it, ending by upsetting half a tumbler of gin and water overit. Then he offered me half a crown for it. It made me so angry that Itook the brown paper and the string in one hand and the goose in theother, and walked straight out without saying a word. 

"I carried it in this way for some distance, because I was excited anddidn't care how I carried it; but as I cooled, I began to reflect howridiculous I must look. One or two small boys evidently noticed the samething. I stopped under a lamp-post and tried to tie it up again. I hada bag and an umbrella with me at the same time, and the first thing I didwas to drop the goose into the gutter, which is just what I might haveexpected to do, attempting to handle four separate articles and threeyards of string with one pair of hands. I picked up about a quart of mudwith that goose, and got the greater part of it over my hands and clothesand a fair quantity over the brown paper; and then it began to rain. 

"I bundled everything up into my arm and made for the nearest pub, whereI thought I would ask for a piece more string and make a neat job of it. 

"The bar was crowded. I pushed my way to the counter and flung the goosedown in front of me. The men nearest stopped talking to look at it; anda young fellow standing next to me said--

"'Well, you've killed it. ' I daresay I did seem a bit excited. 

"I had intended making another effort to sell it here, but they wereclearly not the right sort. I had a pint of ale--for I was feelingsomewhat tired and hot--scraped as much of the mud off the bird as Icould, made a fresh parcel of it, and came out. 

"Crossing the road a happy idea occurred to me. I thought I would raffleit. At once I set to work to find a house where there might seem to be alikely lot. It cost me three or four whiskies--for I felt I didn't wantany more beer, which is a thing that easily upsets me--but at length Ifound just the crowd I wanted--a quiet domestic-looking set in a homelylittle place off the Goswell Road. 

"I explained my views to the landlord. He said he had no objection; hesupposed I would stand drinks round afterwards. I said I should bedelighted to do so, and showed him the bird. 

"'It looks a bit poorly, ' he said. He was a Devonshire man. 

"'Oh, that's nothing, ' I explained. 'I happened to drop it. That willall wash off. '

"'It smells a bit queer, too, ' he said. 

"'That's mud, ' I answered; 'you know what London mud is. And a gentlemanspilled some gin over it. Nobody will notice that when it's cooked. '

"'Well, ' he replied. 'I don't think I'll take a hand myself, but if anyother gent likes to, that's his affair. '

"Nobody seemed enthusiastic. I started it at sixpence, and took a ticketmyself. The potman had a free chance for superintending thearrangements, and he succeeded in inducing five other men, much againsttheir will, to join us. I won it myself, and paid out three and twopencefor drinks. A solemn-looking individual who had been snoring in a cornersuddenly woke up as I was going out, and offered me sevenpence ha'pennyfor it--why sevenpence ha'penny I have never been able to understand. Hewould have taken it away, I should never have seen it again, and my wholelife might have been different. But Fate has always been against me. Ireplied, with perhaps unnecessary hauteur, that I wasn't a Christmasdinner fund for the destitute, and walked out. 

"It was getting late, and I had a long walk home to my lodgings. I wasbeginning to wish I had never seen the bird. I estimated its weight bythis time to be thirty-six pounds. 

"The idea occurred to me to sell it to a poulterer. I looked for a shop, I found one in Myddleton Street. There wasn't a customer near it, but bythe way the man was shouting you might have thought that he was doing allthe trade of Clerkenwell. I took the goose out of the parcel and laid iton the shelf before him. 

"'What's this?' he asked. 

"'It's a goose, ' I said. 'You can have it cheap. '

"He just seized the thing by the neck and flung it at me. I dodged, andit caught the side of my head. You can have no idea, if you've neverbeen hit on the head with a goose, how if hurts. I picked it up and hithim back with it, and a policeman came up with the usual, 'Now then, what's all this about?'

"I explained the facts. The poulterer stepped to the edge of the curband apostrophised the universe generally. 

"'Look at that shop, ' he said. 'It's twenty minutes to twelve, andthere's seven dozen geese hanging there that I'm willing to give away, and this fool asks me if I want to buy another. '

"I perceived then that my notion had been a foolish one, and I followedthe policeman's advice, and went away quietly, taking the bird with me. 

"Then said I to myself, 'I will give it away. I will select some poordeserving person, and make him a present of the damned thing. ' I passeda good many people, but no one looked deserving enough. It may have beenthe time or it may have been the neighbourhood, but those I met seemed tome to be unworthy of the bird. I offered it to a man in Judd Street, whoI thought appeared hungry. He turned out to be a drunken ruffian. Icould not make him understand what I meant, and he followed me down theroad abusing me at the top of his voice, until, turning a corner withoutknowing it, he plunged down Tavistock Place, shouting after the wrongman. In the Euston Road I stopped a half-starved child and pressed itupon her. She answered 'Not me!' and ran away. I heard her callingshrilly after me, 'Who stole the goose?'

"I dropped it in a dark part of Seymour Street. A man picked it up andbrought it after me. I was unequal to any more explanations orarguments. I gave him twopence and plodded on with it once more. Thepubs were just closing, and I went into one for a final drink. As amatter of fact I had had enough already, being, as I am, unaccustomed toanything more than an occasional class of beer. But I felt depressed, and I thought it might cheer me. I think I had gin, which is a thing Iloathe. 

"I meant to fling it over into Oakley Square, but a policeman had his eyeon me, and followed me twice round the railings. In Golding Road Isought to throw it down an area, but was frustrated in like manner. Thewhole night police of London seemed to have nothing else to do butprevent my getting rid of that goose. 

"They appeared so anxious about it that I fancied they might like to haveit. I went up to one in Camden Street. I called him 'Bobby, ' and askedhim if he wanted a goose. 

"'I'll tell you what I don't want, ' he replied severely, 'and that isnone of your sauce. '

"He was very insulting, and I naturally answered him back. What actuallypassed I forget, but it ended in his announcing his intention of takingme in charge. 

"I slipped out of his hands and bolted down King Street. He blew hiswhistle and started after me. A man sprang out from a doorway in CollegeStreet and tried to stop me. I tied him up with a butt in the stomach, and cut through the Crescent, doubling back into the Camden Road by BattStreet. 

"At the Canal Bridge I looked behind me, and could see no one. I droppedthe goose over the parapet, and it fell with a splash into the water. 

"Heaving a sigh of relief, I turned and crossed into Randolph Street, andthere a constable collared me. I was arguing with him when the firstfool came up breathless. They told me I had better explain the matter tothe Inspector, and I thought so too. 

"The Inspector asked me why I had run away when the other constablewanted to take me in charge. I replied that it was because I did notdesire to spend my Christmas holidays in the lock-up, which he evidentlyregarded as a singularly weak argument. He asked me what I had throwninto the canal. I told him a goose. He asked me why I had thrown agoose into the canal. I told him because I was sick and tired of theanimal. 

"At this stage a sergeant came in to say that they had succeeded inrecovering the parcel. They opened it on the Inspector's table. Itcontained a dead baby. 

"I pointed out to them that it wasn't my parcel, and that it wasn't mybaby, but they hardly took the trouble to disguise the fact that they didnot believe me. 

"The Inspector said it was too grave a case for bail, which, seeing thatI did not know a soul in London, was somewhat immaterial. I got them tosend a telegram to my young lady to say that I was unavoidably detainedin town, and passed as quiet and uneventful a Christmas Day and BoxingDay as I ever wish to spend. 

