VICTORIAN SHORT STORIES OF TROUBLED MARRIAGES

CONTENTS

 THE BRONCKHORST DIVORCE-CASE by Rudyard Kipling

 IRREMEDIABLE by Ella D'Arcy

 'A POOR STICK' by Arthur Morrison

 THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE by Arthur Conan Doyle

 THE PRIZE LODGER by George Gissing

THE BRONCKHORST DIVORCE-CASE

By Rudyard Kipling

(_Civil and Military Gazette_, 26 September 1884)

In the daytime, when she moved about me, In the night, when she was sleeping at my side, --I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence, Day by day and night by night I grew to hate her-- Would God that she or I had died!

--CONFESSIONS

There was a man called Bronckhorst--a three-cornered, middle-aged man inthe Army--grey as a badger, and, some people said, with a touch ofcountry-blood in him. That, however, cannot be proved. Mrs. Bronckhorstwas not exactly young, though fifteen years younger than her husband. She was a large, pale, quiet woman, with heavy eyelids over weak eyes, and hair that turned red or yellow as the lights fell on it. 

Bronckhorst was not nice in any way. He had no respect for the prettypublic and private lies that make life a little less nasty than it is. His manner towards his wife was coarse. There are many things--includingactual assault with the clenched fist--that a wife will endure; butseldom a wife can bear--as Mrs. Bronckhorst bore--with a long course ofbrutal, hard chaff, making light of her weaknesses, her headaches, hersmall fits of gaiety, her dresses, her queer little attempts to makeherself attractive to her husband when she knows that she is not whatshe has been, and--worst of all--the love that she spends on herchildren. That particular sort of heavy-handed jest was specially dearto Bronckhorst. I suppose that he had first slipped into it, meaning noharm, in the honeymoon, when folk find their ordinary stock ofendearments run short, and so go to the other extreme to express theirfeelings. A similar impulse makes a man say, '_Hutt_, you old beast!'when a favourite horse nuzzles his coat-front. Unluckily, when thereaction of marriage sets in, the form of speech remains, and, thetenderness having died out, hurts the wife more than she cares to say. But Mrs. Bronckhorst was devoted to her 'Teddy' as she called him. Perhaps that was why he objected to her. Perhaps--this is only a theoryto account for his infamous behaviour later on--he gave way to thequeer, savage feeling that sometimes takes by the throat a husbandtwenty years married, when he sees, across the table, the same, sameface of his wedded wife, and knows that, as he has sat facing it, somust he continue to sit until the day of its death or his own. Most menand all women know the spasm. It only lasts for three breaths as a rule, must be a 'throw-back' to times when men and women were rather worsethan they are now, and is too unpleasant to be discussed. 

Dinner at the Bronckhorsts' was an infliction few men cared to undergo. Bronckhorst took a pleasure in saying things that made his wife wince. When their little boy came in at dessert Bronckhorst used to give himhalf a glass of wine, and, naturally enough, the poor little mite gotfirst riotous, next miserable, and was removed screaming. Bronckhorstasked if that was the way Teddy usually behaved, and whether Mrs. Bronckhorst could not spare some of her time 'to teach the little beggardecency'. Mrs. Bronckhorst, who loved the boy more than her own life, tried not to cry--her spirit seemed to have been broken by her marriage. Lastly, Bronckhorst used to say, 'There! That'll do, that'll do. ForGod's sake try to behave like a rational woman. Go into thedrawing-room. ' Mrs. Bronckhorst would go, trying to carry it all offwith a smile; and the guest of the evening would feel angry anduncomfortable. 

After three years of this cheerful life--for Mrs. Bronckhorst had nowomen-friends to talk to--the station was startled by the news thatBronckhorst had instituted proceedings _on the criminal count_, againsta man called Biel, who certainly had been rather attentive to Mrs. Bronckhorst whenever she had appeared in public. The utter want ofreserve with which Bronckhorst treated his own dishonour helped us toknow that the evidence against Biel would be entirely circumstantial andnative. There were no letters; but Bronckhorst said openly that he wouldrack Heaven and Earth until he saw Biel superintending the manufactureof carpets in the Central Jail. Mrs. Bronckhorst kept entirely to herhouse, and let charitable folks say what they pleased. Opinions weredivided. Some two-thirds of the station jumped at once to the conclusionthat Biel was guilty; but a dozen men who knew and liked him held byhim. Biel was furious and surprised. He denied the whole thing, andvowed that he would thrash Bronckhorst within an inch of his life. Nojury, we knew, would convict a man on the criminal count on nativeevidence in a land where you can buy a murder-charge, including thecorpse, all complete for fifty-four rupees; but Biel did not care toscrape through by the benefit of a doubt. He wanted the whole thingcleared; but, as he said one night, 'He can prove anything withservants' evidence, and I've only my bare word. ' This was almost a monthbefore the case came on; and beyond agreeing with Biel, we could dolittle. All that we could be sure of was that the native evidence wouldbe bad enough to blast Biel's character for the rest of his service; forwhen a native begins perjury he perjures himself thoroughly. He does notboggle over details. 

Some genius at the end of the table whereat the affair was being talkedover, said, 'Look here! I don't believe lawyers are any good. Get a manto wire to Strickland, and beg him to come down and pull us through. '

Strickland was about a hundred and eighty miles up the line. He had notlong been married to Miss Youghal, but he scented in the telegram achance of return to the old detective work that his soul lusted after, and next time he came in and heard our story. He finished his pipe andsaid oracularly, 'We must get at the evidence. Oorya bearer, Mussulman_khit_ and sweeper _ayah_, I suppose, are the pillars of the charge. Iam on in this piece; but I'm afraid I'm getting rusty in my talk. '

He rose and went into Biel's bedroom, where his trunk had been put, andshut the door. An hour later, we heard him say, 'I hadn't the heart topart with my old make-ups when I married. Will this do?' There was aloathly _fakir_ salaaming in the doorway. 

'Now lend me fifty rupees, ' said Strickland, 'and give me your Words ofHonour that you won't tell my wife. '

He got all that he asked for, and left the house while the table drankhis health. What he did only he himself knows. A _fakir_ hung aboutBronckhorst's compound for twelve days. Then a sweeper appeared, andwhen Biel heard of _him_, he said that Strickland was an angelfull-fledged. Whether the sweeper made love to Janki, Mrs. Bronckhorst's_ayah_, is a question which concerns Strickland exclusively. 

He came back at the end of three weeks, and said quietly, 'You spoke thetruth, Biel. The whole business is put up from beginning to end. Jove!It almost astonishes _me_! That Bronckhorst beast isn't fit to live. '

There was uproar and shouting, and Biel said, 'How are you going toprove it? You can't say that you've been trespassing on Bronckhorst'scompound in disguise!'

'No, ' said Strickland. 'Tell your lawyer-fool, whoever he is, to get upsomething strong about "inherent improbabilities" and "discrepancies ofevidence". He won't have to speak, but it will make him happy, _I_'mgoing to run this business. '

Biel held his tongue, and the other men waited to see what would happen. They trusted Strickland as men trust quiet men. When the case came offthe Court was crowded. Strickland hung about in the veranda of theCourt, till he met the Mohammedan _khitmutgar_. Then he murmured a_fakir's_ blessing in his ear, and asked him how his second wife did. The man spun round, and, as he looked into the eyes of 'EstreekinSahib', his jaw dropped. You must remember that before Strickland wasmarried, he was, as I have told you already, a power among natives. Strickland whispered a rather coarse vernacular proverb to the effectthat he was abreast of all that was going on, and went into the Courtarmed with a gut trainer's-whip. 

The Mohammedan was the first witness, and Strickland beamed upon himfrom the back of the Court. The man moistened his lips with his tongueand, in his abject fear of 'Estreekin Sahib', the _fakir_ went back onevery detail of his evidence--said he was a poor man, and God was hiswitness that he had forgotten everything that Bronckhorst Sahib had toldhim to say. Between his terror of Strickland, the Judge, and Bronckhorsthe collapsed weeping. 

Then began the panic among the witnesses. Janki, the _ayah_, leeringchastely behind her veil, turned grey, and the bearer left the Court. Hesaid that his Mamma was dying, and that it was not wholesome for any manto lie unthriftily in the presence of 'Estreekin Sahib'. 

Biel said politely to Bronckhorst, 'Your witnesses don't seem to work. Haven't you any forged letters to produce?' But Bronckhorst was swayingto and fro in his chair, and there was a dead pause after Biel had beencalled to order. 

Bronckhorst's Counsel saw the look on his client's face, and withoutmore ado pitched his papers on the little green-baize table, and mumbledsomething about having been misinformed. The whole Court applaudedwildly, like soldiers at a theatre, and the Judge began to say what hethought. 

 * * * * *

Biel came out of the Court, and Strickland dropped a gut trainer's-whipin the veranda. Ten minutes later, Biel was cutting Bronckhorst intoribbons behind the old Court cells, quietly and without scandal. Whatwas left of Bronckhorst was sent home in a carriage; and his wife weptover it and nursed it into a man again. Later on, after Biel had managedto hush up the counter-charge against Bronckhorst of fabricating falseevidence, Mrs. Bronckhorst, with her faint, watery smile, said thatthere had been a mistake, but it wasn't her Teddy's fault altogether. She would wait till her Teddy came back to her. Perhaps he had growntired of her, or she had tried his patience, and perhaps we wouldn't cuther any more, and perhaps the mothers would let their children play with'little Teddy' again. He was so lonely. Then the station invited Mrs. Bronckhorst everywhere, until Bronckhorst was fit to appear in public, when he went Home and took his wife with him. According to latestadvices, her Teddy did come back to her, and they are moderately happy. Though, of course, he can never forgive her the thrashing that she wasthe indirect means of getting for him. 

 * * * * *

What Biel wants to know is, 'Why didn't I press home the charge againstthe Bronckhorst brute, and have him run in?'

What Mrs. Strickland wants to know is, 'How _did_ my husband bring sucha lovely, lovely Waler from your station? I know _all_ his moneyaffairs; and I'm _certain_ he didn't _buy_ it. '

What I want to know is, 'How do women like Mrs. Bronckhorst come tomarry men like Bronckhorst?'

And my conundrum is the most unanswerable of the three. 

IRREMEDIABLE

By Ella D'Arcy

(_Monochromes_, London: John Lane, 1893)

A young man strolled along a country road one August evening after along delicious day--a day of that blessed idleness the man of leisurenever knows: one must be a bank clerk forty-nine weeks out of thefifty-two before one can really appreciate the exquisite enjoyment ofdoing nothing for twelve hours at a stretch. Willoughby had spent themorning lounging about a sunny rickyard; then, when the heat grewunbearable, he had retreated to an orchard, where, lying on his back inthe long cool grass, he had traced the pattern of the apple-leavesdiapered above him upon the summer sky; now that the heat of the day wasover he had come to roam whither sweet fancy led him, to lean overgates, view the prospect, and meditate upon the pleasures of awell-spent day. Five such days had already passed over his head, fifteenmore remained to him. Then farewell to freedom and clean country air!Back again to London and another year's toil. 

He came to a gate on the right of the road. Behind it a footpathmeandered up over a grassy slope. The sheep nibbling on its summit castlong shadows down the hill almost to his feet. Road and fieldpath wereequally new to him, but the latter offered greener attractions; hevaulted lightly over the gate and had so little idea he was taking thusthe first step towards ruin that he began to whistle 'White Wings' frompure joy of life. 

The sheep stopped feeding and raised their heads to stare at him frompale-lashed eyes; first one and then another broke into a startled run, until there was a sudden woolly stampede of the entire flock. WhenWilloughby gained the ridge from which they had just scattered, he camein sight of a woman sitting on a stile at the further end of the field. As he advanced towards her he saw that she was young, and that she wasnot what is called 'a lady'--of which he was glad: an earlier episode inhis career having indissolubly associated in his mind ideas of femininerefinement with those of feminine treachery. 

He thought it probable this girl would be willing to dispense with theformalities of an introduction, and that he might venture with her onsome pleasant foolish chat. 

