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The
Thousand
Eugeniasie
MRS. ALFRED SID OWICK


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THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS





THE
THOUSAND EUGENIAS
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
AUTHOR OF
‘CYNTHIA's way,' THE GRASSHOPPERS,'
.THE INNER SHRINE,' ETC.
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
1902


HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
All rights reserved


CONTENTS
PAGE
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS . . . . . . . . . I
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST ........ 202
“THE LAST STRAW” . . .
A SENSIBLE WOMAN . . .
AUNT THOMASINA . .
264
AN ICONOCLAST . . .
A SKY SIGN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
WALL-PAPERS ............. 300
MRS. SPETTIGUE · · · · · · · 310
WITH THE HELP OF THE COTILLON
21





THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
The schoolroom was deserted because an uncle, who
had come to Bayswater Square on a few days' visit,
had taken the children to the Zoological Gardens for
the afternoon. He had not invited Miss Ferrers, their
governess, to join the party; and after she had tidied
the schoolroom and had done various out-of-door com-
missions for the mistress of the house, she returned
to her kingdom on the fourth floor and sat down to
rest. Next day she was going to the seaside with the
family, and she still had to pack for herself and the
children; but she was too tired to begin directly. The
hot weather had come with a rush, and she had been
on her feet for hours. Mrs. Hunter and her grown-up
daughters had agreed at lunch-time that they were
not inclined to move, so Amabel Ferrers had been
obliged to move for them from shop to shop and back
to the house again, until her little body was aweary
of this great world.
It was not agreeable to live in Mrs. Hunter's house
as governess, and Amabel would have left long ago


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
if she had known how to get food and shelter else-
where. But a governess is not a cook with the market
at her command, and Amabel knew that if she threw
up this engagement she might be reduced to any straits
before she found another. Her story, so far, was the
commonest story in the world. Her parents had
brought her up in idleness and, if they ever gave a
thought to the future at all, had taken for granted
that she would marry in their lifetime. Unfortunately,
they both died before she was eighteen; the mother
died after the father, and left just enough to pay for
her funeral. Amabel was an only child, and knew of
no relations except an uncle who had gone to Mexico,
twenty years ago, to seek his fortune. As he never
wrote home she did not know whether he was dead
or alive, but she had found an old address amongst
her father's papers, and had written there at a venture
some months ago. So far no answer had come, and
she had made up her mind that her uncle Michael was
dead or out of reach and that she was alone in the
world.
This afternoon, as she stared at the sky and the
chimney-pots, her thoughts were vexatious and dis-
tressing. For several days past Mrs. Hunter's manner
had been more unpleasant than usual, and it would
be impossible to say anything stronger than that of
any one's manner. Amabel knew why she was in
disgrace. A fortnight ago there had been a children's
party in the house, and she had assisted at it, and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
3
Mr. Sheringham himself had showed her marked at-
tention. No one else would have mattered quite so
much. But Mr. Sheringham! the great financier!
who was invited a dozen times before he came once!
who was to marry Georgina Hunter, if only he could
be made to see it! who was so eligible that Georgina
hardly expected to pull it off, but wished she might,
because Mr. Sheringham was so good-looking; while
Mr. Mendoza, the other string to her bow, was fat
and had little pig's eyes! That children's party had
been a fiasco from Georgina's point of view, and there
was worse to follow. On Sunday last, Mr. Shering-
ham had met Miss Ferrers at morning service, and
had walked home with her and the children; and the
day before yesterday he had actually found her in
Kensington Gardens in the late afternoon, and had
stayed talking to her for nearly half-an-hour. On
both occasions the children had carried the news home,
and Mrs. Hunter had told Amabel that her conduct
was forward and unladylike, and that if the offence
was repeated she must take the consequences.
This very afternoon the offence had been repeated.
She had happened to be in the drawing-room taking
instructions about some errands, and Mr. Sheringham
had called, and he had looked at her in the most
friendly way and asked her if she was going to East-
bourne with the family. When she admitted that she
was, he said he thought of running down there himself
for a few days; and when she hurried out of the room