"In the end the evidence against me was held to be insufficient tojustify a conviction, and I got off on the minor charge of drunk anddisorderly. But I lost my situation and I lost my young lady, and Idon't care if I never see a goose again. "

We were nearing Liverpool Street. He collected his luggage, and takingup his hat made an attempt to put it on his head. But in consequence ofthe swelling caused by the horseshoe it would not go anywhere near him, and he laid it sadly back upon the seat. 

"No, " he said quietly, "I can't say that I believe very much in luck. "

DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT

Richard Dunkerman and I had been old school-fellows, if a gentlemanbelonging to the Upper Sixth, and arriving each morning in a "topper" anda pair of gloves, and "a discredit to the Lower Fourth, " in a Scotch cap, can by any manner of means be classed together. And though in thoseearly days a certain amount of coldness existed between us, originatingin a poem, composed and sung on occasions by myself in commemoration ofan alleged painful incident connected with a certain breaking-up day, andwhich, if I remember rightly ran:--

 Dicky, Dicky, Dunk, Always in a funk, Drank a glass of sherry wine, And went home roaring drunk, and kept alive by his brutal criticism of the same, expressed with thebony part of the knee, yet in after life we came to know and like eachother better. I drifted into journalism, while he for years had been anunsuccessful barrister and dramatist; but one spring, to the astonishmentof us all, he brought out the play of the season, a somewhat impossiblelittle comedy, but full of homely sentiment and belief in human nature. It was about a couple of months after its production that he firstintroduced me to "Pyramids, Esquire. "

I was in love at the time. Her name was, I think, Naomi, and I wanted totalk to somebody about her. Dick had a reputation for taking anintelligent interest in other men's love affairs. He would let a loverrave by the hour to him, taking brief notes the while in a bulkyred-covered volume labelled "Commonplace Book. " Of course everybody knewthat he was using them merely as raw material for his dramas, but we didnot mind that so long as he would only listen. I put on my hat and wentround to his chambers. 

We talked about indifferent matters for a quarter of an hour or so, andthen I launched forth upon my theme. I had exhausted her beauty andgoodness, and was well into my own feelings--the madness of my everimagining I had loved before, the utter impossibility of my ever caringfor any other woman, and my desire to die breathing her name--before hemade a move. I thought he had risen to reach down, as usual, the"Commonplace Book, " and so waited, but instead he went to the door andopened it, and in glided one of the largest and most beautiful black tom-cats I have ever seen. It sprang on Dick's knee with a soft "cur-roo, "and sat there upright, watching me, and I went on with my tale. 

After a few minutes Dick interrupted me with:--

"I thought you said her name was Naomi?"

"So it is, " I replied. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing, " he answered, "only just now you referred to her as Enid. "

This was remarkable, as I had not seen Enid for years, and had quiteforgotten her. Somehow it took the glitter out of the conversation. Adozen sentences later Dick stopped me again with:--

"Who's Julia?"

I began to get irritated. Julia, I remembered, had been cashier in acity restaurant, and had, when I was little more than a boy, almostinveigled me into an engagement. I found myself getting hot at therecollection of the spooney rhapsodies I had hoarsely poured into herpowder-streaked ear while holding her flabby hand across the counter. 

"Did I really say 'Julia'?" I answered somewhat sharply, "or are youjoking?"

"You certainly alluded to her as Julia, " he replied mildly. "But nevermind, you go on as you like, I shall know whom you mean. "

But the flame was dead within me. I tried to rekindle it, but every timeI glanced up and met the green eyes of the black Tom it flickered outagain. I recalled the thrill that had penetrated my whole being whenNaomi's hand had accidently touched mine in the conservatory, andwondered whether she had done it on purpose. I thought how good andsweet she was to that irritatingly silly old frump her mother, andwondered if it really were her mother, or only hired. I pictured hercrown of gold-brown hair as I had last seen it with the sunlight kissingits wanton waves, and felt I would like to be quite sure that it were allher own. 

Once I clutched the flying skirts of my enthusiasm with sufficientfirmness to remark that in my own private opinion a good woman was moreprecious than rubies; adding immediately afterwards--the words escapingme unconsciously before I was aware even of the thought--"pity it's sodifficult to tell 'em. "

Then I gave it up, and sat trying to remember what I had said to her theevening before, and hoping I had not committed myself. 

Dick's voice roused me from my unpleasant reverie. 

"No, " he said, "I thought you would not be able to. None of them can. "

"None of them can what?" I asked. Somehow I was feeling angry with Dickand with Dick's cat, and with myself and most other things. 

"Why talk love or any other kind of sentiment before old Pyramids here?"he replied, stroking the cat's soft head as it rose and arched its back. 

"What's the confounded cat got to do with it?" I snapped. 

"That's just what I can't tell you, " he answered, "but it's veryremarkable. Old Leman dropped in here the other evening and began in hisusual style about Ibsen and the destiny of the human race, and theSocialistic idea and all the rest of it--you know his way. Pyramids saton the edge of the table there and looked at him, just as he sat lookingat you a few minutes ago, and in less than a quarter of an hour Leman hadcome to the conclusion that society would do better without ideals andthat the destiny of the human race was in all probability the dust heap. He pushed his long hair back from his eyes and looked, for the first timein his life, quite sane. 'We talk about ourselves, ' he said, 'as thoughwe were the end of creation. I get tired listening to myself sometimes. Pah!' he continued, 'for all we know the human race may die out utterlyand another insect take our place, as possibly we pushed out and took theplace of a former race of beings. I wonder if the ant tribe may not bethe future inheritors of the earth. They understand combination, andalready have an extra sense that we lack. If in the courses of evolutionthey grow bigger in brain and body, they may become powerful rivals, whoknows?' Curious to hear old Leman talking like that, wasn't it?"

"What made you call him 'Pyramids'?" I asked of Dick. 

"I don't know, " he answered, "I suppose because he looked so old. Thename came to me. "

I leaned across and looked into the great green eyes, and the creature, never winking, never blinking, looked back into mine, until the feelingcame to me that I was being drawn down into the very wells of time. Itseemed as though the panorama of the ages must have passed in reviewbefore those expressionless orbs--all the loves and hopes and desires ofmankind; all the everlasting truths that have been found false; all theeternal faiths discovered to save, until it was discovered they damned. The strange black creature grew and grew till it seemed to fill the room, and Dick and I to be but shadows floating in the air. 

I forced from myself a laugh, that only in part, however, broke thespell, and inquired of Dick how he had acquired possession of it. 

"It came to me, " he answered, "one night six months ago. I was down onmy luck at the time. Two of my plays, on which I had built great hopes, had failed, one on top of the other--you remember them--and it appearedabsurd to think that any manager would ever look at anything of mineagain. Old Walcott had just told me that he did not consider it right ofme under all the circumstances to hold Lizzie any longer to herengagement, and that I ought to go away and give her a chance offorgetting me, and I had agreed with him. I was alone in the world, andheavily in debt. Altogether things seemed about as hopeless as theycould be, and I don't mind confessing to you now that I had made up mymind to blow out my brains that very evening. I had loaded my revolver, and it lay before me on the desk. My hand was toying with it when Iheard a faint scratching at the door. I paid no attention at first, butit grew more persistent, and at length, to stop the faint noise whichexcited me more than I could account for, I rose and opened the door and_it_ walked in. 

"It perched itself upon the corner of my desk beside the loaded pistol, and sat there bolt upright looking at me; and I, pushing back my chair, sat looking at it. And there came a letter telling me that a man ofwhose name I had never heard had been killed by a cow in Melbourne, andthat under his will a legacy of three thousand pounds fell into theestate of a distant relative of my own who had died peacefully andutterly insolvent eighteen months previously, leaving me his sole heirand representative, and I put the revolver back into the drawer. "

"Do you think Pyramids would come and stop with me for a week?" I asked, reaching over to stroke the cat as it lay softly purring on Dick's knee. 