As she made no movement to let him pass he stood still, and, looking ather, began to smile. 

She returned his gaze from unabashed dark eyes, and then laughed, showing teeth white, sound, and smooth as split hazelnuts. 

'Do you wanter get over?' she remarked familiarly. 

'I'm afraid I can't without disturbing you. '

'Dontcher think you're much better where you are?' said the girl, onwhich Willoughby hazarded:

'You mean to say looking at you? Well, perhaps I am!'

The girl at this laughed again, but nevertheless dropped herself downinto the further field; then, leaning her arms upon the cross-bar, sheinformed the young man: 'No, I don't wanter spoil your walk. You weregoin' p'raps ter Beacon Point? It's very pretty that wye. '

'I was going nowhere in particular, ' he replied; 'just exploring, so tospeak. I'm a stranger in these parts. '

'How funny! Imer stranger here too. I only come down larse Friday tostye with a Naunter mine in Horton. Are you stying in Horton?'

Willoughby told her he was not in Orton, but at Povey Cross Farm out inthe other direction. 

'Oh, Mrs. Payne's, ain't it? I've heard aunt speak ovver. She takessummer boarders, don't chee? I egspeck you come from London, heh?'

'And I expect you come from London too?' said Willoughby, recognizingthe familiar accent. 

'You're as sharp as a needle, ' cried the girl with her unrestrainedlaugh; 'so I do. I'm here for a hollerday 'cos I was so done up with thework and the hot weather. I don't look as though I'd bin ill, do I? ButI was, though: for it was just stiflin' hot up in our workrooms alllarse month, an' tailorin's awful hard work at the bester times. '

Willoughby felt a sudden accession of interest in her. Like manyintelligent young men, he had dabbled a little in Socialism, and at onetime had wandered among the dispossessed; but since then, had caught upand held loosely the new doctrine--it is a good and fitting thing thatwoman also should earn her bread by the sweat of her brow. Always inreference to the woman who, fifteen months before, had treated him ill;he had said to himself that even the breaking of stones in the roadshould be considered a more feminine employment than the breaking ofhearts. 

He gave way therefore to a movement of friendliness for this workingdaughter of the people, and joined her on the other side of the stile intoken of his approval. She, twisting round to face him, leaned now withher back against the bar, and the sunset fires lent a fleeting glory toher face. Perhaps she guessed how becoming the light was, for she tookoff her hat and let it touch to gold the ends and fringes of her roughabundant hair. Thus and at this moment she made an agreeable picture, towhich stood as background all the beautiful, wooded Southshire view. 

'You don't really mean to say you are a tailoress?' said Willoughby, with a sort of eager compassion. 

'I do, though! An' I've bin one ever since I was fourteen. Look at myfingers if you don't b'lieve me. '

She put out her right hand, and he took hold of it, as he was expectedto do. The finger-ends were frayed and blackened by needle-pricks, butthe hand itself was plump, moist, and not unshapely. She meanwhileexamined Willoughby's fingers enclosing hers. 

'It's easy ter see you've never done no work!' she said, half admiring, half envious. 'I s'pose you're a tip-top swell, ain't you?'

'Oh, yes! I'm a tremendous swell indeed!' said Willoughby, ironically. He thought of his hundred and thirty pounds' salary; and he mentionedhis position in the British and Colonial Banking house, without sheddingmuch illumination on her mind, for she insisted:

'Well, anyhow, you're a gentleman. I've often wished I was a lady. Itmust be so nice ter wear fine clo'es an' never have ter do any work allday long. '

Willoughby thought it innocent of the girl to say this; it reminded himof his own notion as a child--that kings and queens put on their crownsthe first thing on rising in the morning. His cordiality rose anotherdegree. 

'If being a gentleman means having nothing to do, ' said he, smiling, 'I can certainly lay no claim to the title. Life isn't all beer andskittles with me, any more than it is with you. Which is the betterreason for enjoying the present moment, don't you think? Suppose, now, like a kind little girl, you were to show me the way to Beacon Point, which you say is so pretty?'

She required no further persuasion. As he walked beside her through theupland fields where the dusk was beginning to fall, and the whiteevening moths to emerge from their daytime hiding-places, she asked himmany personal questions, most of which he thought fit to parry. Takingno offence thereat, she told him, instead, much concerning herself andher family. Thus he learned her name was Esther Stables, that she andher people lived Whitechapel way; that her father was seldom sober, andher mother always ill; and that the aunt with whom she was staying keptthe post-office and general shop in Orton village. He learned, too, thatEsther was discontented with life in general; that, though she hatedbeing at home, she found the country dreadfully dull; and that, consequently, she was extremely glad to have made his acquaintance. Butwhat he chiefly realized when they parted was that he had spent a coupleof pleasant hours talking nonsense with a girl who was natural, simple-minded, and entirely free from that repellently protectiveatmosphere with which a woman of the 'classes' so carefully surroundsherself. He and Esther had 'made friends' with the ease and rapidity ofchildren before they have learned the dread meaning of 'etiquette', andthey said good night, not without some talk of meeting each other again. 

Obliged to breakfast at a quarter to eight in town, Willoughby wasalways luxuriously late when in the country, where he took his mealsalso in leisurely fashion, often reading from a book propped up on thetable before him. But the morning after his meeting with Esther Stablesfound him less disposed to read than usual. Her image obtruded itselfupon the printed page, and at length grew so importunate he came to theconclusion the only way to lay it was to confront it with the girlherself. 

Wanting some tobacco, he saw a good reason for going into Orton. Estherhad told him he could get tobacco and everything else at her aunt's. Hefound the post-office to be one of the first houses in the widely spacedvillage street. In front of the cottage was a small garden ablaze withold-fashioned flowers; and in a large garden at one side wereapple-trees, raspberry and currant bushes, and six thatched beehives ona bench. The bowed windows of the little shop were partly screened bysunblinds; nevertheless the lower panes still displayed a heterogeneouscollection of goods--lemons, hanks of yarn, white linen buttons uponblue cards, sugar cones, churchwarden pipes, and tobacco jars. Aletter-box opened its narrow mouth low down in one wall, and over thedoor swung the sign, 'Stamps and money-order office', in black letterson white enamelled iron. 

The interior of the shop was cool and dark. A second glass-door at theback permitted Willoughby to see into a small sitting-room, and outagain through a low and square-paned window to the sunny landscapebeyond. Silhouetted against the light were the heads of two women; therough young head of yesterday's Esther, the lean outline and bugled capof Esther's aunt. 

It was the latter who at the jingling of the doorbell rose from her workand came forward to serve the customer; but the girl, with much mutemeaning in her eyes, and a finger laid upon her smiling mouth, followedbehind. Her aunt heard her footfall. 'What do you want here, Esther?'she said with thin disapproval; 'get back to your sewing. '

Esther gave the young man a signal seen only by him and slipped out intothe side-garden, where he found her when his purchases were made. Sheleaned over the privet-hedge to intercept him as he passed. 

'Aunt's an awful ole maid, ' she remarked apologetically; 'I b'lieveshe'd never let me say a word to enny one if she could help it. '

'So you got home all right last night?' Willoughby inquired; 'what didyour aunt say to you?'

'Oh, she arst me where I'd been, and I tolder a lotter lies. ' Then, witha woman's intuition, perceiving that this speech jarred, Esther madehaste to add, 'She's so dreadful hard on me. I dursn't tell her I'd beenwith a gentleman or she'd never have let me out alone again. '

'And at present I suppose you'll be found somewhere about that samestile every evening?' said Willoughby foolishly, for he really did notmuch care whether he met her again or not. Now he was actually in hercompany, he was surprised at himself for having given her a wholemorning's thought; yet the eagerness of her answer flattered him, too. 

'Tonight I can't come, worse luck! It's Thursday, and the shops hereclose of a Thursday at five. I'll havter keep aunt company. Buttomorrer? I can be there tomorrer. You'll come, say?'

'Esther!' cried a vexed voice, and the precise, right-minded auntemerged through a row of raspberry-bushes; 'whatever are you thinkingabout, delayin' the gentleman in this fashion?' She was full of rusticand official civility for 'the gentleman', but indignant with her niece. 'I don't want none of your London manners down here, ' Willoughby heardher say as she marched the girl off. 

He himself was not sorry to be released from Esther's too friendly eyes, and he spent an agreeable evening over a book, and this time managed toforget her completely. 

Though he remembered her first thing next morning, it was to smilewisely and determine he would not meet her again. Yet by dinner-time theday seemed long; why, after all, should he not meet her? By tea-timeprudence triumphed anew--no, he would not go. Then he drank his teahastily and set off for the stile. 

Esther was waiting for him. Expectation had given an additional colourto her cheeks, and her red-brown hair showed here and there a beautifulglint of gold. He could not help admiring the vigorous way in which itwaved and twisted, or the little curls which grew at the nape of herneck, tight and close as those of a young lamb's fleece. Her neck herewas admirable, too, in its smooth creaminess; and when her eyes lightedup with such evident pleasure at his coming, how avoid the convictionshe was a good and nice girl after all?

He proposed they should go down into the little copse on the right, where they would be less disturbed by the occasional passer-by. Here, seated on a felled tree-trunk, Willoughby began that bantering, silly, meaningless form of conversation known among the 'classes' as flirting. He had but the wish to make himself agreeable, and to while away thetime. Esther, however, misunderstood him. 

Willoughby's hand lay palm downwards on his knee, and she, noticing aring which he wore on his little finger, took hold of it. 

'What a funny ring!' she said; 'let's look?'

To disembarrass himself of her touch, he pulled the ring off and gaveit her to examine. 

'What's that ugly dark green stone?' she asked. 

'It's called a sardonyx. '

'What's it for?' she said, turning it about. 

'It's a signet ring, to seal letters with. '

'An' there's a sorter king's head scratched on it, an' some writin' too, only I carnt make it out?'

'It isn't the head of a king, although it wears a crown, ' Willoughbyexplained, 'but the head and bust of a Saracen against whom my ancestorof many hundred years ago went to fight in the Holy Land. And the wordscut round it are our motto, "Vertue vauncet", which means virtueprevails. '

Willoughby may have displayed some accession of dignity in giving thisbit of family history, for Esther fell into uncontrolled laughter, atwhich he was much displeased. And when the girl made as though she wouldput the ring on her own finger, asking, 'Shall I keep it?' he colouredup with sudden annoyance. 

'It was only my fun!' said Esther hastily, and gave him the ring back, but his cordiality was gone. He felt no inclination to renew theidle-word pastime, said it was time to go, and, swinging his canevexedly, struck off the heads of the flowers and the weeds as he went. Esther walked by his side in complete silence, a phenomenon of which hepresently became conscious. He felt rather ashamed of having showntemper. 

'Well, here's your way home, ' said he with an effort at friendliness. 'Goodbye; we've had a nice evening anyhow. It was pleasant down therein the woods, eh?'

He was astonished to see her eyes soften with tears, and to hear thereal emotion in her voice as she answered, 'It was just heaven downthere with you until you turned so funny-like. What had I done to makeyou cross? Say you forgive me, do!'

'Silly child!' said Willoughby, completely mollified, 'I'm not the leastangry. There, goodbye!' and like a fool he kissed her. 

He anathematized his folly in the white light of next morning, and, remembering the kiss he had given her, repented it very sincerely. Hehad an uncomfortable suspicion she had not received it in the samespirit in which it had been bestowed, but, attaching more seriousmeaning to it, would build expectations thereon which must be leftunfulfilled. It was best indeed not to meet her again; for heacknowledged to himself that, though he only half liked, and evenslightly feared her, there was a certain attraction about her--was it inher dark unflinching eyes or in her very red lips?--which might lead himinto greater follies still. 

Thus it came about that for two successive evenings Esther waited forhim in vain, and on the third evening he said to himself, with agrudging relief, that by this time she had probably transferred heraffections to someone else. 

It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he left town. He spent theday about the farm, contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding of thestock, and assisted at the afternoon milking. Then at evening, with arefilled pipe, he went for a long lean over the west gate, while hetraced fantastic pictures and wove romances in the glories of the sunsetclouds. 