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
he got up and opened the door for her. She wished
he would leave her alone. She was a moth and he
was a star, and she was a sensible moth with no desire
to singe her wings. She would not let her thoughts
dwell on him; but her thoughts dwelt with foreboding
on Miss Georgina Hunter's manner when she met her
on the stairs just now.
The irruption into the room of a red-headed page
boy, with a message from Mrs. Hunter, made her
jump.
“Mrs. 'Unter wants you downstairs," he said.
" I've been out ever since lunch and I haven't had
tea yet,” said Amabel, trying to seem calm and indif-
ferent. “Do you think Mrs. Hunter wants me at once,
George?”
“She looked as if she did,” said the boy.
“I wonder why tea is so late?”
“I 'eard Mrs. 'Unter tell Mary she needn't bring
any up 'ere as the young ladies and gentlemen would
’ave theirs out. Shall I sneak you up a cup from the
kitchen, Miss ?”
“Yes — no — I can't wait,” said Amabel, and she
ran downstairs.
Mrs. Hunter sat in her drawing-room surrounded
by lamps and silver photograph frames and frilled
silk cushions. She was a stupid-looking woman, with
a consequential, pursed-up mouth and hard, colourless
eyes. She turned towards Amabel with an air of dis-
like and did not ask her to sit down.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
5
“I am not satisfied with you, Miss Ferrers," she
began. “I have sent for you to tell you so."
"I am doing my best for the children,” began
Amabel.
"I am not thinking of the children,” said Mrs.
Hunter.
Amabel wished she had the courage to sit down,
she wished she had stayed herself with tea, she wished
she had been born without a temper; and she looked
at the lady and wondered why people in fortune's
good graces should be so unkind to people out of
fortune's favor.
"Your behavior is most unbecoming,” continued
Mrs. Hunter.
"In what way?” said Amabel.
"I am not going to enter into details,” said Mrs.
Hunter. “The fact is, you allow your head to be
turned. You seem to think that when you come down-
stairs and the gentlemen who visit at the house are
civil to you, that you are on an equality with them.
I feel it my duty to open your eyes. None of them
would ever think of you seriously."
Amabel did not speak, but she could not force
back the flush of indignant color in her cheeks or
the anger that set her mouth and flashed in her
eyes.
“ That is the worst of people who have come down
in the world,” said Mrs. Hunter. “They never want
to realize that they have come down.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Oh, but they do,” said Amabel. “The fact is
everlastingly forced on them.”
“ Then you don't show it in your behavior. Just
now when Mr. Sheringham was here -"
“I should be glad if I need never see Mr. Shering-
ham again,” cried Amabel. “I don't care about him."
According to her lights at the moment she spoke
the truth. She felt angry with Mr. Sheringham for
having made matters worse for her than they need
have been; she felt angry with his coolness and his
determination and with her own helplessness.
“What unladylike expressions you use, Miss Fer-
rers," said Mrs. Hunter. “It is not necessary that
you should care about Mr. Sheringham or any one
else you have the privilege of meeting in my house.
· Mr. Sheringham is a most charming person and an
intimate friend, and it must be painful for him to
come here and meet a young woman who throws
herself at his head.”
“I should think his head is fairly strong,” said
Amabel.
"At any rate I am going to do my duty and stop
it,” said Mrs. Hunter, who was working herself into
a pretty passion. “Unless you can give me a guaran-
tee of better behavior for the future — "
“How can I give you a guarantee that the man
won't follow me to church or find out when I'm in
the Square with the children?” said Amabel, her anger
inexpediently expressing itself.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
7
“To whom are you alluding, Miss Ferrers?”
“ To Mr. Sheringham, of course.”
“Then be good enough to give him his proper title.
I am not accustomed to hear one of my friends spoken
of as a 'man.' However, your impertinence only con-
firms me in my intentions. I shall not take you to
Eastbourne with us, and as we leave the house to-
morrow you must leave to-morrow too. I may as
well pay you your wages and then we need not meet
again. It will be pleasanter for both sides.”
“Of course, you know that you are treating me
abominably,” said Amabel. “If I were a kitchen-
maid - ”
“Kitchenmaids have a market value," said Mrs.
Hunter. “Incompetent young ladies have none.”
“I have nowhere to go to from here."
“That is not my business.”
“I have done nothing to deserve such treat-
ment."
“I refuse to prolong the discussion,” said Mrs.
Hunter, holding out a five-pound note. "I owe you
for one month and I will pay you for two. It is
more than you deserve.”
“It is my legal due,” said Amabel; “and I believe
you ought to pay me board wages too.”
"I shall not pay you another penny,” said Mrs.
Hunter, and the note fluttered from her fingers and
fell on the floor. “Remember you are leaving more
or less under a cloud.”


8
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“That is a disgraceful thing to say," exclaimed
Amabel.
"I shall say it to any one who comes here for
your character," said Mrs. Hunter. “I consider you
flighty and impertinent.”
Amabel felt that she had no weapons and no hope
of redress. She could not rail back as a woman of
coarser grain would have done. She picked up the
bank note and ran hastily out of the room, and then
she burst into tears. She was still crying when the
red-headed page boy came into the school-room with
a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter on a tray.
He looked at the girl and went away again. In a
few minutes Amabel heard a slow, heavy step on the
stairs, and she dried her eyes and tried to pull herself
together, because she thought it must be Mrs. Hunter.
But the door opened and the cook appeared, panting
and good-natured.
"Ginger said you were crying, Miss," she be-
gan; “I thought I'd come and see. Ain't you
well?”
“I'm to leave the house to-morrow, Mrs. Pugsley,"
said Amabel. “Do you know of any cheap, respect-
able room? I've nowhere to go."
The cook sat down.
“Why are you to leave the house to-morrow?"
she inquired, and Amabel saw that every one would
ask her the same question, and that it would be dif-
ficult to answer.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
9
“Mrs. Hunter is not satisfied,” she said; “I think
she has taken a dislike to me."
“Mrs. 'Unter is not a lady," said the cook, with
the queer discrimination of her class in such matters.
“You are. That's reason enough, I'll be bound. Don't
you fret, Miss. I'll go round to the office I patronise
to-morrow and I'll tell 'em if they don't find you
something soft within a week they won't ’ave me on
their books again, nor any of my friends.”
" It's very kind of you,” said Amabel, cheering up
a little, “but I'm afraid no one will take me without
a reference.”
“Well!” said the cook, beginning to bristle.
“Mrs. Hunter refuses me a good one.”
“Then I shall save a few words with Mrs. 'Unter
to-morrow morning,” said the cook majestically. “ She
won't let me go if she can 'elp it. A better behaved
young lady I never saw — and them children so spoiled
and quarrelsome, Job 'imself would give 'em a good
hiding, and of course it's what they deserve."
At that moment George's red head thrust itself
cautiously in at the door.
“Now what do you want, Ginger ? " said the cook.
“Don't you see I'm engaged ? ”.
The boy held a telegram towards her and she took
it from him.
“You needn't wait,” she said; and, when he had
shut the door, she turned to Amabel.
“Ginger is that curious. It's for you, Miss,” she said.