"Maybe he will some day, " replied Dick in a low voice, but before theanswer came--I know not why--I had regretted the jesting words. 

"I came to talk to him as though he were a human creature, " continuedDick, "and to discuss things with him. My last play I regard as acollaboration; indeed, it is far more his than mine. "

I should have thought Dick mad had not the cat been sitting there beforeme with its eyes looking into mine. As it was, I only grew moreinterested in his tale. 

"It was rather a cynical play as I first wrote it, " he went on, "atruthful picture of a certain corner of society as I saw and knew it. From an artistic point of view I felt it was good; from the box-officestandard it was doubtful. I drew it from my desk on the third eveningafter Pyramids' advent, and read it through. He sat on the arm of thechair and looked over the pages as I turned them. 

"It was the best thing I had ever written. Insight into life ran throughevery line, I found myself reading it again with delight. Suddenly avoice beside me said:--

"'Very clever, my boy, very clever indeed. If you would just turn ittopsy-turvy, change all those bitter, truthful speeches into noblesentiments; make your Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs (who never hasbeen a popular character) die in the last act instead of theYorkshireman, and let your bad woman be reformed by her love for the heroand go off somewhere by herself and be good to the poor in a black frock, the piece might be worth putting on the stage. '

"I turned indignantly to see who was speaking. The opinions sounded likethose of a theatrical manager. No one was in the room but I and the cat. No doubt I had been talking to myself, but the voice was strange to me. 

"'Be reformed by her love for the hero!' I retorted, contemptuously, forI was unable to grasp the idea that I was arguing only with myself, 'whyit's his mad passion for her that ruins his life. '

"'And will ruin the play with the great B. P. , ' returned the other voice. 'The British dramatic hero has no passion, but a pure and respectfuladmiration for an honest, hearty English girl--pronounced "gey-url. " Youdon't know the canons of your art. '

"'And besides, ' I persisted, unheeding the interruption, 'women born andbred and soaked for thirty years in an atmosphere of sin don't reform. '

"'Well, this one's got to, that's all, ' was the sneering reply, 'let herhear an organ. '

"'But as an artist--, ' I protested. 

"'You will be always unsuccessful, ' was the rejoinder. 'My dear fellow, you and your plays, artistic or in artistic, will be forgotten in a veryfew years hence. You give the world what it wants, and the world willgive you what you want. Please, if you wish to live. '

"So, with Pyramids beside me day by day, I re-wrote the play, andwhenever I felt a thing to be utterly impossible and false I put it downwith a grin. And every character I made to talk clap-trap sentimentwhile Pyramids purred, and I took care that everyone of my puppets didthat which was right in the eyes of the lady with the lorgnettes in thesecond row of the dress circle; and old Hewson says the play will runfive hundred nights. 

"But what is worst, " concluded Dick, "is that I am not ashamed of myself, and that I seem content. "

"What do you think the animal is?" I asked with a laugh, "an evilspirit"? For it had passed into the next room and so out through theopen window, and its strangely still green eyes no longer drawing minetowards them, I felt my common sense returning to me. 

"You have not lived with it for six months, " answered Dick quietly, "andfelt its eyes for ever on you as I have. And I am not the only one. Youknow Canon Whycherly, the great preacher?"

"My knowledge of modern church history is not extensive, " I replied. "Iknow him by name, of course. What about him?"

"He was a curate in the East End, " continued Dick, "and for ten years helaboured, poor and unknown, leading one of those noble, heroic lives thathere and there men do yet live, even in this age. Now he is the prophetof the fashionable up-to-date Christianity of South Kensington, drives tohis pulpit behind a pair of thorough-bred Arabs, and his waistcoat istaking to itself the curved line of prosperity. He was in here the othermorning on behalf of Princess ---. They are giving a performance of oneof my plays in aid of the Destitute Vicars' Fund. "

"And did Pyramids discourage him?" I asked, with perhaps the suggestionof a sneer. 

"No, " answered Dick, "so far as I could judge, it approved the scheme. The point of the matter is that the moment Whycherly came into the roomthe cat walked over to him and rubbed itself affectionately against hislegs. He stood and stroked it. "

"'Oh, so it's come to you, has it?' he said, with a curious smile. 

"There was no need for any further explanation between us. I understoodwhat lay behind those few words. "

I lost sight of Dick for some time, though I heard a good deal of him, for he was rapidly climbing into the position of the most successfuldramatist of the day, and Pyramids I had forgotten all about, until oneafternoon calling on an artist friend who had lately emerged from theshadows of starving struggle into the sunshine of popularity, I saw apair of green eyes that seemed familiar to me gleaming at me from a darkcorner of the studio. 

"Why, surely, " I exclaimed, crossing over to examine the animal moreclosely, "why, yes, you've got Dick Dunkerman's cat. "

He raised his face from the easel and glanced across at me. 

"Yes, " he said, "we can't live on ideals, " and I, remembering, hastenedto change the conversation. 

Since then I have met Pyramids in the rooms of many friends of mine. Theygive him different names, but I am sure it is the same cat, I know thosegreen eyes. He always brings them luck, but they are never quite thesame men again afterwards. 

Sometimes I sit wondering if I hear his scratching at the door. 

THE MINOR POET'S STORY

"It doesn't suit you at all, " I answered. 

"You're very disagreeable, " said she, "I shan't ever ask your adviceagain. "

"Nobody, " I hastened to add, "would look well in it. You, of course, look less awful in it than any other woman would, but it's not yourstyle. "

"He means, " exclaimed the Minor Poet, "that the thing itself not beingpre-eminently beautiful, it does not suit, is not in agreement with you. The contrast between you and anything approaching the ugly or thecommonplace, is too glaring to be aught else than displeasing. "

"He didn't say it, " replied the Woman of the World; "and besides it isn'tugly. It's the very latest fashion. "

"Why is it, " asked the Philosopher, "that women are such slaves tofashion? They think clothes, they talk clothes, they read clothes, yetthey have never understood clothes. The purpose of dress, after theprimary object of warmth has been secured, is to adorn, to beautify theparticular wearer. Yet not one woman in a thousand stops to considerwhat colours will go best with her complexion, what cut will best hidethe defects or display the advantages of her figure. If it be thefashion, she must wear it. And so we have pale-faced girls lookingghastly in shades suitable to dairy-maids, and dots waddling about incostumes fit and proper to six-footers. It is as if crows insisted onwearing cockatoo's feathers on their heads, and rabbits ran about withpeacocks' tails fastened behind them. "

"And are not you men every bit as foolish?" retorted the Girton Girl. "Sack coats come into fashion, and dumpy little men trot up and down inthem, looking like butter-tubs on legs. You go about in July meltingunder frock-coats and chimney-pot hats, and because it is the stylishthing to do, you all play tennis in still shirts and stand-up collars, which is idiotic. If fashion decreed that you should play cricket in apair of top-boots and a diver's helmet, you would play cricket in a pairof top-boots and a diver's helmet, and dub every sensible fellow whodidn't a cad. It's worse in you than in us; men are supposed to thinkfor themselves, and to be capable of it, the womanly woman isn't. "