He watched the colours glow from gold to scarlet, change to crimson, sink at last to sad purple reefs and isles, when the suddenconsciousness of someone being near him made him turn round. Therestood Esther, and her eyes were full of eagerness and anger. 

'Why have you never been to the stile again?' she asked him. 'Youpromised to come faithful, and you never came. Why have you not kep'your promise? Why? Why?' she persisted, stamping her foot becauseWilloughby remained silent. 

What could he say? Tell her she had no business to follow him like this;or own, what was, unfortunately, the truth, he was just a little glad tosee her?

'Praps you don't care for me any more?' she said. 'Well, why did youkiss me, then?'

Why, indeed! thought Willoughby, marvelling at his own idiocy, andyet--such is the inconsistency of man--not wholly without the desire tokiss her again. And while he looked at her she suddenly flung herselfdown on the hedge-bank at his feet and burst into tears. She did notcover up her face, but simply pressed one cheek down upon the grasswhile the water poured from her eyes with astonishing abundance. Willoughby saw the dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank the tearsin. This, his first experience of Esther's powers of weeping, distressedhim horribly; never in his life before had he seen anyone weep likethat, he should not have believed such a thing possible; he was alarmed, too, lest she should be noticed from the house. He opened the gate;'Esther!' he begged, 'don't cry. Come out here, like a dear girl, andlet us talk sensibly. '

Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes, he gaveher his hand, and they found themselves in a field of corn, walkingalong the narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow of thehedgerow. 

'What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for two days?'he began; 'why, Esther, we are only strangers, after all. When we havebeen at home a week or two we shall scarcely remember each other'snames. '

Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had ceased. 'It's fine for youto talk of home, ' she said to this. 'You've got something that is ahome, I s'pose? But me! my home's like hell, with nothing butquarrellin' and cursin', and a father who beats us whether sober ordrunk. Yes!' she repeated shrewdly, seeing the lively disgust onWilloughby's face, 'he beat me, all ill as I was, jus' before I comeaway. I could show you the bruises on my arms still. And now to go backthere after knowin' you! It'll be worse than ever. I can't endure it, and I won't! I'll put an end to it or myself somehow, I swear!'

'But my poor Esther, how can I help it? what can I do?' said Willoughby. He was greatly moved, full of wrath with her father, with all the worldwhich makes women suffer. He had suffered himself at the hands of awoman and severely, but this, instead of hardening his heart, had onlyrendered it the more supple. And yet he had a vivid perception of theperil in which he stood. An interior voice urged him to break away, toseek safety in flight even at the cost of appearing cruel or ridiculous;so, coming to a point in the field where an elm-hole jutted out acrossthe path, he saw with relief he could now withdraw his hand from thegirl's, since they must walk singly to skirt round it. 

Esther took a step in advance, stopped and suddenly turned to face him;she held out her two hands and her face was very near his own. 

'Don't you care for me one little bit?' she said wistfully, and surelysudden madness fell upon him. For he kissed her again, he kissed hermany times, he took her in his arms, and pushed all thoughts of theconsequences far from him. 

But when, an hour later, he and Esther stood by the last gate on theroad to Orton, some of these consequences were already calling loudly tohim. 

'You know I have only £130 a year?' he told her; 'it's no very brilliantprospect for you to marry me on that. '

For he had actually offered her marriage, although to the mediocreman such a proceeding must appear incredible, uncalled for. But toWilloughby, overwhelmed with sadness and remorse, it seemed the onlyatonement possible. 

Sudden exultation leaped at Esther's heart. 

'Oh! I'm used to managing' she told him confidently, and mentallyresolved to buy herself, so soon as she was married, a black featherboa, such as she had coveted last winter. 

Willoughby spent the remaining days of his holiday in thinking out andplanning with Esther the details of his return to London and her own, the secrecy to be observed, the necessary legal steps to be taken, andthe quiet suburb in which they would set up housekeeping. And, sosuccessfully did he carry out his arrangements, that within five weeksfrom the day on which he had first met Esther Stables, he and she cameout one morning from a church in Highbury, husband and wife. It was amellow September day, the streets were filled with sunshine, andWilloughby, in reckless high spirits, imagined he saw a reflection ofhis own gaiety on the indifferent faces of the passersby. There being noone else to perform the office, he congratulated himself very warmly, and Esther's frequent laughter filled in the pauses of the day. 

 * * * * *

Three months later Willoughby was dining with a friend, and thehour-hand of the clock nearing ten, the host no longer resisted theguest's growing anxiety to be gone. He arose and exchanged with himgood wishes and goodbyes. 

'Marriage is evidently a most successful institution, ' said he, half-jesting, half-sincere; 'you almost make me inclined to go and getmarried myself. Confess now your thoughts have been at home the wholeevening. '

Willoughby thus addressed turned red to the roots of his hair, but didnot deny it. 

The other laughed. 'And very commendable they should be, ' he continued, 'since you are scarcely, so to speak, out of your honeymoon. '

With a social smile on his lips, Willoughby calculated a moment beforereplying, 'I have been married exactly three months and three days. 'Then, after a few words respecting their next meeting, the two shookhands and parted--the young host to finish the evening with books andpipe, the young husband to set out on a twenty minutes' walk to hishome. 

It was a cold, clear December night following a day of rain. A touch offrost in the air had dried the pavements, and Willoughby's footfallringing upon the stones re-echoed down the empty suburban street. Abovehis head was a dark, remote sky thickly powdered with stars, and as heturned westward Alpherat hung for a moment 'comme le point sur un _i_', over the slender spire of St John's. But he was insensible to the worldsabout him; he was absorbed in his own thoughts, and these, as his friendhad surmised, were entirely with his wife. For Esther's face was alwaysbefore his eyes, her voice was always in his ears, she filled theuniverse for him; yet only four months ago he had never seen her, hadnever heard her name. This was the curious part of it--here in Decemberhe found himself the husband of a girl who was completely dependent uponhim not only for food, clothes, and lodging, but for her presenthappiness, her whole future life; and last July he had been scarcelymore than a boy himself, with no greater care on his mind than thepleasant difficulty of deciding where he should spend his annual threeweeks' holiday. 

But it is events, not months or years, which age. Willoughby, whowas only twenty-six, remembered his youth as a sometime companionirrevocably lost to him; its vague, delightful hopes were nowcrystallized into definite ties, and its happy irresponsibilitiesdisplaced by a sense of care, inseparable perhaps from the mostfortunate of marriages. 

As he reached the street in which he lodged his pace involuntarilyslackened. While still some distance off, his eye sought out anddistinguished the windows of the room in which Esther awaited him. Through the broken slats of the Venetian blinds he could see the yellowgaslight within. The parlour beneath was in darkness; his landlady hadevidently gone to bed, there being no light over the hall-door either. In some apprehension he consulted his watch under the last street-lamphe passed, to find comfort in assuring himself it was only ten minutesafter ten. He let himself in with his latch-key, hung up his hat andovercoat by the sense of touch, and, groping his way upstairs, openedthe door of the first floor sitting-room. 

At the table in the centre of the room sat his wife, leaning upon herelbows, her two hands thrust up into her ruffled hair; spread out beforeher was a crumpled yesterday's newspaper, and so interested was she toall appearance in its contents that she neither spoke nor looked up asWilloughby entered. Around her were the still uncleared tokens of herlast meal: tea-slops, bread-crumbs, and an egg-shell crushed tofragments upon a plate, which was one of those trifles that setWilloughby's teeth on edge--whenever his wife ate an egg she persistedin turning the egg-cup upside down upon the tablecloth, and pounding theshell to pieces in her plate with her spoon. 

The room was repulsive in its disorder. The one lighted burner of thegaselier, turned too high, hissed up into a long tongue of flame. Thefire smoked feebly under a newly administered shovelful of 'slack', anda heap of ashes and cinders littered the grate. A pair of walking boots, caked in dry mud, lay on the hearth-rug just where they had been thrownoff. On the mantelpiece, amidst a dozen other articles which had nobusiness there, was a bedroom-candlestick; and every single article offurniture stood crookedly out of its place. 

Willoughby took in the whole intolerable picture, and yet spoke withkindliness. 'Well, Esther! I'm not so late, after all. I hope you didnot find the time dull by yourself?' Then he explained the reason of hisabsence. He had met a friend he had not seen for a couple of years, whohad insisted on taking him home to dine. 

His wife gave no sign of having heard him; she kept her eyes riveted onthe paper before her. 

'You received my wire, of course, ' Willoughby went on, 'and did notwait?'

Now she crushed the newspaper up with a passionate movement, and threwit from her. She raised her head, showing cheeks blazing with anger, anddark, sullen, unflinching eyes. 

'I did wyte then!' she cried 'I wyted till near eight before I gotyour old telegraph! I s'pose that's what you call the manners of a"gentleman", to keep your wife mewed up here, while you go gallivantin'off with your fine friends?'

Whenever Esther was angry, which was often, she taunted Willoughby withbeing 'a gentleman', although this was the precise point about him whichat other times found most favour in her eyes. But tonight she wasenvenomed by the idea he had been enjoying himself without her, stungby fear lest he should have been in company with some other woman. 

Willoughby, hearing the taunt, resigned himself to the inevitable. Nothing that he could do might now avert the breaking storm; all hiswords would only be twisted into fresh griefs. But sad experience hadtaught him that to take refuge in silence was more fatal still. WhenEsther was in such a mood as this it was best to supply the fire withfuel, that, through the very violence of the conflagration, it mightthe sooner burn itself out. 

So he said what soothing things he could, and Esther caught them up, disfigured them, and flung them back at him with scorn. She reproachedhim with no longer caring for her; she vituperated the conduct of hisfamily in never taking the smallest notice of her marriage; and shedetailed the insolence of the landlady who had told her that morning shepitied 'poor Mr. Willoughby', and had refused to go out and buy herringsfor Esther's early dinner. 

Every affront or grievance, real or imaginary, since the day she andWilloughby had first met, she poured forth with a fluency due tofrequent repetition, for, with the exception of today's added injuries, Willoughby had heard the whole litany many times before. 

While she raged and he looked at her, he remembered he had once thoughther pretty. He had seen beauty in her rough brown hair, her strongcolouring, her full red mouth. He fell into musing ... A woman may lackbeauty, he told himself, and yet be loved.... 

Meanwhile Esther reached white heats of passion, and the strain could nolonger be sustained. She broke into sobs and began to shed tears withthe facility peculiar to her. In a moment her face was all wet with thebig drops which rolled down her cheeks faster and faster, and fell withaudible splashes on to the table, on to her lap, on to the floor. Tothis tearful abundance, formerly a surprising spectacle, Willoughbywas now acclimatized; but the remnant of chivalrous feeling not yetextinguished in his bosom forbade him to sit stolidly by while a womanwept, without seeking to console her. As on previous occasions, hispeace-overtures were eventually accepted. Esther's tears graduallyceased to flow, she began to exhibit a sort of compunction, she wishedto be forgiven, and, with the kiss of reconciliation, passed into aphase of demonstrative affection perhaps more trying to Willoughby'spatience than all that had preceded it. 'You don't love me?' shequestioned, 'I'm sure you don't love me?' she reiterated; and heasseverated that he loved her until he despised himself. Then at last, only half satisfied, but wearied out with vexation--possibly, too, witha movement of pity at the sight of his haggard face--she consented toleave him. Only, what was he going to do? she asked suspiciously; writethose rubbishing stories of his? Well, he must promise not to stay upmore than half-an-hour at the latest--only until he had smoked one pipe. 

Willoughby promised, as he would have promised anything on earth tosecure to himself a half-hour's peace and solitude. Esther groped forher slippers, which were kicked off under the table; scratched four orfive matches along the box and threw them away before she succeeded inlighting her candle; set it down again to contemplate her tear-swollenreflection in the chimney-glass, and burst out laughing. 

'What a fright I do look, to be sure!' she remarked complacently, andagain thrust her two hands up through her disordered curls. Then, holding the candle at such an angle that the grease ran over on to thecarpet, she gave Willoughby another vehement kiss and trailed out of theroom with an ineffectual attempt to close the door behind her. 