10
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
II
“For me!” cried Amabel. She could hardly believe
it; but she saw her name on the orange-colored en-
velope and on the form inside.
“Come and see me, Paris. Cannot leave. Hôtel
Ritz. — MICHAEL FERRERS."
“How extraordinary,” said Amabel, and she showed
the form to her friend.
“What's it mean?” said the cook. “I never can
make head nor tail of a telegram. Why can't people
write a plain letter? If there was less hurry there'd
be less mistakes, I always tell my kitchenmaids. But
you may preach all your life and you won't persuade
other folks to practise."
“I suppose," said Amabel, and she took the tele-
gram into her hands again — “I suppose it is from
my uncle, Michael Ferrers. I wrote to him some
months ago. I thought he was in South America, but
this seems to come from Paris.”
"How do you know?” said the cook suspiciously,
and they examined the telegram together. When
Amabel lifted her head she pointed to the five-pound
note lying on the table.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
II
“That is all the money I have in the world,” said
she.
“Lor!” said the cook.
"And if I spend it on going to Paris — "
“And find it was one of them lying telegrams, and
you hadn't no uncle at all, and there was no such
hotel."
“I don't see how that could happen,” said Amabel.
" Anything can happen with telegrams,” said the
cook, “else what'd the halfpenny papers do? 'Hor-
rible massacre !' one day: ‘Women and children tor-
tured: nobody left alive!' and next day every one all
right and the news as flat as pancakes. I know them
telegrams. And yet, seeing how you're placed, it do
seem worth a little risk — just to go there and drive
up to the hotel — if you can find it — and ask if they
know your uncle — and come straight back if they
don't."
Here the cook raised her voice. “ Ginger," she
cried, and when Ginger immediately opened the door,
she winked at Amabel.
"I knew you wouldn't be far off,” she said placidly;
" you run round to Whiteley's as fast as your feet'll
carry you, and go to that counter where they have
the railway time-tables laid out -— somewhere near the
provisions, it is — say you want to get to Paris quick
and cheap. You won't have to pay — but there's
twopence in case you do — and mind you're back in
five minutes.”


12
THOUSAND EUGENIAS
12
THE THE .
“And what'll I say if she rings?” said the boy, in
injured accents.
“Say I sent you for a lemon,” said the cook.
“ Here's another penny. Bring one.”
“If I go — and spend my money — and nothing
comes of it-I shall be worse off than before," said
Amabel, when the boy had run off.
“You mustn't look forward to that,” said the cook.
"Turn a bright face to the world and the world'll
turn a bright face to you. Besides, you can always
come back here and lodge with my sister in the Arte-
sian Road, as is a widow. Don't you trouble too much.
It's no good, and it spoils the complexion."
“I wish I could cook," said Amabel. “I should
never be out of work then.”
“P'raps you'd sometimes wish you were — when
the hot weather comes and the jellies are uncertain.
Every perfession has its drawbacks," said the cook;
and then Amabel went on with her tea, and presently
Ginger came back with various time-tables.
“If I go by Newhaven and Dieppe to-morrow, I
shall get there at seven,” said Amabel, in a little while.
“Oh, Cookie, dear, am I really going to risk half my
fortune! The single fare is £1, 58.; the return is
“Don't take a return,” advised the cook. “ It looks
distrustful. I must go and see to my dinner now, my
dear, because last time I let Maria do the quenelles
she sent 'em up in a mash. But I'll see you off from
Victoria to-morrow morning."


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
"I can't believe I'm going,” said Amabel. “I can't
believe in that telegram.”
" It's a chance," said the cook, “and if you don't
take a chance in this world, where are you? I dare-
say it won't be all jam in Paris any more nor what
it is here. Your uncle may have a wife, and she may
have a temper; but if he's one to like a pretty face
and figure you'll do. You're not as unlucky as you
think you are, and that's a fact. You can't expect
everything of them above, and as far as eyes and hair
and shape go, they've done pretty well for you.”
Amabel looked in the glass when her friend had
departed, and she certainly saw a charming girl re-
flected there. Her hair was thick and bright and
wavy, and her eyes were grey and her nose straightly
cut and delicate; and besides beauty of feature she
possessed just now the beauty of youth, and would
always possess the beauty of expression that is the
outward sign of kindness and intelligence. The sud-
den change in her prospects had dried her tears and
diverted her thoughts, and as she packed for the
children and herself, she dwelt on the uncertain issues
of to-morrow instead of fretting over the offences of
to-day. She tried to remember everything her father
had ever said of his brother Michael, and she could
not remember much. She did not know of any
estrangement to account for her uncle's long silence.
Her parents had believed him to be dead, and when
she found his name above an address in a Spanish-