"Big women and little men look well in nothing, " said the Woman of theWorld. "Poor Emily was five foot ten and a half, and never looked aninch under seven foot, whatever she wore. Empires came into fashion, andthe poor child looked like the giant's baby in a pantomime. We thoughtthe Greek might help her, but it only suggested a Crystal Palace statuetied up in a sheet, and tied up badly; and when puff-sleeves and shoulder-capes were in and Teddy stood up behind her at a water-party and sang'Under the spreading chestnut-tree, ' she took it as a personal insult andboxed his ears. Few men liked to be seen with her, and I'm sure Georgeproposed to her partly with the idea of saving himself the expense of astep-ladder, she reaches down his boots for him from the top shelf. "

"I, " said the Minor Poet, "take up the position of not wanting to wastemy brain upon the subject. Tell me what to wear, and I will wear it, andthere is an end of the matter. If Society says, 'Wear blue shirts andwhite collars, ' I wear blue shirts and white collars. If she says, 'Thetime has now come when hats should be broad-brimmed, ' I take unto myselfa broad-brimmed hat. The question does not interest me sufficiently forme to argue it. It is your fop who refuses to follow fashion. He wishesto attract attention to himself by being peculiar. A novelist whosebooks pass unnoticed, gains distinction by designing his own necktie; andmany an artist, following the line of least resistance, learns to let hishair grow instead of learning to paint. "

"The fact is, " remarked the Philosopher, "we are the mere creatures offashion. Fashion dictates to us our religion, our morality, ouraffections, our thoughts. In one age successful cattle-lifting is avirtue, a few hundred years later company-promoting takes its place as arespectable and legitimate business. In England and America Christianityis fashionable, in Turkey, Mohammedanism, and 'the crimes of Clapham arechaste in Martaban. ' In Japan a woman dresses down to the knees, butwould be considered immodest if she displayed bare arms. In Europe it islegs that no pure-minded woman is supposed to possess. In China weworship our mother-in-law and despise our wife; in England we treat ourwife with respect, and regard our mother-in-law as the bulwark of comicjournalism. The stone age, the iron age, the age of faith, the age ofinfidelism, the philosophic age, what are they but the passing fashionsof the world? It is fashion, fashion, fashion wherever we turn. Fashionwaits beside our cradle to lead us by the hand through life. Nowliterature is sentimental, now hopefully humorous, now psychological, nownew-womanly. Yesterday's pictures are the laughing-stock of the up-to-date artist of to-day, and to-day's art will be sneered at to-morrow. Nowit is fashionable to be democratic, to pretend that no virtue or wisdomcan exist outside corduroy, and to abuse the middle classes. One seasonwe go slumming, and the next we are all socialists. We think we arethinking; we are simply dressing ourselves up in words we do notunderstand for the gods to laugh at us. "

"Don't be pessimistic, " retorted the Minor Poet, "pessimism is going out. You call such changes fashions, I call them the footprints of progress. Each phase of thought is an advance upon the former, bringing thefootsteps of the many nearer to the landmarks left by the mighty climbersof the past upon the mountain paths of truth. The crowd that wassatisfied with _The Derby Day_ now appreciates Millet. The public thatwere content to wag their heads to _The Bohemian Girl_ have made Wagnerpopular. "

"And the play lovers, who stood for hours to listen to Shakespeare, "interrupted the Philosopher, "now crowd to music-halls. "

"The track sometimes descends for a little way, but it will wind upwardsagain, " returned the Poet. "The music-hall itself is improving; Iconsider it the duty of every intellectual man to visit such places. Themere influence of his presence helps to elevate the tone of theperformance. I often go myself!"

"I was looking, " said the Woman of the World, "at some old illustratedpapers of thirty years ago, showing the men dressed in those very absurdtrousers, so extremely roomy about the waist, and so extremely tightabout the ankles. I recollect poor papa in them; I always used to longto fill them out by pouring in sawdust at the top. "

"You mean the peg-top period, " I said. "I remember them distinctlymyself, but it cannot be more than three-and-twenty years ago at theoutside. "

"That is very nice of you, " replied the Woman of the World, "and showsmore tact than I should have given you credit for. It could, as you say, have been only twenty-three years ago. I know I was a very little girlat the time. I think there must be some subtle connection betweenclothes and thought. I cannot imagine men in those trousers andDundreary whiskers talking as you fellows are talking now, any more thanI could conceive of a woman in a crinoline and a poke bonnet smoking acigarette. I think it must be so, because dear mother used to be themost easy-going woman in the world in her ordinary clothes, and would letpapa smoke all over the house. But about once every three weeks shewould put on a hideous old-fashioned black silk dress, that looked as ifQueen Elizabeth must have slept in it during one of those seasons whenshe used to go about sleeping anywhere, and then we all had to sit up. 'Look out, ma's got her black silk dress on, ' came to be a regularformula. We could always make papa take us out for a walk or a drive bywhispering it to him. "

"I can never bear to look at those pictures of by-gone fashions, " saidthe Old Maid, "I see the by-gone people in them, and it makes me feel asthough the faces that we love are only passing fashions with the rest. Wewear them for a little while upon our hearts, and think so much of them, and then there comes a time when we lay them by, and forget them, andnewer faces take their place, and we are satisfied. It seems so sad. "

"I wrote a story some years ago, " remarked the Minor Poet, "about a youngSwiss guide, who was betrothed to a laughing little French peasant girl. "

"Named Suzette, " interrupted the Girton Girl. "I know her. Go on. "

"Named Jeanne, " corrected the Poet, "the majority of laughing Frenchgirls, in fiction, are named Suzette, I am well aware. But this girl'smother's family was English. She was christened Jeanne after an auntJane, who lived in Birmingham, and from whom she had expectations. "

"I beg your pardon, " apologised the Girton Girl, "I was not aware of thatfact. What happened to her?"

"One morning, a few days before the date fixed for the wedding, " said theMinor Poet, "she started off to pay a visit to a relative living in thevillage, the other side of the mountain. It was a dangerous track, climbing half-way up the mountain before it descended again, and skirtingmore than one treacherous slope, but the girl was mountain born and bred, sure-footed as a goat, and no one dreamed of harm. "

"She went over, of course, " said the Philosopher, "those sure-footedgirls always do. "

"What happened, " replied the Minor Poet, "was never known. The girl wasnever seen again. "

"And what became of her lover?" asked the Girton Girl. "Was he, whennext year's snow melted, and the young men of the village went forth togather Edelweiss, wherewith to deck their sweethearts, found by themdead, beside her, at the bottom of the crevasse?"

"No, " said the Poet; "you do not know this story, you had better let metell it. Her lover returned the morning before the wedding day, to bemet with the news. He gave way to no sign of grief, he repelled allconsolation. Taking his rope and axe he went up into the mountain byhimself. All through the winter he haunted the track by which she musthave travelled, indifferent to the danger that he ran, imperviousapparently to cold, or hunger, or fatigue, undeterred by storm, or mist, or avalanche. At the beginning of the spring he returned to the village, purchased building utensils, and day after day carried them back with himup into the mountain. He hired no labour, he rejected the profferedassistance of his brother guides. Choosing an almost inaccessible spot, at the edge of the great glacier, far from all paths, he built himself ahut, with his own hands; and there for eighteen years he lived alone. 

"In the 'season' he earned good fees, being known far and wide as one ofthe bravest and hardiest of all the guides, but few of his clients likedhim, for he was a silent, gloomy man, speaking little, and with never alaugh or jest on the journey. Each fall, having provisioned himself, hewould retire to his solitary hut, and bar the door, and no human soulwould set eyes on him again until the snows melted. 