Willoughby got up to shut it himself, and wondered why it was thatEsther never did any one mortal thing efficiently or well. Good God! howirritable he felt. It was impossible to write. He must find an outletfor his impatience, rend or mend something. He began to straighten theroom, but a wave of disgust came over him before the task was fairlycommenced. What was the use? Tomorrow all would be bad as before. Whatwas the use of doing anything? He sat down by the table and leaned hishead upon his hands. 

 * * * * *

The past came back to him in pictures: his boyhood's past first of all. He saw again the old home, every inch of which was familiar to him ashis own name; he reconstructed in his thought all the old well-knownfurniture, and replaced it precisely as it had stood long ago. He passedagain a childish finger over the rough surface of the faded Utrechtvelvet chairs, and smelled again the strong fragrance of the white lilactree, blowing in through the open parlour-window. He savoured anew thepleasant mental atmosphere produced by the dainty neatness of culturedwomen, the companionship of a few good pictures, of a few good books. Yet this home had been broken up years ago, the dear familiar things hadbeen scattered far and wide, never to find themselves under the sameroof again; and from those near relatives who still remained to him helived now hopelessly estranged. 

Then came the past of his first love-dream, when he worshipped at thefeet of Nora Beresford, and, with the whole-heartedness of the truefanatic, clothed his idol with every imaginable attribute of virtue andtenderness. To this day there remained a secret shrine in his heartwherein the Lady of his young ideal was still enthroned, although it waslong since he had come to perceive she had nothing whatever in commonwith the Nora of reality. For the real Nora he had no longer anysentiment, she had passed altogether out of his life and thoughts; andyet, so permanent is all influence, whether good or evil, that theeffect she wrought upon his character remained. He recognized tonightthat her treatment of him in the past did not count for nothing amongthe various factors which had determined his fate. 

Now, the past of only last year returned, and, strangely enough, thisseemed farther removed from him than all the rest. He had beenparticularly strong, well, and happy this time last year. Nora wasdismissed from his mind, and he had thrown all his energies into hiswork. His tastes were sane and simple, and his dingy, furnished roomshad become through habit very pleasant to him. In being his own, theywere invested with a greater charm than another man's castle. Here hehad smoked and studied, here he had made many a glorious voyage into theland of books. Many a homecoming, too, rose up before him out of thedark ungenial streets, to a clear blazing fire, a neatly laid cloth, anevening of ideal enjoyment; many a summer twilight when he mused at theopen window, plunging his gaze deep into the recesses of his neighbour'slime-tree, where the unseen sparrows chattered with such unflagginggaiety. 

He had always been given to much daydreaming, and it was in the silenceof his rooms of an evening that he turned his phantasmal adventures intostories for the magazines; here had come to him many an editorialrefusal, but here, too, he had received the news of his first unexpectedsuccess. All his happiest memories were embalmed in those shabby, badly-furnished rooms. 

Now all was changed. Now might there be no longer any soft indulgenceof the hour's mood. His rooms and everything he owned belonged now toEsther, too. She had objected to most of his photographs, and hadremoved them. She hated books, and were he ever so ill-advised as toopen one in her presence, she immediately began to talk, no matter howsilent or how sullen her previous mood had been. If he read aloud to hershe either yawned despairingly, or was tickled into laughter where therewas no reasonable cause. At first Willoughby had tried to educate her, and had gone hopefully to the task. It is so natural to think you maymake what you will of the woman who loves you. But Esther had no wish toimprove. She evinced all the self-satisfaction of an illiterate mind. Toher husband's gentle admonitions she replied with brevity that shethought her way quite as good as his; or, if he didn't approve of herpronunciation, he might do the other thing, she was too old to go toschool again. He gave up the attempt, and, with humiliation at hisprevious fatuity, perceived that it was folly to expect that a few weeksof his companionship could alter or pull up the impressions of years, orrather of generations. 

Yet here he paused to admit a curious thing: it was not only Esther'sbad habits which vexed him, but habits quite unblameworthy in themselveswhich he never would have noticed in another, irritated him in her. Hedisliked her manner of standing, of walking, of sitting in a chair, offolding her hands. Like a lover, he was conscious of her proximitywithout seeing her. Like a lover, too, his eyes followed her everymovement, his ear noted every change in her voice. But then, instead ofbeing charmed by everything as the lover is, everything jarred upon him. 

What was the meaning of this? Tonight the anomaly pressed upon him: hereviewed his position. Here was he, quite a young man, just twenty-sixyears of age, married to Esther, and bound to live with her so long aslife should last--twenty, forty, perhaps fifty years more. Every day ofthose years to be spent in her society; he and she face to face, soul tosoul; they two alone amid all the whirling, busy, indifferent world. Sonear together in semblance; in truth, so far apart as regards all thatmakes life dear. 

Willoughby groaned. From the woman he did not love, whom he had neverloved, he might not again go free; so much he recognized. The feeling hehad once entertained for Esther, strange compound of mistaken chivalryand flattered vanity, was long since extinct; but what, then, was thesentiment with which she inspired him? For he was not indifferent toher--no, never for one instant could he persuade himself he wasindifferent, never for one instant could he banish her from histhoughts. His mind's eye followed her during his hours of absence aspertinaciously as his bodily eye dwelt upon her actual presence. She wasthe principal object of the universe to him, the centre around which hiswheel of life revolved with an appalling fidelity. 

What did it mean? What could it mean? he asked himself with anguish. 

And the sweat broke out upon his forehead and his hands grew cold, foron a sudden the truth lay there like a written word upon the tableclothbefore him. This woman, whom he had taken to himself for better, forworse, inspired him with a passion, intense indeed, all-masterful, soul-subduing as Love itself.... But when he understood the terror ofhis Hatred, he laid his head upon his arms and wept, not facile tearslike Esther's, but tears wrung out from his agonizing, unavailingregret. 

'A POOR STICK'

By Arthur Morrison

(_Tales of Mean Streets_, London: Methuen and Co. , 1894) Published bypermission of Methuen and Co. 

Mrs. Jennings (or Jinnins, as the neighbours would have it) ruledabsolutely at home, when she took so much trouble as to do anything atall there--which was less often than might have been. As for Robert herhusband, he was a poor stick, said the neighbours. And yet he was a manwith enough of hardihood to remain a non-unionist in the erectors' shopat Maidment's all the years of his service; no mean test of a man'sfortitude and resolution, as many a sufferer for independent opinionmight testify. The truth was that Bob never grew out of hiscourtship-blindness. Mrs. Jennings governed as she pleased, stayed outor came home as she chose, and cooked a dinner or didn't, as herinclination stood. Thus it was for ten years, during which time therewere no children, and Bob bore all things uncomplaining: cooking his owndinner when he found none cooked, and sewing on his own buttons. Then ofa sudden came children, till in three years there were three; and BobJennings had to nurse and to wash them as often as not. 

Mrs. Jennings at this time was what is called rather a fine woman: awoman of large scale and full development; whose slatternly habit lefther coarse black hair to tumble in snake-locks about her face andshoulders half the day; who, clad in half-hooked clothes, bore herselfnotoriously and unabashed in her fullness; and of whom ill things weresaid regarding the lodger. The gossips had their excuse. The lodger wasan irregular young cabinet-maker, who lost quarters and halves and wholedays; who had been seen abroad with his landlady, what time Bob Jenningswas putting the children to bed at home; who on his frequent holidaysbrought in much beer, which he and the woman shared, while Bob was atwork. To carry the tale to Bob would have been a thankless errand, forhe would have none of anybody's sympathy, even in regard to miseriesplain to his eye. But the thing got about in the workshop, and therehis days were made bitter. 

At home things grew worse. To return at half-past five, and find thechildren still undressed, screaming, hungry and dirty, was a matter ofhabit: to get them food, to wash them, to tend the cuts and bumpssustained through the day of neglect, before lighting a fire and gettingtea for himself, were matters of daily duty. 'Ah, ' he said to hissister, who came at intervals to say plain things about Mrs. Jennings, 'you shouldn't go for to set a man agin 'is wife, Jin. Melier do'n' likework, I know, but that's nach'ral to 'er. She ought to married a swell'stead o' me; she might 'a' done easy if she liked, bein' sich a finegal; but she's good-'arted, is Melier; an' she can't 'elp bein' a bitthoughtless. ' Whereat his sister called him a fool (it was her customarygoodbye at such times), and took herself off. 

Bob Jennings's intelligence was sufficient for his common needs, but itwas never a vast intelligence. Now, under a daily burden of dull misery, it clouded and stooped. The base wit of the workshop he comprehendedless, and realized more slowly, than before; and the gaffer cursed himfor a sleepy dolt. 

Mrs. Jennings ceased from any pretence of housewifery, and wouldsometimes sit--perchance not quite sober--while Bob washed the childrenin the evening, opening her mouth only to express her contempt for himand his establishment, and to make him understand that she was sick ofboth. Once, exasperated by his quietness, she struck at him, and for amoment he was another man. 'Don't do that, Melier, ' he said, 'else Imight forget myself. ' His manner surprised his wife: and it was suchthat she never did do that again. 

So was Bob Jennings: without a friend in the world, except his sister, who chid him, and the children, who squalled at him: when his wifevanished with the lodger, the clock, a shade of wax flowers, Bob's bestboots (which fitted the lodger), and his silver watch. Bob had returned, as usual, to the dirt and the children, and it was only when he struck alight that he found the clock was gone. 

'Mummy tooked ve t'ock, ' said Milly, the eldest child, who had followedhim in from the door, and now gravely observed his movements. 'Shetooked ve t'ock an' went ta-ta. An' she tooked ve fyowers. '

Bob lit the paraffin lamp with the green glass reservoir, and carriedit and its evil smell about the house. Some things had been turned overand others had gone, plainly. All Melier's clothes were gone. The lodgerwas not in, and under his bedroom window, where his box had stood, therewas naught but an oblong patch of conspicuously clean wallpaper. In amuddle of doubt and perplexity, Bob found himself at the front door, staring up and down the street. Divers women-neighbours stood at theirdoors, and eyed him curiously; for Mrs. Webster, moralist, opposite, hadnot watched the day's proceedings (nor those of many other days) fornothing, nor had she kept her story to herself. 

He turned back into the house, a vague notion of what had befallenpercolating feebly through his bewilderment. 'I dunno--I dunno, ' hefaltered, rubbing his ear. His mouth was dry, and he moved his lipsuneasily, as he gazed with aimless looks about the walls and ceiling. Presently his eyes rested on the child, and 'Milly, ' he said decisively, 'come an 'ave yer face washed. '

He put the children to bed early, and went out. In the morning, when hissister came, because she had heard the news in common with everybodyelse, he had not returned. Bob Jennings had never lost more than twoquarters in his life, but he was not seen at the workshop all this day. His sister stayed in the house, and in the evening, at his regularhoming-time, he appeared, haggard and dusty, and began his preparationsfor washing the children. When he was made to understand that they hadbeen already attended to, he looked doubtful and troubled for a moment. Presently he said: 'I ain't found 'er yet, Jin; I was in 'opes she might'a' bin back by this. I--I don't expect she'll be very long. She wasalwis a bit larky, was Melier; but very good-'arted. '

His sister had prepared a strenuous lecture on the theme of 'I told youso'; but the man was so broken, so meek, and so plainly unhinged in hisfaculties, that she suppressed it. Instead, she gave him comfortabletalk, and made him promise in the end to sleep that night, and take uphis customary work in the morning. 

He did these things, and could have worked placidly enough had he butbeen alone; but the tale had reached the workshop, and there was no lackof brutish chaff to disorder him. This the decenter men would have nopart in, and even protested against. But the ill-conditioned kept theirway, till, at the cry of 'Bell O!' when all were starting for dinner, one of the worst shouted the cruellest gibe of all. Bob Jennings turnedon him and knocked him over a scrap-heap. 

A shout went up from the hurrying workmen, with a chorus of 'Serve yeright, ' and the fallen joker found himself awkwardly confronted by theshop bruiser. But Bob had turned to a corner, and buried his eyes in thebend of his arm, while his shoulders heaved and shook. 