14
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
sounding South American town, she had written as
people write to some one quite unknown, in a spirit
of adventure and with uncertain hope of a reply.
The evening passed quickly. The children came back
and kept her busy, and when they were in bed she
still had a good deal to do. It was midnight before
she had finished, and then she fell asleep, and woke
with a start next morning when a maid came in with
a cup of tea sent upstairs by the cook. Amabel drank
it as she was dressing.
“Why are you putting on your hat?” said Florrie,
the elder of two children who slept in the room.
“Because I am going away,” said Amabel.
“I know you are going away. Mamma told me
last night she would not keep you any longer because
you were not setting Guinevere and me a good ex-
ample. But she said you were to give us our break-
fast first as usual.”
" I'm afraid I can't stay for that,” said Amabel,
putting on her veil.
“But you must if Mamma tells you to," said the
child, with a good imitation of her mother's pompous
manner; and as Amabel took no notice she jumped
out of bed and ran downstairs to lodge a complaint.
Luckily for Amabel her trunk had been carried
down by Ginger and a housemaid the night before,
but she was stopped herself this morning by the ap-
parition of Mrs. Hunter in a quilted dressing-gown
and curling-pins.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
15
“Miss Ferrers,” she said, “ be good enough to go
upstairs again at once and give the children their
breakfast. You will leave this house when we leave
for Eastbourne and not a moment before.”
“I must leave at once,” said Amabel, and she took
another step towards the last flight of stairs; but Mrs.
Hunter's portly figure barred the way.
“Come along, Miss," said a fat, good-tempered
voice from below, "the cab's here."
“Cook !” said Mrs. Hunter, and she went down-
stairs herself, followed, of course, by Amabel. Ginger
was in the hall as well as the cook.
“It's all right, mum," said the cook. “I'll be back
before you're ready to give orders. I'm only going as
far as Victoria to see Miss Ferrers off.”
“Victoria! Didn't you tell me yesterday you had
nowhere to go, you wicked, deceitful girl! — trying
to excite my pity on false pretences.”
"There wasn't much false pretences," said the cook,
for Amabel would not condescend to speak. “ Things
is like weather, and take up sudden for the better
sometimes. Miss Ferrers had an invitation she didn't
expect last night to go and stay with an uncle in Paris
at the Hôtel — What was the name of the hotel,
Miss ? "
"The Hôtel Ritz,” said Amabel.
"A likely story,” said Mrs. Hunter. “Dukes and
millionaires stay at the Hôtel Ritz.”
"I shouldn't mind either the one or the other in


16
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
my family,” said the cook, and she followed Amabel
down the front steps.
" I'm sure you'll lose your place on my account,”
said Amabel regretfully, as they drove away.
" Lor' bless you, my dear, I can get twenty places
a hour and pick and choose,” said her champion.
“Think of my made dishes and my gravies. I've
rather a fancy to go and live with an earl. I read
such a lot about earls in all them Family Story-tellers,
but I ain't never rolled out pastry for one. I don't see
why I shouldn't as good as another. After all, pastry
is pastry and nothing else, whether it's for a earl or
a gentleman.”
“You're the only friend I'm leaving in London,"
said Amabel as the train moved out of the station.
“And I hope you'll soon be back with one better
worth looking at,” said the cook.
Amabel's fellow-pilgrims certainly seemed to think
her worth looking at, and she travelled with some
pleasant people, who helped her through the Douane
and into a cab at Paris. As she drove through the
twinkling streets to the Place Vendôme, all the hopes
and doubts that had possessed her since yesterday
reached their height, and when the driver stopped at
the doors of the hotel and a porter came forward,
Amabel hardly had breath enough to bring out her
uncle's name. But the man only signed her inside
the hotel, and there she had to do with a clerk, who
spoke English — said that Mr. Ferrers was in, and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
17
invited her to wait in a room close by. She sat down
and looked through the window at the courtyard,
which was gay with plants and full of people sitting
at little tables. Through the open door of the room
she saw other people pass through the hall, in and
out of the hotel, and from the square outside she heard
the rumble of wheels, the tuff-tuff of automobiles,
and the cries of paper boys with the latest edition of
La Patrie. But her impressions were blurred, for her
thoughts were fixed entirely on the unknown uncle,
and every pulse in her body seemed to wait for his
arrival. But the noise and the movement went on
around her, and no one came into the room. She
stared out at the courtyard, she watched the hall, the
minutes passed very slowly. At last she went up to
the centre table, found some English papers there,
and turned over the pages of the Times. When she
looked towards the door again, a man of middle age
had come inside the room, and stood there watching
her. He shut the door as she went towards him.


18
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
III
"I Am Amabel Ferrers,” she said.
"I am Michael Ferrers,” said he, and then for a
moment they took stock of each other. He was a
grizzled, wiry-looking man, and he seemed to be in
a hurry; and his eyes, though they were fixed on her,
were preoccupied.
“You're very much like your father," he said;
“when he was a boy he was so pretty that strangers
used to stop him in the street and ask him his name.
Every one took to him at once."
“Some people take a dislike to me,” said Amabel,
thinking of Mrs. Hunter and her family.
"I don't think I shall,” said Mr. Ferrers; “ I'm
glad you've come. I shall have ten days or so here,
unless anything goes wrong with the Eugenia, and
then back I go to Mexico.”
Amabel felt dreadfully disappointed. If her uncle
was going to the other end of the world in a short
ten days, nothing much would come of her acquaint-
ance with him. She wondered who Eugenia was,
and why Mr. Ferrers spoke of her with the definite
article.
“Your letter crawled around the world after me,”
he continued. “I got it in Japan. I was very sorry


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
19
to hear my brother and his wife were both dead. I
always meant to look them up, but I haven't been as
near England as this for twenty years, and I never
write letters. You didn't tell me much in yours. Are
you an only child ?”
“Yes,” said Amabel; “ I've neither kith nor kin —
except you.”
“What have you been doing, then, since your
parents died?”
“I was in a situation as governess till this morning.”
“ Bless me! didn't my brother make money ? ”
“Never very much, and when mother died there
wasn't five pounds. I didn't tell you in my letter,
because I thought you might be as poor as I was.
If you are going back to Mexico, Uncle Michael, I'm
afraid I ought to go straight back to London and find
a new situation. The money I have won't last many
days, and I don't know any one in London to help me
except a cook — "
“A cook!”
“Yes — where I was governess — she was very
kind, but, of course, she is not well off and — ”.
“ But I am,” interrupted Mr. Ferrers. “I wish
I'd known about your father. It puzzles me why any
one who wants money shouldn't get it. If the Eugenia
behaves as I expect she will, I shall have more money
than I want soon.”
"Is she — are you — is the Eugenia my aunt ? ”
said Amabel.