"One year, however, as the spring days wore on, and he did not appearamong the guides, as was his wont, the elder men, who remembered hisstory and pitied him, grew uneasy; and, after much deliberation, it wasdetermined that a party of them should force their way up to his eyrie. They cut their path across the ice where no foot among them had troddenbefore, and finding at length the lonely snow-encompassed hut, knockedloudly with their axe-staves on the door; but only the whirling echoesfrom the glacier's thousand walls replied, so the foremost put his strongshoulder to the worn timber and the door flew open with a crash. 

"They found him dead, as they had more than half expected, lying stiffand frozen on the rough couch at the farther end of the hut; and, besidehim, looking down upon him with a placid face, as a mother might watchbeside her sleeping child, stood Jeanne. She wore the flowers pinned toher dress that she had gathered when their eyes had last seen her. Thegirl's face that had laughed back to their good-bye in the village, nineteen years ago. 

"A strange steely light clung round her, half illuminating, halfobscuring her, and the men drew back in fear, thinking they saw a vision, till one, bolder than the rest, stretched out his hand and touched theice that formed her coffin. 

"For eighteen years the man had lived there with this face that he hadloved. A faint flush still lingered on the fair cheeks, the laughinglips were still red. Only at one spot, above her temple, the wavy hairlay matted underneath a clot of blood. "

The Minor Poet ceased. 

"What a very unpleasant way of preserving one's love!" said the GirtonGirl. 

"When did the story appear?" I asked. "I don't remember reading it. "

"I never published it, " explained the Minor Poet. "Within the same weektwo friends of mine, one of whom had just returned from Norway and theother from Switzerland, confided to me their intention of writing storiesabout girls who had fallen into glaciers, and who had been found by theirfriends long afterwards, looking as good as new; and a few days later Ichanced upon a book, the heroine of which had been dug out of a glacieralive three hundred years after she had fallen in. There seemed to be arun on ice maidens, and I decided not to add to their number. "

"It is curious, " said the Philosopher, "how there seems to be a fashioneven in thought. An idea has often occurred to me that has seemed to mequite new, and taking up a newspaper I have found that some man in Russiaor San Francisco has just been saying the very same thing in almost thevery same words. We say a thing is 'in the air'; it is more true than weare aware of. Thought does not grow in us. It is a thing apart, wesimply gather it. All truths, all discoveries, all inventions, they havenot come to us from any one man. The time grows ripe for them, and fromthis corner of the earth and from that, hands, guided by some instinct, grope for and grasp them. Buddha and Christ seize hold of the moralityneedful to civilisation, and promulgate it, unknown to one another, theone on the shores of the Ganges, the other by the Jordan. A dozenforgotten explorers, _feeling_ America, prepared the way for Columbus todiscover it. A deluge of blood is required to sweep away old follies, and Rousseau and Voltaire, and a myriad others are set to work to fashionthe storm clouds. The steam-engine, the spinning loom is 'in the air. ' Athousand brains are busy with them, a few go further than the rest. Itis idle to talk of human thought; there is no such thing. Our minds arefed as our bodies with the food God has provided for us. Thought hangsby the wayside, and we pick it and cook it, and eat it, and cry out whatclever 'thinkers' we are!"

"I cannot agree with you, " replied the Minor Poet, "if we were simplyautomata, as your argument would suggest, what was the purpose ofcreating us?"

"The intelligent portion of mankind has been asking itself that questionfor many ages, " returned the Philosopher. 

"I hate people who always think as I do, " said the Girton Girl; "therewas a girl in our corridor who never would disagree with me. Everyopinion I expressed turned out to be her opinion also. It alwaysirritated me. "

"That might have been weak-mindedness, " said the Old Maid, which soundedambiguous. 

"It is not so unpleasant as having a person always disagreeing with you, "said the Woman of the World. "My cousin Susan never would agree with anyone. If I came down in red she would say, 'Why don't you try green, dear? every one says you look so well in green'; and when I wore greenshe would say, 'Why have you given up red dear? I thought you ratherfancied yourself in red. ' When I told her of my engagement to Tom, sheburst into tears and said she couldn't help it. She had always felt thatGeorge and I were intended for one another; and when Tom never wrote fortwo whole months, and behaved disgracefully in--in other ways, and I toldher I was engaged to George, she reminded me of every word I had eversaid about my affection for Tom, and of how I had ridiculed poor George. Papa used to say, 'If any man ever tells Susan that he loves her, shewill argue him out of it, and will never accept him until he has jiltedher, and will refuse to marry him every time he asks her to fix theday. "'

"Is she married?" asked the Philosopher. 

"Oh, yes, " answered the Woman of the World, "and is devoted to herchildren. She lets them do everything they don't want to. "

THE DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY

The most respectable cat I have ever known was Thomas Henry. Hisoriginal name was Thomas, but it seemed absurd to call him that. Thefamily at Hawarden would as soon think of addressing Mr. Gladstone as"Bill. " He came to us from the Reform Club, _via_ the butcher, and themoment I saw him I felt that of all the clubs in London that was the clubhe must have come from. Its atmosphere of solid dignity and petrifiedconservatism seemed to cling to him. Why he left the club I am unable, at this distance of time, to remember positively, but I am inclined tothink that it came about owing to a difference with the new _chef_, anoverbearing personage who wanted all the fire to himself. The butcher, hearing of the quarrel, and knowing us as a catless family, suggested away out of the _impasse_ that was welcomed both by cat and cook. Theparting between them, I believe, was purely formal, and Thomas arrivedprejudiced in our favour. 

My wife, the moment she saw him, suggested Henry as a more suitable name. It struck me that the combination of the two would be still moreappropriate, and accordingly, in the privacy of the domestic circle, Thomas Henry he was called. When speaking of him to friends, wegenerally alluded to him as Thomas Henry, Esquire. 

He approved of us in his quiet, undemonstrative way. He chose my ownparticular easy chair for himself, and stuck to it. An ordinary cat Ishould have shot out, but Thomas Henry was not the cat one chivvies. HadI made it clear to him that I objected to his presence in my chair, Ifeel convinced he would have regarded me much as I should expect to beregarded by Queen Victoria, were that gracious Lady to call upon me in afriendly way, and were I to inform her that I was busy, and request herto look in again some other afternoon. He would have risen, and havewalked away, but he never would have spoken to me again so long as welived under the same roof. 

We had a lady staying with us at the time--she still resides with us, butshe is now older, and possessed of more judgment--who was no respecter ofcats. Her argument was that seeing the tail stuck up, and cameconveniently to one's hand, that was the natural appendage by which toraise a cat. She also laboured under the error that the way to feed acat was to ram things into its head, and that its pleasure was to betaken out for a ride in a doll's perambulator. I dreaded the firstmeeting of Thomas Henry with this lady. I feared lest she should givehim a false impression of us as a family, and that we should suffer inhis eyes. 

But I might have saved myself all anxiety. There was a something aboutThomas Henry that checked forwardness and damped familiarity. Hisattitude towards her was friendly but firm. Hesitatingly, and with a new-born respect for cats, she put out her hand timidly towards its tail. Hegently put it on the other side, and looked at her. It was not an angrylook nor an offended look. It was the expression with which Solomonmight have received the advances of the Queen of Sheba. It expressedcondescension, combined with distance. 

He was really a most gentlemanly cat. A friend of mine, who believes inthe doctrine of the transmigration of souls, was convinced that he wasLord Chesterfield. He never clamoured for food, as other cats do. Hewould sit beside me at meals, and wait till he was served. He would eatonly the knuckle-end of a leg of mutton, and would never look at over-done beef. A visitor of ours once offered him a piece of gristle; hesaid nothing, but quietly left the room, and we did not see him againuntil our friend had departed. 