He slunk away home, and stayed there: walking restlessly to and fro, andoften peeping down the street from the window. When, at twilight, hissister came again, he had become almost cheerful, and said with somebriskness: 'I'm agoin' to meet 'er, Jin, at seven. I know where she'llbe waitin'. '

He went upstairs, and after a little while came down again in his bestblack coat, carefully smoothing a tall hat of obsolete shape with hispocket-handkerchief. 'I ain't wore it for years, ' he said. 'I ought to'a' wore it--it might 'a' pleased 'er. She used to say she wouldn't walkwith me in no other--when I used to meet 'er in the evenin', at seveno'clock. ' He brushed assiduously, and put the hat on. 'I'd better 'avea shave round the corner as I go along, ' he added, fingering his stubblychin. 

He received as one not comprehending his sister's persuasion to remainat home; but when he went she followed at a little distance. After hispenny shave he made for the main road, where company-keeping coupleswalked up and down all evening. He stopped at a church, and began pacingslowly to and fro before it, eagerly looking out each way as he went. 

His sister watched him for nearly half an hour, and then went home. Intwo hours more she came back with her husband. Bob was still there, walking to and fro. 

''Ullo, Bob, ' said his brother-in-law; 'come along 'ome an' get to bed, there's a good chap. You'll be awright in the mornin'. '

'She ain't turned up, ' Bob complained, 'or else I've missed 'er. Thisis the reg'lar place--where I alwis used to meet 'er. But she'll cometomorrer. She used to leave me in the lurch sometimes, bein' nach'rallylarky. But very good-'arted, mindjer; very good-'arted. '

She did not come the next evening, nor the next, nor the evening after, nor the one after that. But Bob Jennings, howbeit depressed and anxious, was always confident. 'Somethink's prevented 'er tonight, ' he would say, 'but she'll come tomorrer.... I'll buy a blue tie tomorrer--she used tolike me in a blue tie. I won't miss 'er tomorrer. I'll come a littleearlier. '

So it went. The black coat grew ragged in the service, and hobbledehoys, finding him safe sport, smashed the tall hat over his eyes time aftertime. He wept over the hat, and straightened it as best he might. Wasshe coming? Night after night, and night and night. But tomorrow.... 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

By Arthur Conan Doyle

(_The Strand Magazine_, 23 January 1897)

It was on a bitterly cold night and frosty morning, towards the end ofthe winter of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. Itwas Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss. 

'Come, Watson, come!' he cried. The game is afoot. Not a word! Into yourclothes and come!'

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the silentstreets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint winter'sdawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the occasionalfigure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and indistinct inthe opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in silence into his heavycoat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was most bitter, andneither of us had broken our fast. 

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and takenour places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently thawed, he tospeak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his pocket, and readaloud:

Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent

3:30 A. M. 

My Dear Mr. Holmes:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises tobe a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. Exceptfor releasing the lady I will see that everything is kept exactly as Ihave found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficultto leave Sir Eustace there. 

Yours faithfully, STANLEY HOPKINS

'Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his summonshas been entirely justified, ' said Holmes. 'I fancy that every one ofhis cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection, which atones for muchwhich I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking ateverything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientificexercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and evenclassical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmostfinesse and delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details whichmay excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader. '

'Why do you not write them yourself?' I said, with some bitterness. 

'I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairlybusy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition ofa textbook, which shall focus the whole art of detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a case of murder. '

'You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?'

'I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation, and heis not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence, and thatthe body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would not havecaused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it wouldappear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy. We aremoving in high life, Watson, crackling paper, 'E. B. ' monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will liveup to his reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. Thecrime was committed before twelve last night. '

'How can you possibly tell?'

'By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The localpolice had to be called in, they had to communicate with Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send for me. All that makesa fair night's work. Well, here we are at Chislehurst Station, and weshall soon set our doubts at rest. '

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought usto a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whosehaggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue ranthrough a noble park, between lines of ancient elms, and ended in alow, widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, butthe large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, andone wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful figureand alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins confronted us in theopen doorway. 

'I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr. Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not have troubled you, forsince the lady has come to herself, she has given so clear an account ofthe affair that there is not much left for us to do. You remember thatLewisham gang of burglars?'

'What, the three Randalls?'

'Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not a doubtof it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were seen anddescribed. Rather cool to do another so soon and so near, but it isthey, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this time. '

'Sir Eustace is dead, then?'

'Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker. '

'Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me. '

'Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent--Lady Brackenstall is in themorning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. Sheseemed half dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her andhear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the dining-roomtogether. '

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so gracefula figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face. She was ablonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had theperfect complexion which goes with such colouring, had not her recentexperience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were physical aswell as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously withvinegar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but herquick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expressionof her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her couragehad been shaken by her terrible experience. She was enveloped in a loosedressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequin-covereddinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her. 

'I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins, ' she said, wearily. 'Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I willtell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the dining-roomyet?'

'I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first. '

'I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me tothink of him still lying there. ' She shuddered and buried her face inher hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation. 

'You have other injuries, madam! What is this?' Two vivid red spotsstood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily covered it. 

'It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business tonight. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you all I can. 

'I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married abouta year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that ourmarriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours wouldtell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the faultmay be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less conventionalatmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with itsproprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But the mainreason lies in the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that isthat Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for anhour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive andhigh-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is asacrilege, a crime, a villany to hold that such a marriage is binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon theland--God will not let such wickedness endure. ' For an instant she satup, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terriblemark upon her brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maiddrew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away intopassionate sobbing. At last she continued:

'I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in thishouse all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This central block ismade up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our bedroomabove. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who are in the farther wing. This musthave been well known to the robbers, or they would not have acted asthey did. 

'Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had already goneto their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in her roomat the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat until aftereleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked round to see thatall was right before I went upstairs. It was my custom to do thismyself, for, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to betrusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room, thebilliard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As Iapproached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I suddenlyfelt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was open. I flungthe curtain aside and found myself face to face with a broad shoulderedelderly man, who had just stepped into the room. The window is a longFrench one, which really forms a door leading to the lawn. I held mybedroom candle lit in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man Isaw two others, who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but thefellow was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and thenby the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savageblow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the ground. I musthave been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself, Ifound that they had torn down the bell-rope, and had secured me tightlyto the oaken chair which stands at the head of the dining-table. I wasso firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my mouthprevented me from uttering a sound. It was at this instant that myunfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard somesuspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. Hewas dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorncudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another--it was anelderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and struck him ahorrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only have been for a very fewminutes during which I was insensible. When I opened my eyes I foundthat they had collected the silver from the sideboard, and they haddrawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a glass inhis hand. I have already told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the others young, hairless lads. They might have beena father and his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then theycame over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally theywithdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter of anhour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams brought themaid to my assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed, and we sentfor the local police, who instantly communicated with London. That isreally all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust that it will notbe necessary for me to go over so painful a story again. '

'Any questions, Mr. Holmes?' asked Hopkins. 

'I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's patience andtime, ' said Holmes. 'Before I go into the dining-room, I should like tohear your experience. ' He looked at the maid. 

'I saw the men before ever they came into the house, ' said she. 'As Isat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight down by thelodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was morethan an hour after that I heard my mistress scream, and down I ran, tofind her, poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the floor, with hisblood and brains over the room. It was enough to drive a woman out ofher wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with him, but she neverwanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstallof Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've questioned her longenough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room, just withher old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs. '

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round hermistress and led her from the room. 

'She had been with her all her life, ' said Hopkins. 'Nursed her asa baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maidyou don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!'

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face, and I knewthat with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed. Therestill remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these commonplacerogues that he should soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learnedspecialist who finds that he has been called in for a case of measleswould experience something of the annoyance which I read in my friend'seyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange wassufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waninginterest. 

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oakenpanelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient weapons aroundthe walls. At the further end from the door was the high French windowof which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the right-hand sidefilled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside thefireplace was a heavy oaken chair with arms and crossbars at the bottom. In and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which wassecured at each side to the crosspiece below. In releasing the lady, thecord had been slipped off her, but the knots with which it had beensecured still remained. These details only struck our attentionafterwards, for our thoughts were entirely absorbed by the terribleobject which lay upon the tiger-skin heathrug in front of the fire. 

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age. Helay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth grinningthrough his short, black beard. His two clenched hands were raised abovehis head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of vindictivehatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for hewore a foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected fromhis trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room borewitness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable wreck which it hadwrought. 

'He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall, ' he remarked. 

'Yes, ' said Hopkins. 'I have some record of the fellow, and he is arough customer. '

'You should have no difficulty in getting him. '

'Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and there wassome idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know that thegang are here, I don't see how they can escape. We have the news atevery seaport already, and a reward will be offered before evening. Whatbeats me is how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing that thelady could describe them and that we could not fail to recognize thedescription. '

'Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence LadyBrackenstall as well. '

'They may not have realized, ' I suggested, 'that she had recovered fromher faint. '

'That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they would nottake her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to haveheard some queer stories about him. '

'He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend whenhe was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom reallywent the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such times, and hewas capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealthand his title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was ascandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it onfire--her ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse--and that was onlyhushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright--there was trouble about that. On the whole, and betweenourselves, it will be a brighter house without him. What are you lookingat now?'

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the knotsupon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then hecarefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it had snappedoff when the burglar had dragged it down. 

'When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have rungloudly, ' he remarked. 

'No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of thehouse. '

'How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull at abell-rope in that reckless fashion?'

'Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I haveasked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellowmust have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectlyunderstood that the servants would all be in bed at that comparativelyearly hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell ring in thekitchen. Therefore, he must have been in close league with one of theservants. Surely that is evident. But there are eight servants, and allof good character. '

'Other things being equal, ' said Holmes, 'one would suspect the oneat whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involvetreachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you willprobably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The lady's storycertainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by everydetail which we see before us. ' He walked to the French window and threwit open. 'There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard, and onewould not expect them. I see that these candles in the mantelpiece havebeen lighted. '

'Yes, it was by their light, and that of the lady's bedroom candle, thatthe burglars saw their way about. '

'And what did they take?'

'Well, they did not take much--only half a dozen articles of plate offthe sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves sodisturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack thehouse, as they would otherwise have done. '

'No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I understand. '

To steady their nerves. '

'Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched, Isuppose?'

'Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it. '

'Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?'

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing. The bottle stood nearthem, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle showed that it was no commonvintage which the murderers had enjoyed. 

A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his listlessexpression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen, deepset eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely. 

'How did they draw it?' he asked. 

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table linen anda large corkscrew. 

'Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?'

'No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the bottlewas opened. '

'Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was _not_ used. This bottlewas opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a knife, and notmore than an inch and a half long. If you will examine the top of thecork, you will observe that the screw was driven in three times beforethe cork was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screwwould have transfixed it and drawn it up with a single pull. When youcatch this fellow, you will find that he has one of these multiplexknives in his possession. '

'Excellent!' said Hopkins. 

'But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall actually_saw_ the three men drinking, did she not?'

'Yes; she was clear about that. '

'Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet, you mustadmit, that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What? Yousee nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps, when a man hasspecial knowledge and special powers like my own, it rather encourageshim to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Ofcourse, it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins. I don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear tohave your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall isarrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust that Ishall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves more profitably at home. '

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes's face that he was muchpuzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then, by aneffort, he would throw off the impression, and talk as if the matterwere clear, but then his doubts would settle down upon him again, andhis knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts hadgone back once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, inwhich this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a suddenimpulse, just as our train was crawling out of a suburban station, hesprang on to the platform and pulled me out after him. 