20
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“The Eugenia is a mine,” said Mr. Ferrers seri-
ously. “I am not married.”
“I wish you were,” said Amabel.
“You must find a wife for me, then," said Mr.
Ferrers; “ I've never had time. But you needn't think
about going back to London yet. I'll order you a room
and something to eat, and when you're ready come
down here again and let me know. I've two people
dining with me, and I must go back to them.”
“Are they very smart people?” said Amabel a little
later, when she had dressed and dined and found her
uncle again. “I don't suppose you know what a smart
woman would think of my clothes, and I've put on
my Sunday frock.”
“The Varasdins are Hungarians,” said Mr. Ferrers,
leading the way to the courtyard. “I only know them
through doing business with the husband. She ap-
pears to be an agreeable woman. I never saw her till
to-night. I think she's in black. They both speak
English. They have suggested that we should go out
somewhere — to a café, I suppose. It will be more
entertaining for you than sitting still here.”
Mr. Ferrers stopped near one of the little tables,
and introduced Amabel to the two people waiting for
him there. The husband was a tall, flabby-looking
man, with shifty brown eyes and a head of hair that
wanted cutting. He made Amabel an elaborate bow,
and at once engaged her in conversation, but she found
it difficult to attend to him because her fascinated eyes


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
21
returned again and again to the brilliant figure of
his wife. Even judged by the French standard of
beauty, which differs so much from our own, Madame
Varasdin was not a beautiful woman, and, judged by
the English and the Greek ideals, she was positively
plain. In colouring and in feature she could no more
compare with Amabel than the monkey on a barrel
organ can compare with the charming Italian boy who
pets him. She had dark, very narrow eyes, a big
mouth, a sallow skin, and stiff black hair rolled back
from her face in Japanese fashion. But she had the
manner and the glances of a woman who has found
times without number that she is irresistible; she was
as graceful as a cat, she talked with vivacity and she
dressed with art. When Amabel appeared, she said
a civil word or two, and then seemed to make up her
mind that a girl in such a blouse and skirt was not
one to reckon with. So she settled her long feather
boa and entertained Mr. Ferrers and looked about her.
In a little while her attention seemed to fix itself on
a young man sitting at a table opposite their own, and
when her party got up to go she went a little out of
her way in order to pass close by him. There could
be no doubt as to his nationality. He was well
groomed, he was drinking a whisky and soda, he was
reading Punch and the Times. As Madame Varasdin
rustled past him, he looked up and at once sprang to
his feet. His manner expressed ardent pleasure, but
his British tongue said, “Oh, Madame Varasdin!”


22
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
and then stopped short. He seemed to know the hus-
band too, and shook hands with him as if he only half
liked the obligation.
Madame Varasdin mentioned to the others that he
was Mr. Newby, and then she sat down at his table
and talked to him, and Amabel thought she had
never seen any one smile so brilliantly or express so
much with her hands. But Mr. Ferrers soon grew
impatient.
“We ought to be going,” he said to M. Varasdin;
and Varasdin said to his wife in a diffident voice —
"Mr. Ferrers thinks we should go now, Anastasie.”
Anastasie's eyes almost shut as she just glanced at
her husband.
“Go on,” she said; “I will come when I am ready.
Mr. Newby will escort me, I know.”
"Rather,” said Mr. Newby.
Varasdin was evidently used to doing as he was
bid. He found a cab outside the hotel for his com-
panions and himself and drove with them to the Café
de Paris. On the way he told Mr. Ferrers that his
wife had met Mr. Newby at Aix-les-Bains last year,
and that he had a large income and was very sym-
pathetic.
Amabel was amused by the little grunt with which
her uncle received this account of their new acquaint-
ance, but after that she did not listen to what the two
men were saying, because they began to talk of busi-
ness, and she was bewitched by the sights and lights


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
23
of Paris. When they were seated within the café,
her uncle ordered ice for her and Bocks for M. Varas-
din and himself, and they watched the midnight life
of the city coming and going in fine raiment. They
had been there for some time when Madame Varasdin
appeared with Mr. Newby, and though the café was
full of well-dressed women, all eyes followed her be-
cause she was strikingly tall and graceful and wore
fine diamonds and a fine cloak. The cloak had hang-
ing sleeves and an amazing ruffled collar and gold
embroideries, and a Venetian painter would have
shown you Anastasie framed and draped with it, and
you would have turned like the rest of that company
from Amabel, who was a beauty, to the woman who
was plain.
She sat down and ordered little hot crayfish that
she ate without bread or sauces and with the help of
her fingers. She had lithe-looking, long hands, and
they blazed with jewels, and Amabel first watched her
and then turned away. The lady made her meal as
her neighbours did, and yet it was unpleasant to see
her delicate fingers tear the little creatures asunder.
Amabel was a matter-of-fact Briton and not fanciful;
yet it crossed her fancy that Madame Varasdin would
have destroyed the crayfish with the same quickness
and appetite if they had been alive. When she had
finished, she pushed back her chair and talked to Mr.
Ferrers and Mr. Newby. Her English was fluent
and correct, and her foreign accent gave point to her