But every one has his price, and Thomas Henry's price was roast duck. Thomas Henry's attitude in the presence of roast duck came to me as apsychological revelation. It showed me at once the lower and more animalside of his nature. In the presence of roast duck Thomas Henry becamesimply and merely a cat, swayed by all the savage instincts of his race. His dignity fell from him as a cloak. He clawed for roast duck, hegrovelled for it. I believe he would have sold himself to the devil forroast duck. 

We accordingly avoided that particular dish: it was painful to see acat's character so completely demoralised. Besides, his manners, whenroast duck was on the table, afforded a bad example to the children. 

He was a shining light among all the eats of our neighbourhood. Onemight have set one's watch by his movements. After dinner he invariablytook half an hour's constitutional in the square; at ten o'clock eachnight, precisely, he returned to the area door, and at eleven o'clock hewas asleep in my easy chair. He made no friends among the other cats. Hetook no pleasure in fighting, and I doubt his ever having loved, even inyouth; his was too cold and self-contained a nature, female society heregarded with utter indifference. 

So he lived with us a blameless existence during the whole winter. Inthe summer we took him down with us into the country. We thought thechange of air would do him good; he was getting decidedly stout. Alas, poor Thomas Henry! the country was his ruin. What brought about thechange I cannot say: maybe the air was too bracing. He slid down themoral incline with frightful rapidity. The first night he stopped outtill eleven, the second night he never came home at all, the third nighthe came home at six o'clock in the morning, minus half the fur on the topof his head. Of course, there was a lady in the case, indeed, judging bythe riot that went on all night, I am inclined to think there must havebeen a dozen. He was certainly a fine cat, and they took to calling forhim in the day time. Then gentleman cats who had been wronged took tocalling also, and demanding explanations, which Thomas Henry, to do himjustice, was always ready to accord. 

The village boys used to loiter round all day to watch the fights, andangry housewives would be constantly charging into our kitchen to flingdead cats upon the table, and appeal to Heaven and myself for justice. Our kitchen became a veritable cat's morgue, and I had to purchase a newkitchen table. The cook said it would make her work simpler if she couldkeep a table entirely to herself. She said it quite confused her, havingso many dead cats lying round among her joints and vegetables: she wasafraid of making a mistake. Accordingly, the old table was placed underthe window, and devoted to the cats; and, after that, she would neverallow anyone to bring a cat, however dead, to her table. 

"What do you want me to do with it, " I heard her asking an excited ladyon one occasion; "cook it?"

"It's my cat, " said the lady; "that's what that is. "

"Well, I'm not making cat pie to-day, " answered our cook. "You take itto its proper table. This is my table. "

At first, "Justice" was generally satisfied with half a crown, but astime went on cats rose. I had hitherto regarded cats as a cheapcommodity, and I became surprised at the value attached to them. I beganto think seriously of breeding cats as an industry. At the pricescurrent in that village, I could have made an income of thousands. 

"Look what your beast has done, " said one irate female, to whom I hadbeen called out in the middle of dinner. 

I looked. Thomas Henry appeared to have "done" a mangy, emaciatedanimal, that must have been far happier dead than alive. Had the poorcreature been mine I should have thanked him; but some people never knowwhen they are well off. 

"I wouldn't ha' taken a five-pun' note for that cat, " said the lady. 

"It's a matter of opinion, " I replied, "but personally I think you wouldhave been unwise to refuse it. Taking the animal as it stands, I don'tfeel inclined to give you more than a shilling for it. If you think youcan do better by taking it elsewhere, you do so. "

"He was more like a Christian than a cat, " said the lady. 

"I'm not taking dead Christians, " I answered firmly, "and even if I wereI wouldn't give more than a shilling for a specimen like that. You canconsider him as a Christian, or you can consider him as a cat; but he'snot worth more than a shilling in either case. "

We settled eventually for eighteenpence. 

The number of cats that Thomas Henry contrived to dispose of alsosurprised me. Quite a massacre of cats seemed to be in progress. 

One evening, going into the kitchen, for I made it a practice now tovisit the kitchen each evening, to inspect the daily consignment of deadcats, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat, lyingon the table. 

"That cat's worth half a sovereign, " said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer. 

I took up the animal, and examined it. 

"Your cat killed him yesterday, " continued the man. "It's a burningshame. "

"My cat has killed him three times, " I replied. "He was killed onSaturday as Mrs. Hedger's cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers. Iwas not quite positive on Monday; but I had my suspicions, and I madenotes. Now I recognise him. You take my advice, and bury him before hebreeds a fever. I don't care how many lives a cat has got; I only payfor one. "

We gave Thomas Henry every chance to reform; but he only went from bad toworse, and added poaching and chicken-stalking to his other crimes, and Igrew tired of paying for his vices. 

I consulted the gardener, and the gardener said he had known cats takenthat way before. 

"Do you know of any cure for it?" I asked. 

"Well, sir, " replied the gardener, "I have heard as how a dose ofbrickbat and pond is a good thing in a general way. "

"We'll try him with a dose just before bed time, " I answered. Thegardener administered it, and we had no further trouble with him. 

Poor Thomas Henry! It shows to one how a reputation for respectabilitymay lie in the mere absence of temptation. Born and bred in theatmosphere of the Reform Club, what gentleman could go wrong? I wassorry for Thomas Henry, and I have never believed in the moral influenceof the country since. 

THE CITY OF THE SEA

They say, the chroniclers who have written the history of that low-lying, wind-swept coast, that years ago the foam fringe of the ocean lay furtherto the east; so that where now the North Sea creeps among the treacheroussand-reefs, it was once dry land. In those days, between the Abbey andthe sea, there stood a town of seven towers and four rich churches, surrounded by a wall of twelve stones' thickness, making it, as menreckoned then, a place of strength and much import; and the monks, glancing their eyes downward from the Abbey garden on the hill, sawbeneath their feet its narrow streets, gay with the ever passing of richmerchandise, saw its many wharves and water-ways, ever noisy with thebabel of strange tongues, saw its many painted masts, wagging their graveheads above the dormer roofs and quaintly-carved oak gables. 

Thus the town prospered till there came a night when it did evil in thesight of God and man. Those were troublous times to Saxon dwellers bythe sea, for the Danish water-rats swarmed round each river mouth, scenting treasure from afar; and by none was the white flash of theirsharp, strong teeth more often seen than by the men of Eastern Anglia, and by none in Eastern Anglia more often than by the watchers on thewalls of the town of seven towers that once stood upon the dry land, butwhich now lies twenty fathom deep below the waters. Many a bloody fightraged now without and now within its wall of twelve stones' thickness. Many a groan of dying man, many a shriek of murdered woman, many a wailof mangled child, knocked at the Abbey door upon its way to Heaven, calling the trembling-monks from their beds, to pray for the souls thatwere passing by. 

But at length peace came to the long-troubled land: Dane and Saxonagreeing to dwell in friendship side by side, East Anglia being wide, andthere being room for both. And all men rejoiced greatly, for all wereweary of a strife in which little had been gained on either side beyondhard blows, and their thoughts were of the ingle-nook. So thelong-bearded Danes, their thirsty axes harmless on their backs, passed toand fro in straggling bands, seeking where undisturbed and undisturbingthey might build their homes; and thus it came about that Haafager andhis company, as the sun was going down, drew near to the town of seventowers, that in those days stood on dry land between the Abbey and thesea. 