'Excuse me, my dear fellow, ' said he, as we watched the rear carriagesof our train disappearing round a curve, 'I am sorry to make you thevictim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life, Watson, I simply_can't_ leave that case in this condition. Every instinct that I possesscries out against it. It's wrong--it's all wrong--I'll swear that it'swrong. And yet the lady's story was complete, the maid's corroborationwas sufficient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put upagainst that? Three wineglasses, that is all. But if I had not takenthings for granted, if I had examined everything with care which Ishould have shown had we approached the case _de novo_ and had nocut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have foundsomething more definite to go upon? Of course I should. Sit down on thisbench, Watson, until a train for Chislehurst arrives, and allow me tolay the evidence before you, imploring you in the first instance todismiss from your mind the idea that anything which the maid or hermistress may have said must necessarily be true. The lady's charmingpersonality must not be permitted to warp our judgment. 

'Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in coldblood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a considerablehaul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them and of theirappearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone whowished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a good stroke of businessare, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quietwithout embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusualfor burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for burglarsto strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one would imagine thatwas the sure way to make her scream, it is unusual for them to commitmurder when their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man, it isunusual for them to be content with a limited plunder when there wasmuch more within their reach, and finally, I should say, that it wasvery unusual for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all theseunusuals strike you, Watson?'

'Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of themis quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as it seemsto me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair. '

'Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident thatthey must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that shecould not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I haveshown, have I not, that there is a certain element of improbabilityabout the lady's story? And now, on the top of this, comes the incidentof the wineglasses. '

'What about the wineglasses?'

'Can you see them in your mind's eye?'

'I see them clearly. '

'We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you aslikely?'

'Why not? There was wine in each glass. '

'Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must havenoticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?'

'The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing. '

'Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that thefirst two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that after thesecond glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated, and so thethird glass received the beeswing. That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am right. '

'What, then, do you suppose?'

'That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were pouredinto a third glass, so as to give the false impression that three peoplehad been here. In that way all the beeswing would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so. But if I have hitupon the true explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in aninstant the case rises from the commonplace to the exceedinglyremarkable, for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maidhave deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to bebelieved, that they have some very strong reason for covering the realcriminal, and that we must construct our case for ourselves without anyhelp from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and here, Watson, is the Sydenham train. '

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return, butSherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to report toheadquarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked the door uponthe inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of those minuteand laborious investigations which form the solid basis on which hisbrilliant edifices of deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like aninterested student who observes the demonstration of his professor, Ifollowed every step of that remarkable research. The window, thecurtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each in turn was minutelyexamined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate baronet had beenremoved, and all else remained as we had seen it in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on to the massivemantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few inches of red cord whichwere still attached to the wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon awooden bracket on the wall. This brought his hand within a few inches ofthe broken end of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracketitself which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang downwith an ejaculation of satisfaction. 

'It's all right, Watson, ' said he. 'We have got our case--one of themost remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I havebeen, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my lifetime! Now, Ithink that, with a few missing links, my chain is almost complete. '

'You have got your men?'

'Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong as alion--witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers, finally, remarkablyquick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not haveleft us a doubt. '

'Where was the clue?'

'Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would youexpect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as this one has done?'

'Because it is frayed there?'

'Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was cunningenough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed. Youcould not observe that from here, but if you were on the mantelpieceyou would see that it is cut clean off without any mark of frayingwhatever. You can reconstruct what occurred. The man needed the rope. Hewould not tear it down for fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reachit, put his knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in thedust--and so got his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach theplace by at least three inches--from which I infer that he is at leastthree inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of theoaken chair! What is it?'

'Blood. '

'Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out of court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done, how comes thatmark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_ the death of herhusband. I'll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding mark tothis. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to havea few words with the nurse, Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if weare to get the information which we want. '

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse--taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes's pleasantmanner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed her into acorresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred forher late employer. 

'Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him callmy mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to speak so ifher brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it at me. He mighthave thrown a dozen if he had but left my bonny bird alone. He wasforever ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain. She will noteven tell me all that he has done to her. She never told me of thosemarks on her arm that you saw this morning, but I know very well thatthey come from a stab with a hatpin. The sly devil--God forgive me thatI should speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, ifever one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him--onlyeighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen years. Shehad only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first voyage--she hadnever been from home before. He won her with his title and his moneyand his false London ways. If she made a mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it wasjust after we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They weremarried in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-roomagain, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask toomuch of her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood willstand. '

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked brighterthan before. The maid had entered with us, and began once more to fomentthe bruise upon her mistress's brow. 

'I hope, ' said the lady, 'that you have not come to cross-examine meagain?'

'No, ' Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice. 'I will not cause you anyunnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to makethings easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and trust me, you may find that I willjustify your trust. '

'What do you want me to do?'

'To tell me the truth. '

'Mr. Holmes!'

'No, no, Lady Brackenstall--it is no use. You may have heard of anylittle reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact thatyour story is an absolute fabrication. '

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces andfrightened eyes. 

'You are an impudent fellow!' cried Theresa. 'Do you mean to say that mymistress has told a lie?'

Holmes rose from his chair. 

'Have you nothing to tell me?'

'I have told you everything. '

'Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to befrank?'

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some newstrong thought caused it to set like a mask. 

'I have told you all I know. '

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. 'I am sorry, ' he said, and without another word we left the room and the house. There was apond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then passed on to the lodge gate. There hescribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins, and left it with thelodge-keeper. 

'It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do somethingfor friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit, ' said he. 'I willnot quite take him into my confidence yet. I think our next scene ofoperations must be the shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I remember right. There is asecond line of steamers which connect South Australia with England, butwe will draw the larger cover first. '

Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and hewas not long in acquiring all the information he needed. In June of '95, only one of their line had reached a home port. It was the _Rock ofGibraltar_, their largest and best boat. A reference to the passengerlist showed that Miss Fraser, of Adelaide, with her maid had made thevoyage in her. The boat was now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on herway to Australia. Her officers were the same as in '95, with oneexception. The first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captainand was to take charge of their new ship, the _Bass Rock_, sailing intwo days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he was likelyto be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to wait for him. 

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know moreabout his record and character. 

His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet totouch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship--hot-headed, excitable, butloyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the informationwith which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat inhis cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally hedrove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message, and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more. 

'No, I couldn't do it, Watson, ' said he, as we re-entered our room. 'Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would save him. Onceor twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by mydiscovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I havelearned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law ofEngland than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more beforeWe act. '

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Thingswere not going very well with him. 

'I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimesthink that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth couldyou know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that pond?'

'I didn't know it. '

'But you told me to examine it. '

'You got it, then?'

'Yes, I got it. '

'I am very glad if I have helped you. '

'But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then throw it intothe nearest pond?'

'It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going onthe idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not wantit--who merely took it for a blind, as it were--then they wouldnaturally be anxious to get rid of it. '

'But why should such an idea cross your mind?'

'Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the Frenchwindow, there was the pond with one tempting little hole in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a better hiding-place?'

'Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!' cried Stanley Hopkins. 'Yes, yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the roads, theywere afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes--that is better than your idea of a blind. '

'Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my ownideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended indiscovering the silver. '

'Yes, sir--yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad setback. '

'A setback?'

'Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York thismorning. '

'Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory thatthey committed a murder in Kent last night. '

'It is fatal, Mr. Holmes--absolutely fatal. Still, there are other gangsof three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of which thepolice have never heard, '

'Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?'

'Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the bottomof the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?'

'I have given you one. '

'Which?'

'Well, I suggested a blind. '

'But why, Mr. Holmes, why?'

'Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea to yourmind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You won'tstop for dinner? Well, goodbye, and let us know how you get on. '

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to thematter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to thecheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch. 

'I expect developments, Watson. '

'When?'

'Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather badlyto Stanley Hopkins just now. '

'I trust your judgment. '

'A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way: whatI know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the right toprivate judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is atraitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in sopainful a position, and so I reserve my information until my own mindis clear upon the matter. '

'But when will that be?'

'The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of aremarkable little drama. '

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit asfine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a very tallyoung man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which had beenburned by tropical suns, and a springy step, which showed that the hugeframe was as active as it was strong. He closed the door behind him, andthen he stood with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down someovermastering emotion. 

'Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?'

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the other of uswith questioning eyes. 

'I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that youhad been down to the office. There was no getting away from you. Let'shear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can't sit there and play with me like a cat with a mouse. '

'Give him a cigar, ' said Holmes. 'Bite on that, Captain Crocker, anddon't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here smokingwith you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you may be sureof that. Be frank with me and we may do some good. Play tricks with me, and I'll crush you. '

'What do you wish me to do?'

To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange lastnight--a _true_ account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing takenoff. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the straight, I'll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair goes out ofmy hands forever. '

The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his greatsunburned hand. 

'I'll chance it, ' he cried. 'I believe you are a man of your word, and awhite man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one thing I will sayfirst. So far as I am concerned, I regret nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Damn the beast, ifhe had as many lives as a cat, he would owe them all to me! But it's thelady, Mary--Mary Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursedname. When I think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my lifejust to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my soulinto water. And yet--and yet--what less could I do? I'll tell you mystory gentlemen, and then I'll ask you, as man to man, what less couldI do?

'I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that youknow that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first officer ofthe _Rock of Gibraltar_. From the first day I met her, she was the onlywoman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more, and many a timesince have I kneeled down in the darkness of the night watch and kissedthe deck of that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She wasnever engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated aman. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and allgood comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a freewoman, but I could never again be a free man. 

'Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage. Well, whyshouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who could carrythem better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and dainty. I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish hound asthat. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and that she hadnot thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That's how I loved MaryFraser. 

'Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple ofmonths with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a country lane I metTheresa Wright, her old maid. She told me all about her, about him, about everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. Thisdrunken hound, that he should dare to raise his hand to her, whose bootshe was not worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Maryherself--and met her again. Then she would meet me no more. But theother day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a week, and I determined that I would see her once before I left. Theresa wasalways my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain almost asmuch as I did. From her I learned the ways of the house. Mary used tosit up reading in her own little room downstairs. I crept round therelast night and scratched at the window. At first she would not open tome, but in her heart I know that now she loves me, and she could notleave me in the frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to thebig front window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me intothe dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made myblood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the woman Iloved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he rushed like a madman intothe room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I hadsprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here, onmy arm, where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I wentthrough him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I wassorry? Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it washis life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this madman?That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? well, then, what would either ofyou gentlemen have done, if you had been in my position?

'She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa downfrom the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and Iopened it and poured a little between Mary's lips, for she was half deadwith shock. Then I took a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, andit was her plot as much as mine. We must make it appear that burglarshad done the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress, while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed her inher chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it look natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar could have got upthere to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates and pots of silver, tocarry out the idea of the robbery, and there I left them, with orders togive the alarm when I had a quarter of an hour's start. I dropped thesilver into the pond, and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for oncein my life I had done a real good night's work. And that's the truth andthe whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck. '

Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room, andshook our visitor by the hand. 

'That's what I think, ' said he. 'I know that every word is true, for youhave hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an acrobat or asailor could have got up to that bell-rope from the bracket, and no onebut a sailor could have made the knots with which the cord was fastenedto the chair. Only once had this lady been brought into contact withsailors, and that was on her voyage, and it was someone of her own classof life, since she was trying hard to shield him, and so showing thatshe loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon youwhen once I started upon the right trail. '

'I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge. '

'And the police haven't, nor will they, to the best of my belief. Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious matter, though I amwilling to admit that you acted under the most extreme provocation towhich any man could be subjected. I am not sure that in defence of yourown life your action will not be pronounced legitimate. However, that isfor a British jury to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for youthat, if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I willpromise you that no one will hinder you. '

'And then it will all come out?'

'Certainly it will come out. '

The sailor flushed with anger. 

'What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law tounderstand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do you think I wouldleave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir, let themdo their worst upon me, but for heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes, find some wayof keeping my poor Mary out of the courts. '

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor. 

'I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it is agreat responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given Hopkinsan excellent hint, and if he can't avail himself of it I can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we'll do this in due form of law. You are theprisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a man who wasmore eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentlemanof the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisonerguilty or not guilty?'

'Not guilty, my lord, ' said I. 

'_Vox populi, vox Dei. _ You are acquitted, Captain Crocker. So long asthe law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come backto this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us in thejudgment which we have pronounced this night!'