24
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
stories, which were all of cosmopolitan people and in
cynical demonstration of human folly. Their flavour
was not sweet in the memory, but they suited the hour,
because the hour was dominated by the lady who told
them. For all the notice any one took of Amabel she
might have been a wooden dummy; but she looked and
listened and felt very well amused. It was after mid-
night when Madame Varasdin suddenly got up.
“ Look at those women in mourning,” she said
audibly; "they are taking the table opposite us. We
don't want to sit and stare at them. I hate anything
gloomy.”
"Are you busy to-morrow, Madame Varasdin?"
said Mr. Ferrers.
The lady glanced at Mr. Newby, who turned red.
“Do you want me to take your niece to see the
Tomb of Napoleon ? ” she asked.
“Something of the kind,” said Mr. Ferrers. “I
shall be busy till five. Could you come to lunch, and
then take Amabel to the right milliners? I believe
they are more important than the Tomb."
“I will come with pleasure," said Madame Varas-
din. “I have one engagement to-morrow, but I can
fix any time I choose for it. I will call for your niece
in the morning and we will have lunch together, and
at five — at five, when you are free, Mr. Ferrers, you
will find us at Colombin’s, the tea-house in the Rue
Cambon, you know. Can I depend on you to pick us
up there?”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
25
“Certainly!” said Mr. Ferrers. “But how about
your other engagement ?”
“Six o'clock will do for that,” said Madame Varas-
din. “We don't dine till half-past seven. Mr. Newby,
will you dine with us to-morrow at half-past seven?”
“With pleasure,” said Mr. Newby.
"I wish Varasdin had half the wits of his wife,”
said Mr. Ferrers to Amabel, as they drove home to-
gether. "I call her a very agreeable woman, don't
you?"
“ Ye-es,” said Amabel, with the uncertain assent
that points to a contrary opinion. She could not keep
her eyes off Madame Varasdin, but she was not at
all sure that she thought her agreeable.


26
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
IV
AMABEL had not seen the Tomb of Napoleon yet, but
she had seen a Paris dressmaker and several Paris
shops, and now she sat at one of Colombin's tea-tables,
in a blouse and a hat and a ruffle that changed her in
a twinkling from a moth to a butterfly. Her uncle
had taken her breath away that morning by telling
her, all in a hurry, while he drank his coffee and
glanced at his financial papers, that he meant to pro-
vide for her, and that, as he had to be in Paris on
and off till this affair of the Eugenia was settled, she
might stay there for the present — in the hotel at first,
and, when he ran back to Mexico, in a family or a
Pension.
“You must ask Madame Varasdin about clothes,"
he said, with a glance at his niece's worse-for-wear
guinea coat and skirt. “She appears to understand
them. You can't go about with her dressed like a
country cousin. I've plenty of money and nothing
much to do with it, and no one belonging to me. You
may just as well have a good time. I like the way
you came here - straight off, on the chance. I've
done things of that sort myself, and I'm on the top of
the wave now. Here is some French money."
Mr. Ferrers had taken out a pocket-book and was


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
27
extracting French bank notes from it. He put five
beside her, and she saw that each one was for a
thousand francs.
“Oh!” she said, and her uncle looked at her with
amusement. He enjoyed her surprise and confusion,
and he enjoyed using some of his money in this novel
way.
“It won't last you long if you go shopping with
Madame Varasdin,” he said. “She looks expensive.
I don't know how a fool like her husband manages
to pay for those diamonds."
“Is M. Varasdin a fool?” said Amabel.
“He's a fool who's always telling you he's a clever
fellow," said Mr. Ferrers. “I'd any time rather deal
with a clever fellow who tells me he's a fool.”
Then he got up and put away his pocket-book, and
said to Amabel that he must go about his business
now, but that, if nothing happened to prevent it, he
would take her to the opera to-night; and Amabel got
ready for Madame Varasdin, having made up her mind
that the first thing she would buy should be a silk
dress for the cook.
" What do you want?” said Madame Varasdin, as
they sat at lunch together.
“I believe I want everything — from your point
of view,” said Amabel, for the lady's walking gown
and hat were as elegant as her evening raiment
had been. “I am sure you would say my clothes
were only fit for a bonfire.”


28
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“ Clothes cost money,” said Madame Varasdin, with
the smile that seemed to shut her eyes. “Have you
any idea of Paris prices ? For a bolero and skirt I
pay my tailor — ”
She paused, and her glance gauged Amabel's
poor shrunken coat and skirt, and Amabel felt
quite uncomfortable and in a hurry to cast it from
her.
“The gown I am wearing cost twenty guineas,"
Madame Varasdin continued. “The little man who
made it is rather clever. You might order two or
three things from him to begin with.”
“My uncle gave me five thousand francs this
morning,” said Amabel. “I thought it was a great
deal and would last a long time. I should not like
to spend it extravagantly."
“It won't go far if you want everything," said
Madame Varasdin. “ From what Hyacinth tells me
of your uncle he could give you five thousand francs
a week and never know he was spending money.
But men are all the same. They expect a woman
to spend a thousand francs and look like a thousand
pounds. I told Hyacinth this morning that I wanted
a new hat, and he threatened to commit suicide."
“Does he often do that?” said Amabel, puzzled
by the lady's tranquil manner.
“Whenever anything annoys him," said Madame
Varasdin. Then they called a cab and began the
business of the day, and long before five o'clock