And the men of the town, seeing the Danes, opened wide their gatessaying:--

"We have fought, but now there is peace. Enter, and make merry with us, and to-morrow go your way. "

But Haafager made answer:--

"I am an old man, I pray you do not take my words amiss. There is peacebetween us, as you say, and we thank you for your courtesy, but thestains are still fresh upon our swords. Let us camp here without yourwalls, and a little later, when the grass has grown upon the fields wherewe have striven, and our young men have had time to forget, we will makemerry together, as men should who dwell side by side in the same land. "

But the men of the town still urged Haafager, calling his peopleneighbours; and the Abbot, who had hastened down, fearing there might bestrife, added his words to theirs, saying:--

"Pass in, my children. Let there indeed be peace between you, that theblessing of God may be upon the land, and upon both Dane and Saxon"; forthe Abbot saw that the townsmen were well disposed towards the Danes, andknew that men, when they have feasted and drunk together, think kinder ofone another. 

Then answered Haafager, who knew the Abbot for a holy man:--

"Hold up your staff, my father, that the shadow of the cross your peopleworship may fall upon our path, so we will pass into the town and thereshall be peace between us, for though your gods are not our gods, faithbetween man and man is of all altars. "

And the Abbot held his staff aloft between Haafager's people and the sun, it being fashioned in the form of a cross, and under its shadow the Danespassed by into the town of seven towers, there being of them, with thewomen and the children, nearly two thousand souls, and the gates weremade fast behind them. 

So they who had fought face to face, feasted side by side, pledging oneanother in the wine cup, as was the custom; and Haafager's men, knowingthemselves amongst friends, cast aside their arms, and when the feast wasdone, being weary, they lay down to sleep. 

Then an evil voice arose in the town, and said: "Who are these that havecome among us to share our land? Are not the stones of our streets redwith the blood of wife and child that they have slain? Do men let thewolf go free when they have trapped him with meat? Let us fall upon themnow that they are heavy with food and wine, so that not one of them shallescape. Thus no further harm shall come to us from them nor from theirchildren. "

And the voice of evil prevailed, and the men of the town of seven towersfell upon the Danes with whom they had broken meat, even to the women andthe little children; and the blood of the people of Haafager cried with aloud voice at the Abbey door, through the long night it cried, saying:--

"I trusted in your spoken word. I broke meat with you. I put my faithin you and in your God. I passed beneath the shadow of your cross toenter your doors. Let your God make answer!"

Nor was there silence till the dawn. 

Then the Abbot rose from where he knelt and called to God, saying:--

"Thou hast heard, O God. Make answer. "

And there came a great sound from the sea as though a tongue had beengiven to the deep, so that the monks fell upon their knees in fear; butthe Abbot answered:--

"It is the voice of God speaking through the waters. He hath madeanswer. "

And that winter a mighty storm arose, the like of which no man had knownbefore; for the sea was piled upon the dry land until the highest towerof the town of seven towers was not more high; and the waters movedforward over the dry land. And the men of the town of seven towers fledfrom the oncoming of the waters, but the waters overtook them so that notone of them escaped. And the town of the seven towers and of the fourchurches, and of the many streets and quays, was buried underneath thewaters, and the feet of the waters still moved till they came to the hillwhereon the Abbey stood. Then the Abbot prayed to God that the watersmight be stayed, and God heard, and the sea came no farther. 

And that this tale is true, and not a fable made by the weavers of words, he who doubts may know from the fisher-folk, who to-day ply their callingamongst the reefs and sandbanks of that lonely coast. For there arethose among them who, peering from the bows of their small craft, haveseen far down beneath their keels a city of strange streets and manyquays. But as to this, I, who repeat these things to you, cannot speakof my own knowledge, for this city of the sea is only visible when a rarewind, blowing from the north, sweeps the shadows from the waves; andthough on many a sunny day I have drifted where its seven towers shouldonce have stood, yet for me that wind has never blown, pushing back thecurtains of the sea, and, therefore, I have strained my eyes in vain. 

But this I do know, that the rumbling stones of that ancient Abbey, between which and the foam fringe of the ocean the town of seven towersonce lay, now stand upon a wave-washed cliff, and that he who looks forthfrom its shattered mullions to-day sees only the marshland and thewrinkled waters, hears only the plaint of the circling gulls and theweary crying of the sea. 

And that God's anger is not everlasting, and that the evil that there isin men shall be blotted out, he who doubts may also learn from the wisdomof the simple fisher-folk, who dwell about the borders of the marsh-land;for they will tell him that on stormy nights there speaks a deep voicefrom the sea, calling the dead monks to rise from their forgotten graves, and chant a mass for the souls of the men of the town of seven towers. Clothed in long glittering white, they move with slowly pacing feetaround the Abbey's grass-grown aisles, and the music of their prayers isheard above the screaming of the storm. And to this I also can bearwitness, for I have seen the passing of their shrouded forms behind theblackness of the shattered shafts; I have heard their sweet, sad singingabove the wailing of the wind. 

Thus for many ages have the dead monks prayed that the men of the town ofseven towers may be forgiven. Thus, for many ages yet shall they sopray, till the day come when of their once fair Abbey not a single stoneshall stand upon its fellow; and in that day it shall be known that theanger of God against the men of the town of seven towers has passed away;and in that day the feet of the waters shall move back, and the town ofseven towers shall stand again upon the dry land. 

There be some, I know, who say that this is but a legend; who will tellyou that the shadowy shapes that you may see with your own eyes on stormynights, waving their gleaming arms behind the ruined buttresses are butof phosphorescent foam, tossed by the raging waves above the cliffs; andthat the sweet, sad harmony cleaving the trouble of the night is but theaeolian music of the wind. 

But such are of the blind, who see only with their eyes. For myself Isee the white-robed monks, and hear the chanting of their mass for thesouls of the sinful men of the town of seven towers. For it has beensaid that when an evil deed is done, a prayer is born to follow itthrough time into eternity, and plead for it. Thus is the whole worldclasped around with folded hands both of the dead and of the living, aswith a shield, lest the shafts of God's anger should consume it. 

Therefore, I know that the good monks of this nameless Abbey are stillpraying that the sin of those they love may be forgiven. 

God grant good men may say a mass for us. 

DRIFTWOOD

CHARACTERS

MR. TRAVERS. 

MRS. TRAVERS. 

MARION [their daughter]. 

DAN [a gentleman of no position]. 

* * * * *

SCENE: A room opening upon a garden. The shadows creep from theircorners, driving before them the fading twilight. 

MRS. TRAVERS sits in a wickerwork easy chair. MR. TRAVERS, smoking acigar, sits the other side of the room. MARION stands by the open Frenchwindow, looking out. 

MR. TRAVERS. Nice little place Harry's got down here. 

MRS. TRAVERS. Yes; I should keep this on if I were you, Marion. You'llfind it very handy. One can entertain so cheaply up the river; one isnot expected to make much of a show. [She turns to her husband. ] Yourpoor cousin Emily used to work off quite half her list that way--relationsand Americans, and those sort of people, you know--at that little placeof theirs at Goring. You remember it--a poky hole I always thought it, but it had a lot of green stuff over the door--looked very pretty fromthe other side of the river. She always used to have cold meat andpickles for lunch--called it a picnic. People said it was so homely andsimple. 

MR. TRAVERS. They didn't stop long, I remember. 

MRS. TRAVERS. And there was a special champagne she always kept for theriver--only twenty-five shillings a dozen, I think she told me she paidfor it, and very good it was too, for the price. That old Indianmajor--what was his name?--said it suited him better than anything elsehe had ever tried. He always used to drink a tumblerful beforebreakfast; such a funny thing to do. I've often wondered where she gotit. 