THE PRIZE LODGER

By George Gissing

(_Human Odds and Ends/Stories and Sketches_, London: Lawrence and BullenLtd, 1898)

The ordinary West-End Londoner--who is a citizen of no city at all, butdwells amid a mere conglomerate of houses at a certain distance fromCharing Cross--has known a fleeting surprise when, by rare chance, hiseye fell upon the name of some such newspaper as the _Battersea Times_, the _Camberwell Mercury_, or the _Islington Gazette_. To him, these andthe like districts are nothing more than compass points of the hugemetropolis. He may be in practice acquainted with them; if historicallyinclined, he may think of them as old-time villages swallowed up byinsatiable London; but he has never grasped the fact that in Battersea, Camberwell, Islington, there are people living who name these places astheir home; who are born, subsist, and die there as though in a distincttown, and practically without consciousness of its obliteration in themap of a world capital. 

The stable element of this population consists of more or lessold-fashioned people. Round about them is the ceaseless coming and goingof nomads who keep abreast with the time, who take their lodgings by theweek, their houses by the month; who camp indifferently in regions oldand new, learning their geography in train and tram-car. Abidingparishioners are wont to be either very poor or established in amoderate prosperity; they lack enterprise, either for good or ill: ifcomfortably off, they owe it, as a rule, to some predecessor's exertion. And for the most part, though little enough endowed with the civicspirit, they abundantly pride themselves on their local permanence. 

Representative of this class was Mr. Archibald Jordan, a native ofIslington, and, at the age of five-and-forty, still faithful to thestreets which he had trodden as a child. His father started a smallgrocery business in Upper Street; Archibald succeeded to the shop, advanced soberly, and at length admitted a partner, by whose capital andenergy the business was much increased. After his thirtieth year Mr. Jordan ceased to stand behind the counter. Of no very activedisposition, and but moderately set on gain, he found it pleasant tospend a few hours daily over the books and the correspondence, and forthe rest of his time to enjoy a gossipy leisure, straying among theacquaintances of a lifetime, or making new in the decorous bar-parlours, billiard-rooms, and other such retreats which allured his bachelorliberty. His dress and bearing were unpretentious, but impressivelyrespectable; he never allowed his garments (made by an Islington tailor, an old schoolfellow) to exhibit the least sign of wear, but fashionaffected their style as little as possible. Of middle height, andtending to portliness, he walked at an unvarying pace, as a man who hadnever known undignified hurry; in his familiar thoroughfares he glancedabout him with a good-humoured air of proprietorship, or with a look ofthoughtful criticism for any changes that might be going forward. No onehad ever spoken flatteringly of his visage; he knew himself a veryhomely-featured man, and accepted the fact, as something that hadneither favoured nor hindered him in life. But it was his convictionthat no man's eye had a greater power of solemn and overwhelming rebuke, and this gift he took a pleasure in exercising, however trivial theoccasion. 

For five-and-twenty years he had lived in lodgings; always within thenarrow range of Islington respectability, yet never for more than atwelvemonth under the same roof. This peculiar feature of Mr. Jordan'slife had made him a subject of continual interest to local landladies, among whom were several lifelong residents, on friendly terms of oldtime with the Jordan family. To them it seemed an astonishing thing thata man in such circumstances had not yet married; granting thiseccentricity, they could not imagine what made him change his abode sooften. Not a landlady in Islington but would welcome Mr. Jordan in herrooms, and, having got him, do her utmost to prolong the connection. Hehad been known to quit a house on the paltriest excuse, removing toanother in which he could not expect equally good treatment. There wasno accounting for it: it must be taken as an ultimate mystery of life, and made the most of as a perennial topic of neighbourly conversation. 

As to the desirability of having Mr. Jordan for a lodger there could beno difference of opinion among rational womankind. Mrs. Wiggins, indeed, had taken his sudden departure from her house so ill that she alwaysspoke of him abusively; but who heeded Mrs. Wiggins? Even in the sadnessof hope deferred, those ladies who had entertained him once, andspeculated on his possible return, declared Mr. Jordan a 'thoroughgentleman'. Lodgers, as a class, do not recommend themselves inIslington; Mr. Jordan shone against the dusky background with almostdazzling splendour. To speak of lodgers as of cattle, he was a prizecreature. A certain degree of comfort he firmly exacted; he might be atrifle fastidious about cooking; he stood upon his dignity; but no onecould say that he grudged reward for service rendered. It was hispractice to pay more than the landlady asked. Twenty-five shillings aweek, you say? I shall give you twenty-eight. _But_--' and with raisedforefinger he went through the catalogue of his demands. Everything mustbe done precisely as he directed; even in the laying of his table heinsisted upon certain minute peculiarities, and to forget one of themwas to earn that gaze of awful reprimand which Mr. Jordan found (orthought) more efficacious than any spoken word. Against this precisionmight be set his strange indulgence in the matter of bills; he merelyregarded the total, was never known to dispute an item. Only twice inhis long experience had he quitted a lodging because of exorbitantcharges, and on these occasions he sternly refused to discuss thematter. 'Mrs. Hawker, I am paying your account with the addition of oneweek's rent. Your rooms will be vacant at eleven o'clock tomorrowmorning. ' And until the hour of departure no entreaty, no prostration, could induce him to utter a syllable. 

It was on the 1st of June, 1889, his forty-fifth birthday, that Mr. Jordan removed from quarters he had occupied for ten months, and becamea lodger in the house of Mrs. Elderfield. 

Mrs. Elderfield, a widow, aged three-and-thirty, with one little girl, was but a casual resident in Islington; she knew nothing of Mr. Jordan, and made no inquiries about him. Strongly impressed, as every woman mustneeds be, by his air and tone of mild authority, she congratulatedherself on the arrival of such an inmate; but no subservience appearedin her demeanour; she behaved with studious civility, nothing more. Herwords were few and well chosen. Always neatly dressed, yet always busy, she moved about the house with quick, silent step, and cleanlinessmarked her path. The meals were well cooked, well served. Mr. Jordanbeing her only lodger, she could devote to him an undivided attention. At the end of his first week the critical gentleman felt greatersatisfaction than he had ever known. 

The bill lay upon his table at breakfast-time. He perused the items, and, much against his habit, reflected upon them. Having breakfasted, herang the bell. 

'Mrs. Elderfield--'

He paused, and looked gravely at the widow. She had a plain, honest, healthy face, with resolute lips, and an eye that brightened when shespoke; her well-knit figure, motionless in its respectful attitude, declared a thoroughly sound condition of the nerves. 

'Mrs. Elderfield, your bill is so very moderate that I think you musthave forgotten something. '

'Have you looked it over, sir?'

'I never trouble with the details. Please examine it. '

'There is no need, sir. I never make a mistake. '

'I said, Mrs. Elderfield, please _examine_ it. '

She seemed to hesitate, but obeyed. 

'The bill is quite correct, sir. '

'Thank you. '

He paid it at once and said no more. 

The weeks went on. To Mr. Jordan's surprise, his landlady's zeal andefficiency showed no diminution, a thing unprecedented in his long andvaried experience. After the first day or two he had found nothing tocorrect; every smallest instruction was faithfully carried out. Moreover, he knew for the first time in his life the comfort ofabsolutely clean rooms. The best of his landladies hitherto had notrisen above that conception of cleanliness which is relative to Londonsoot and fog. His palate, too, was receiving an education. Probably hehad never eaten of a joint rightly cooked, or tasted a potato boiled asit should be; more often than not, the food set before him had undergonea process which left it masticable indeed, but void of savour andnourishment. Many little attentions of which he had never dreamed kepthim in a wondering cheerfulness. And at length he said to himself: 'HereI shall stay. '

Not that his constant removals had been solely due to discomfort and ahope of better things. The secret--perhaps not entirely revealed even tohimself--lay in Mr. Jordan's sense of his own importance, and hisuneasiness whenever he felt that, in the eyes of a landlady, he wasbecoming a mere everyday person--an ordinary lodger. No sooner did hedetect a sign of this than he made up his mind to move. It gave him thekeenest pleasure of which he was capable when, on abruptly announcinghis immediate departure, he perceived the landlady's profoundmortification. To make the blow heavier he had even resorted toartifice, seeming to express a most lively contentment during the verydays when he had decided to leave and was asking himself where he shouldnext abide. One of his delights was to return to a house which he hadquitted years ago, to behold the excitement and bustle occasioned by hisappearance, and play the good-natured autocrat over grovellingdependents. In every case, save the two already mentioned, he had partedwith his landlady on terms of friendliness, never vouchsafing a reasonfor his going away, genially eluding every attempt to obtain anexplanation, and at the last abounding in graceful recognition of allthat had been done for him. Mr. Jordan shrank from dispute, hated everysort of contention; this characteristic gave a certain refinement to hisotherwise commonplace existence. Vulgar vanity would have displayeditself in precisely the acts and words from which his self-esteemnervously shrank. And of late he had been thinking over the list oflandladies, with a half-formed desire to settle down, to make himself apermanent home. Doubtless as a result of this state of mind, he betookhimself to a strange house, where, as from neutral ground, he mightreflect upon the lodgings he knew, and judge between their merits. Hecould not foresee what awaited him under Mrs. Elderfield's roof; theevent impressed him as providential; he felt, with singular emotion, that choice was taken out of his hands. Lodgings could not be more thanperfect, and such he had found. 

It was not his habit to chat with landladies. At times he held forth tothem on some topic of interest, suavely, instructively; if he gave in totheir ordinary talk, it was with a half-absent smile of condescension. Mrs. Elderfield seeming as little disposed to gossip as himself, a monthelapsed before he knew anything of her history; but one evening thereserve on both sides was broken. His landlady modestly inquired whethershe was giving satisfaction, and Mr. Jordan replied with altogetherunwonted fervour. In the dialogue that ensued, they exchanged personalconfidences. The widow had lost her husband four years ago; she camefrom the Midlands, but had long dwelt in London. Then fell from her lipsa casual remark which made the hearer uneasy. 

'I don't think I shall always stay here. The neighbourhood is toocrowded. I should like to have a house somewhere further out. '

Mr. Jordan did not comment on this, but it kept a place in his dailythoughts, and became at length so much of an anxiety that he inviteda renewal of the subject. 

'You have no intention of moving just yet, Mrs. Elderfield?'

'I was going to tell you, sir, ' replied the landlady, with herrespectful calm, 'that I have decided to make a change next spring. Somefriends of mine have gone to live at Wood Green, and I shall look for ahouse in the same neighbourhood. '

Mr. Jordan was, in private, gravely disturbed. He who had flitted fromhouse to house for many years, distressing the souls of landladies, nowlamented the prospect of a forced removal. It was open to him toaccompany Mrs. Elderfield, but he shrank from the thought of living inso remote a district. Wood Green! The very name appalled him, for he hadnever been able to endure the country. He betook himself one drearyautumn afternoon to that northern suburb, and what he saw did not at allreassure him. On his way back he began once more to review the list ofold lodgings. 

But from that day his conversations with Mrs. Elderfield grew morefrequent, more intimate. In the evening he occasionally made an excusefor knocking at her parlour door, and lingered for a talk which endedonly at supper time. He spoke of his own affairs, and grew more ready todo so as his hearer manifested a genuine interest, without impertinentcuriosity. Little by little he imparted to Mrs. Elderfield a completeknowledge of his commercial history, of his pecuniary standing--mattersof which he had never before spoken to a mere acquaintance. A change wascoming over him; the foundations of habit crumbled beneath his feet; helost his look of complacence, his self-confident and superior tone. Bar-parlours and billiard-rooms saw him but rarely and flittingly. Heseemed to have lost his pleasure in the streets of Islington, and spentall his spare time by the fireside, perpetually musing. 