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
29
Amabel had spent most of her money. She had
bought the silk dress and despatched it to the cook,
and she had presented Madame Varasdin with a hat
that the lady tried on and put down with a sigh be-
cause it cost five guineas. Amabel hardly ventured
to offer it, but Madame Varasdin made the way easy
for her, and accepted it with so much grace that the
girl saw that she had done the right thing. And now
here they were at Colombin's drinking tea and eating
little muffins, and looking at English cakes that were
not quite what English cakes should be, because they
were neither stale nor stodgy. The rooms were very
full and cheerful, and most people were talking Eng-
lish and American.
“Are there no French people in Paris?” said
Amabel.
“ It is not easy to come across them,” said Madame
Varasdin. “I have lived here for a year and know
none."
“Where did you live before ?” said Amabel, and as
the question passed her lips she knew she would have
done better not to ask it.
“I have lived in every capital in Europe,” said
Madame Varasdin. “My husband's affairs are al-
ways taking him to fresh places."
As she replied her husband came in, accompanied
by Mr. Ferrers. The two men were talking as they
crossed the outer shop. They stopped inside the room
to talk, and when they reached their own party they


30
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
were still at the height of their argument, and had
only a formal greeting for the ladies.
“What has happened?” said Madame Varasdin.
“That's what we want to know," said her husband.
“It's Eugenias,” said Mr. Ferrers, “and I believe
it's Mexican Jem."
He looked cool and angry, and M. Varasdin looked
uncomfortable. Amabel began to understand that the
money she had been spending so easily was not always
made with ease of mind.
“Something must have gone wrong over there,”
said M. Varasdin.
"I don't believe it,” said Mr. Ferrers. “Mexican
Jem is banging the market; that's all.”
“But Eugenias are on offer all over the place,” said
M. Varasdin, in an explanatory way to his wife.
“ They're as flat as ditchwater. It's easy enough to
say it's banging — ”.
“Can't you find out what has happened ?” said
Madame Varasdin.
"No, we can't,” said Mr. Ferrers. “The mine is
fifty miles from anywhere. Of course we have wired
to the new manager, but we have had no answer.”
“Who is Mexican Jem?” said Amabel.
“A man who was buying all the Eugenias he could
get a week or two ago," said her uncle.
“But he's off them now, and I wish I was,” said
M. Varasdin. “It's too much of a gamble.”
“Have you any?” said his wife.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
31
“I'm sorry to say I have a thousand in my
pocket.”
He opened a letter case, and took from it the cer-
tificate of the shares. It lay open on the table for any
one to see, and Amabel looked at the wording cu-
riously.
“Well, I've made up my mind,” said Mr. Ferrers;
" I'm going straight over there. In case anything has
gone wrong, I'd rather be on the spot. But I shall
leave orders that if Mexican Jem offers a line to-
morrow they are taken for me.”
“What we want is to get Wolfenstein interested
in them,” said M. Varasdin. “He would strengthen
our faction.”
“Wolfenstein's hands are not clean,” said Mr. Fer-
rers.
Varasdin shrugged his shoulders.
" Business is business," said he; “Wolfenstein is
a very clever man. He made a quarter of a million
last year, and this year he's doing better still; and
you should see the names of the people who go to his
wife's parties. They don't seem to mind about his
hands."
" I'm rather nice about my name," said Mr. Fer-
rers. “I've never been mixed up with a shady lot
yet.”
“ If you talk like that to my husband he will think
you are not a good man of business,” said Mme.
Varasdin.


32
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Well, I'm going to score off Mexican Jem,” said
Mr. Ferrers.
“Or he'll score off us,” said M. Varasdin, looking
dolefully at the Eugenia shares.
Amabel thought her uncle's glance took the other
man's measure and found him wanting.
“ I'll let you out if you like,” said Mr. Ferrers;
“I'll take back your little lot.”
"Done," said Varasdin eagerly.
" Perhaps you are throwing away a good thing,"
said Mme. Varasdin rather anxiously. Mr. Ferrers had
taken out his cheque-book, and was filling in a cheque.
“I'll give you your thousand pounds," he said, with
an air of conviction that was impressive. “You
couldn't get the price in London or here this after-
noon. But I believe in Eugenias.”
"I can't afford a gamble," said Varasdin sulkily.
“My expenses are too heavy."
Mr. Ferrers tore off the cheque and presented it to
M. Varasdin. For a few minutes there was a lull at
that particular tea-table, and Amabel wondered what
was going to happen. She saw that her uncle's
thoughts were far away from the Parisian tea-house.
He consulted first a calendar and then a railway time-
table, and then he looked at his watch.
“I can just do it," he said. “But I must be at the
Nord in half-an-hour.”
As if each minute had grown precious, he pushed
back his chair and got up, but his eyes fell on Amabel,


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
33
and he sat down again. She looked at him expec-
tantly.
“ I can't take you to the opera till I come back,"
he said; “I must go to Mexico at once and find out
what has happened. I'll leave you all the French
money I have, and I'll pay up at the hotel, and I'll
send you a cheque. You mustn't stay on at the Ritz
by yourself. Mme. Varasdin, can you tell my niece
of a comfortable pension? If not, she had better go
straight to England."
" When shall you be back, Uncle Michael ? ” said
Amabel, and she looked at him rather wistfully.
" It is sure to be weeks, it might be months,” said
Mr. Ferrers. “I may find the new manager is mak-
ing a mess of things. You must send me your ad-
dress, of course. I'll wire you mine. You'll be all
right, you know. So shall I - at least I hope I
shall — Anyhow — if I'm not all right — give me
that certificate, Varasdin - I believe you will be with
this — but take care of it, my dear — they're bearer
shares."
“What is it?” said Amabel, taking the paper from
her uncle.
" It's a thousand Eugenias,” said Mr. Ferrers.
“Mademoiselle enters the affair in the pleasantest
way,” said M. Varasdin. “She takes no risk, and the
chance of a big profit. Even to-day, when things look
so black, that little bit of paper could be sold for eight
or nine hundred pounds, Mademoiselle.”