MR. TRAVERS. So did most people who tasted it. Marion wants to forgetthose lessons, not learn them. She is going to marry a rich man who willbe able to entertain his guests decently. 

MRS. TRAVERS. Oh, well, James, I don't know. None of us can afford tolive up to the income we want people to think we've got. One musteconomise somewhere. A pretty figure we should cut in the county if Ididn't know how to make fivepence look like a shilling. And, besides, there are certain people that one has to be civil to, that, at the sametime, one doesn't want to introduce into one's regular circle. If youtake my advice, Marion, you won't encourage those sisters of Harry's morethan you can help. They're dear sweet girls, and you can be very nice tothem; but don't have them too much about. Their manners are terribly old-fashioned, and they've no notion how to dress, and those sort of peoplelet down the tone of a house. 

MARION. I'm not likely to have many "dear sweet girls" on my visitinglist. [With a laugh. ] There will hardly be enough in common to make thecompany desired, on either side. 

MRS. TRAVERS. Well, I only want you to be careful, my dear. So muchdepends on how you begin, and with prudence there's really no reason whyyou shouldn't do very well. I suppose there's no doubt about Harry'sincome. He won't object to a few inquiries?

MARION. I think you may trust me to see to that, mamma. It would be abad bargain for me, if even the cash were not certain. 

MR. TRAVERS [jumping up]. Oh, I do wish you women wouldn't discuss thematter in that horribly business-like way. One would think the girl wasselling herself. 

MRS. TRAVERS. Oh, don't be foolish, James. One must look at thepractical side of these things. Marriage is a matter of sentiment to aman--very proper that it should be. A woman has to remember that she'sfixing her position for life. 

MARION. You see, papa dear, it's her one venture. If she doesn't sellherself to advantage then, she doesn't get another opportunity--veryeasily. 

MR. TRAVERS. Umph! When I was a young man, girls talked more about loveand less about income. 

MARION. Perhaps they had not our educational advantages. 

[DAN enters from the garden. He is a man of a little over forty, hislinen somewhat frayed about the edges. ]

MRS. TRAVERS. Ah! We were just wondering where all you people had gotto. 

DAN. We've been out sailing. I've been sent up to fetch you. It'sdelightful on the river. The moon is just rising. 

MRS. TRAVERS. But it's so cold. 

MR. TRAVERS. Oh, never mind the cold. It's many a long year since youand I looked at the moon together. It will do us good. 

MRS. TRAVERS. Ah, dear. Boys will be boys. Give me my wrap then. 

[DAN places it about her. They move towards the window, where they standtalking. MARION has slipped out and returns with her father's cap. Hetakes her face between his hands and looks at her. ]

MR. TRAVERS. Do you really care for Harry, Marion?

MARION. As much as one can care for a man with five thousand a year. Perhaps he will make it ten one day--then I shall care for him twice asmuch. [Laughs. ]

MR. TRAVERS. And are you content with this marriage?

MARION. Quite. 

[He shakes his head gravely at her. ]

MRS. TRAVERS. Aren't you coming, Marion?

MARION. No. I'm feeling tired. 

[MR. And MRS. TRAVERS go out. ]

DAN. Are you going to leave Harry alone with two pairs of lovers?

MARION [with a laugh]. Yes--let him see how ridiculous they look. Ihate the night--it follows you and asks questions. Shut it out. Comeand talk to me. Amuse me. 

DAN. What shall I talk to you about?

MARION. Oh, tell me all the news. What is the world doing? Who has runaway with whose wife? Who has been swindling whom? Which philanthropisthas been robbing the poor? What saint has been discovered sinning? Whatis the latest scandal? Who has been found out? and what is it they havebeen doing? and what is everybody saying about it?

DAN. Would it amuse you?

MARION [she sits by the piano, softly touching the keys, idly recallingmany memories]. What should it do? Make me weep? Should not one beglad to know one's friends better?

DAN. I wish you wouldn't be clever. Everyone one meets is clevernowadays. It came in when the sun-flower went out. I preferred the sun-flower; it was more amusing. 

MARION. And stupid people, I suppose, will come in when the cleverpeople go out. I prefer the clever. They have better manners. You'reexceedingly disagreeable. [She leaves the piano, and, throwing herselfupon the couch, takes up a book. ]

DAN. I know I am. The night has been with me also. It follows one andasks questions. 

MARION. What questions has it been asking you?

DAN. Many--and so many of them have no answer. Why am I a useless, drifting log upon the world's tide? Why have all the young men passedme? Why am I, at thirty-nine, let us say, with brain, with power, withstrength--nobody thinks I am worth anything, but I am--I know it. Imight have been an able editor, devoting every morning from ten tillthree to arranging the affairs of the Universe, or a popular politician, trying to understand what I was talking about, and to believe it. Andwhat am I? A newspaper reporter, at three-ha'pence a line--I beg theirpardon, its occasionally twopence. 

MARION. Does it matter?

DAN. Does it matter! Does it matter whether a Union Jack or a Tricolorfloats over the turrets of Badajoz? yet we pour our blood into itsditches to decide the argument. Does it matter whether one star more orless is marked upon our charts? yet we grow blind peering into theirdepths. Does it matter that one keel should slip through the grip of thePolar ice? yet nearer, nearer to it, we pile our whitening bones. Andit's worth playing, the game of life. And there's a meaning in it. It'sworth playing, if only that it strengthens the muscles of our souls. I'dlike to have taken a hand in it. 

MARION. Why didn't you?

DAN. No partner. Dull playing by oneself. No object. 

MARION [after a silence]. What was she like?

DAN. So like you that there are times when I almost wish I had never metyou. You set me thinking about myself, and that is a subject I find itpleasanter to forget. 

MARION. And this woman that was like me--she could have made a man'slife?

DAN. Ay!

MARION. Won't you tell me about her? Had she many faults?

DAN. Enough to love her by. 

MARION. But she must have been good. 

DAN. Good enough to be a woman. 

MARION. That might mean so much or so little. 

DAN. It should mean much to my thinking. There are few women. 

MARION. Few! I thought the economists held that there were too many ofus. 

DAN. Not enough--not enough to go round. That is why a true woman hasmany lovers. 

[There is a silence between them. Then MARION rises, but their eyes donot meet. ]

MARION. How serious we have grown!

DAN. They say a dialogue between a man and woman always does. 

MARION [she moves away, then, hesitating, half returns]. May I ask you aquestion?

DAN. That is an easy favour to grant. 

MARION. If--if at any time you felt regard again for a woman, would you, for her sake, if she wished it, seek to gain, even now, that position inthe world which is your right--which would make her proud of yourfriendship--would make her feel that even her life had not beenaltogether without purpose?

DAN. Too late! The old hack can only look over the hedge, and watch thefield race by. The old ambition stirs within me at times--especiallyafter a glass of good wine--and Harry's wine--God bless him--isexcellent--but to-morrow morning--[with a shrug of his shoulders hefinishes his meaning]. 

MARION. Then she could do nothing?

DAN. Nothing for his fortunes--much for himself. My dear young lady, never waste pity on a man in love--nor upon a child crying for the moon. The moon is a good thing to cry for. 

MARION. I am glad I am like her. I am glad that I have met you. 

[She gives him her hand, and for a moment he holds it. Then she goesout. ]

[A flower has fallen from her breast, whether by chance or meaning, heknows not. He picks it up and kisses it; stands twirling it, undecidedfor a second, then lets it fall again upon the floor. ]