On a day in March one of his old landladies, Mrs. Higdon, sped to thehouse of another, Mrs. Evans, panting under a burden of strange news. Could it be believed! Mr. Jordan was going to marry--to marry that womanin whose house he was living! Mrs. Higdon had it on the very bestauthority--that of Mr. Jordan's partner, who spoke of the affair withoutreserve. A new house had already been taken--at Wood Green. Well! Afterall these years, after so many excellent opportunities, to marry a merestranger and forsake Islington! In a moment Mr. Jordan's character wasgone; had he figured in the police-court under some disgraceful charge, these landladies could hardly have felt more shocked and professedthemselves more disgusted. The intelligence spread. Women went out oftheir way to have a sight of Mrs. Elderfield's house; they hung aboutfor a glimpse of that sinister person herself. She had robbed them, every one, of a possible share in Islington's prize lodger. Had it beenone of themselves they could have borne the chagrin; but a woman whomnot one of them knew, an alien! What base arts had she practised? Ah, it was better not to inquire too closely into the secrets of thatlodging-house. 

Though every effort was made to learn the time and place of theceremony, Mr. Jordan's landladies had the mortification to hear of hiswedding only when it was over. Of course, this showed that he felt thedisgracefulness of his behaviour; he was not utterly lost to shame. Itcould only be hoped that he would not know the bitterness of repentance. 

Not till he found himself actually living in the house at Wood Green didMr. Jordan realize how little his own will had had to do with the recentcourse of events. Certainly, he had made love to the widow, and hadasked her to marry him; but from that point onward he seemed to have puthimself entirely in Mrs. Elderfield's hands, granting every request, meeting half-way every suggestion she offered, becoming, in short, quitea different kind of man from his former self. He had not been sensibleof a moment's reluctance; he enjoyed the novel sense of yielding himselfto affectionate guidance. His wits had gone wool-gathering; theyreturned to him only after the short honeymoon at Brighton, when hestood upon his own hearth-rug, and looked round at the new furnitureand ornaments which symbolized a new beginning of life. 

The admirable landlady had shown herself energetic, clear-headed, andfull of resource; it was she who chose the house, and transacted all thebusiness in connection with it; Mr. Jordan had merely run about in hercompany from place to place, smiling approval and signing cheques. Noone could have gone to work more prudently, or obtained what she wantedat smaller outlay; for all that, Mr. Jordan, having recovered somethinglike his normal frame of mind, viewed the results with consternation. Left to himself, he would have taken a very small house, and furnishedit much in the style of Islington lodgings; as it was, he occupied aten-roomed 'villa', with appointments which seemed to him luxurious, aristocratic. True, the expenditure was of no moment to a man in hisposition, and there was no fear that Mrs. Jordan would involve him indangerous extravagance; but he had always lived with such excessiveeconomy that the sudden change to a life correspondent with his incomecould not but make him uncomfortable. 

Mrs. Jordan had, of course, seen to it that her personal appearanceharmonized with the new surroundings. She dressed herself and her youngdaughter with careful appropriateness. There was no display, no purchaseof gewgaws--merely garments of good quality, such as became people ineasy circumstances. She impressed upon her husband that this was nothingmore than a return to the habits of her earlier life. Her first marriagehad been a sad mistake; it had brought her down in the world. Now shefelt restored to her natural position. 

After a week of restlessness, Mr. Jordan resumed his daily visits tothe shop in Upper Street, where he sat as usual among the books and thecorrespondence, and tried to assure himself that all would henceforthbe well with him. No more changing from house to house; a reallycomfortable home in which to spend the rest of his days; a kind and mostcapable wife to look after all his needs, to humour all his littlehabits. He could not have taken a wiser step. 

For all that, he had lost something, though he did not yet understandwhat it was. The first perception of a change not for the better flashedupon him one evening in the second week, when he came home an hourlater than his wont. Mrs. Jordan, who always stood waiting for him atthe window, had no smile as he entered. 

'Why are you late?' she asked, in her clear, restrained voice. 

'Oh--something or other kept me. '

This would not do. Mrs. Jordan quietly insisted on a full explanation ofthe delay, and it seemed to her unsatisfactory. 

'I hope you won't be irregular in your habits, Archibald, ' said hiswife, with gentle admonition. 'What I always liked in you was yourmethodical way of living. I shall be very uncomfortable if I neverknow when to expect you. '

'Yes, my dear, but--business, you see--'

'But you have explained that you _could_ have been back at the usualtime. '

'Yes--that's true--but--'

'Well, well, you won't let it happen again. Oh really, Archibald!' shesuddenly exclaimed. 'The idea of you coming into the room with muddyboots! Why, look! There's a patch of mud on the carpet--'

'It was my hurry to speak to you, ' murmured Mr. Jordan, in confusion. 

'Please go at once and take your boots off. And you left your slippersin the bedroom this morning. You must always bring them down, and putthem in the dining-room cupboard; then they're ready for you when youcome into the house. '

Mr. Jordan had but a moderate appetite for his dinner, and he did nottalk so pleasantly as usual. This was but the beginning of troubles suchas he had not for a moment foreseen. His wife, having since theirengagement taken the upper hand, began to show her determination to keepit, and day by day her rule grew more galling to the ex-bachelor. Hehimself, in the old days, had plagued his landladies by insisting uponmethod and routine, by his faddish attention to domestic minutiae; henow learnt what it was to be subjected to the same kind of despotism, exercised with much more exasperating persistence. Whereas Mrs. Elderfield had scrupulously obeyed every direction given by her lodger, Mrs. Jordan was evidently resolved that her husband should live, move, and have his being in the strictest accordance with her own ideal. Notin any spirit of nagging, or ill-tempered unreasonableness; it wasmerely that she had her favourite way of doing every conceivable thing, and felt so sure it was the best of all possible ways that she could notendure any other. The first serious disagreement between them hadreference to conduct at the breakfast-table. After a broken night, feeling headachy and worried, Mr. Jordan took up his newspaper, foldedit conveniently, and set it against the bread so that he could readwhile eating. Without a word, his wife gently removed it, and laid itaside on a chair. 

'What are you doing?' he asked gruffly. 

'You mustn't read at meals, Archibald. It's bad manners, and bad for yourdigestion. '

'I've read the news at breakfast all my life, and I shall do so still, 'exclaimed the husband, starting up and recovering his paper. 

'Then you will have breakfast by yourself. Nelly, we must go into theother room till papa has finished. '

Mr. Jordan ate mechanically, and stared at the newspaper with just aslittle consciousness. Prompted by the underlying weakness of hischaracter to yield for the sake of peace, wrath made him dogged, and themore steadily he regarded his position, the more was he appalled by theoutlook. Why, this meant downright slavery! He had married a woman sohorribly like himself in several points that his only hope lay inovercoming her by sheer violence. A thoroughly good and well-meaningwoman, an excellent housekeeper, the kind of wife to do him credit andimprove his social position; but self-willed, pertinacious, and probablythinking herself his superior in every respect. He had nothing to fearbut subjection--the one thing he had never anticipated, the one thing hecould never endure. 

He went off to business without seeing his wife again, and passed alamentable day. At his ordinary hour of return, instead of setting offhomeward, he strayed about the by-streets of Islington and Pentonville. Not till this moment had he felt how dear they were to him, the familiarstreets; their very odours fell sweet upon his nostrils. Never againcould he go hither and thither, among the old friends, the old places, to his heart's content. What had possessed him to abandon this preciousliberty! The thought of Wood Green revolted him; live there as long ashe might, he would never be at home. He thought of his wife (now waitingfor him) with fear, and then with a reaction of rage. Let her wait!He--Archibald Jordan--before whom women had bowed and trembled forfive-and-twenty years--was _he_ to come and go at a wife's bidding? Andat length the thought seemed so utterly preposterous that he spednorthward as fast as possible, determined to right himself this veryevening. 

Mrs. Jordan sat alone. He marched into the room with muddy boots, flunghis hat and overcoat into a chair, and poked the fire violently. Hiswife's eye was fixed on him, and she first spoke--in the quiet voicethat he dreaded. 

'What do you mean by carrying on like this, Archibald?'

'I shall carry on as I like in my own house--hear that?'

'I do hear it, and I'm very sorry too. It gives me a very bad opinionof you. You will _not_ do as you like in your own house. Rage as youplease. You will _not_ do as you like in your own house. '

There was a contemptuous anger in her eye which the man could not face. He lost all control of himself, uttered coarse oaths, and stoodquivering. Then the woman began to lecture him; she talked steadily, acrimoniously, for more than an hour, regardless of his interruptions. Nervously exhausted, he fled at length from the room. A couple of hourslater they met again in the nuptial chamber, and again Mrs. Jordan beganto talk. Her point, as before, was that he had begun married life aboutas badly as possible. Why had he married her at all? What fault had shecommitted to incur such outrageous usage? But, thank goodness, she had awill of her own, and a proper self-respect; behave as he might, _she_would still persevere in the path of womanly duty. If he thought to makeher life unbearable he would find his mistake; she simply should notheed him; perhaps he would return to his senses before long--and in thisvein Mrs. Jordan continued until night was at odds with morning, onlybecoming silent when her partner had sunk into the oblivion of uttermostfatigue. 

The next day Mr. Jordan's demeanour showed him, for the moment at allevents, defeated. He made no attempt to read at breakfast; he movedabout very quietly. And in the afternoon he came home at the regulationhour. 

Mrs. Jordan had friends in the neighbourhood, but she saw little ofthem. She was not a woman of ordinary tastes. Everything proved that, to her mind, the possession of a nice house, with the prospects of acomfortable life, was an end in itself; she had no desire to exhibit herwell-furnished rooms, or to gad about talking of her advantages. Everymoment of her day was taken up in the superintendence of servants, thedischarge of an infinitude of housewifely tasks. She had no assistancefrom her daughter; the girl went to school, and was encouraged to studywith the utmost application. The husband's presence in the house seemeda mere accident--save in the still nocturnal season, when Mrs. Jordanbestowed upon him her counsel and her admonitions. 

After the lapse of a few days Mr. Jordan again offered combat, and threwhimself into it with a frenzy. 

'Look here!' he shouted at length, 'either you or I are going to leavethis house. I can't live with you--understand? I hate the sight of you!'

'Go on!' retorted the other, with mild bitterness. 'Abuse me as much asyou like, I can bear it. I shall continue to do my duty, and unless youhave recourse to personal violence, here I remain. If you go too far, ofcourse the law must defend me!'

This was precisely what Mr. Jordan knew and dreaded; the law was on hiswife's side, and by applying at a police-court for protection she couldoverwhelm him with shame and ridicule, which would make lifeintolerable. Impossible to argue with this woman. Say what he might, thefault always seemed his. His wife was simply doing her duty--in a spiritof admirable thoroughness; he, in the eyes of a third person, wouldappear an unreasonable and violent curmudgeon. Had it not all sprung outof his obstinacy with regard to reading at breakfast? How explain toanyone what he suffered in his nerves, in his pride, in the outragedhabitudes of a lifetime?

That evening he did not return to Wood Green. Afraid of questionsif he showed himself in the old resorts, he spent some hours in abilliard-room near King's Cross, and towards midnight took a bedroomunder the same roof. On going to business next day, he awaited withtremors either a telegram or a visit from his wife; but the whole daypassed, and he heard nothing. After dark he walked once more about thebeloved streets, pausing now and then to look up at the windows of thisor that well remembered house. Ah, if he durst but enter and engage alodging! Impossible--for ever impossible!

He slept in the same place as on the night before. And again a daypassed without any sort of inquiry from Wood Green. When evening camehe went home. 

Mrs. Jordan behaved as though he had returned from business in the usualway. 'Is it raining?' she asked, with a half-smile. And her husbandreplied, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could command, 'No, itisn't. ' There was no mention between them of his absence. That night, Mrs. Jordan talked for an hour or two of his bad habit of stepping onthe paint when he went up and down stairs, then fell calmly asleep. 

But Mr. Jordan did not sleep for a long time. What! was he, after all, to be allowed his liberty _out_ of doors, provided he relinquished itwithin? Was it really the case that his wife, satisfied with her houseand furniture and income, did not care a jot whether he stayed away orcame home? There, indeed, gleamed a hope. When Mr. Jordan slept, hedreamed that he was back again in lodgings at Islington, tasting anextraordinary bliss. Day dissipated the vision, but still Mrs. Jordanspoke not a word of his absence, and with trembling still he hoped.