34
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“But I have just seen you sell it for a thousand,"
Amabel reminded him.
“The prices of such things go up and down,” her
uncle explained to her. “These shares may be worth
a good many thousands soon. Keep them tight till I
wire to you to sell, and remember that they are
unregistered and can be stolen as easily as a bank-
note.”
“But how shall I sell them?” said Amabel.
“Go to a respectable stockbroker," said Mr. Ferrers.
“I don't know one,” said Amabel.
“You know me," said M. Varasdin. “I shall be
happy to give you any assistance in my power while
your uncle is away."
" Are you a stockbroker?” said Amabel.
“I am not exactly on the Bourse," said M. Varas-
din, taking a fine attitude. “I keep outside and have
more scope. I am what you call a financier."
“Oh!” said Amabel uncomprehendingly; and she
took the certificate of the shares back from Madame
Varasdin, who had been studying it intently. “I sup-
pose I'm worth robbing,” she said to her uncle, as she
put the certificate and the French money into her.
purse.
“You will be in six weeks' time, I hope,” said he;
and then he got up, and his glance lingered a little on
her pretty face, and he could see that she was more
concerned about his going away than about the money
he had given her.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
35
“ Come back soon, Uncle Michael,” she said, as she
stood at the door with him for a moment.
“Suppose I didn't — you'd be all right, you know,
my dear. If I live I'll send you money; and if I don't,
you're my legal heir. I'll write to my solicitors and
tell them about you before I leave New York. Take
care of your Eugenias, and don't trust that Varasdin
too much. I heard things I don't like about him to-
day. I'm glad to have done with him as far as busi-
ness goes. I dare say he'll do in private life.”
“ What do you think of Madame Varasdin?” said
Amabel rather anxiously.
“I think she's a clever woman,” said Mr. Ferrers,
signing to a cab-driver. “She will tell you how to
dress and where to live, and that is all you want of
her. I could see she was furious because her husband
wouldn't keep his Eugenias. She has the wit to be-
lieve in me. I'm not going to take you with me now
because I must race the clock, and you'd be in my.
way. You talk to Madame Varasdin about a board-
ing-house, and settle in somewhere to-night. I shall
be back before you've time to turn around. Good-
bye.”
Mr. Ferrers kissed his niece and took off his hat to
the Varasdins, who were approaching the door. He
showed the cab-driver a twenty-franc piece, and told
him what he must do to get it, and so in a twinkling
he clattered out of the narrow side-street into the Rue
de Rivoli. Amabel watched the cab, and then walked


36
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
slowly towards the Boulevards with the Varasdins.
She felt forlorn.
“What are you going to do now, Mademoiselle?”
said M. Varasdin.
“My uncle told me to make inquiries about a pen-
sion,” said Amabel. “Do you know of one?”
“How would you like to come and stay with us?”
said Mme. Varasdin.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“With you?” repeated Amabel, a good deal sur-
prised and puzzled. The proposal was made in such
a business-like tone that she guessed a business-like
idea must be at the back of it; and she looked at Mme.
Varasdin's hat and gown and jewels, and wondered.
“We have a flat in the best part of Paris,” con-
tinued Mme. Varasdin. “From our balcony you can
see Mont Valérien if you look one way, and the Arc
de Triomphe if you look the other. We are close to
the Bois.”
“ But surely I should be in your way?” said
Amabel.
"No," said Mme. Varasdin. “We have often had
some one with us for a time. When my old friend,
Baron Rosenmeyer, went on a financial mission to
Turkey, he confided his only daughter to my care. He
paid me — what is it in your English money ? — seven
guineas a week."
Twenty-four hours ago Amabel would have known
that Mme. Varasdin asked too much; but the day's
work had left her ideas about money quite topsy-
turvy. In a city where people paid five guineas for
a straw hat trimmed with a couple of quills, and
thirty guineas for a cashmere gown, a guinea a day


38
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
for board and lodging sounded almost moderate. She
had a pocketful of money, her uncle had promised her
a cheque, and she had the thousand Eugenias.
“If you are quite sure I shall not be in your way —”.
she began again, embarrassed by the difficulty of re-
jecting the idea and uncertain whether she fancied it.
“Come and try,” said Mme. Varasdin. “If you
don't like us, you can any day go to a pension; but
I think you will like us. I am sure your uncle would
be glad to hear you were with me, and not with stran-
gers."
So the matter was settled, and Amabel went back
to the hotel and collected her things, and at seven
o'clock she was driving out to Mme. Varasdin's flat
in the Avenue Ernani. It was still light, and as she
drove across the Place de la Concorde and up the
Champs Elysées, she felt glad that she was to stay
in this beautiful, happy-looking city, where she would
see the golden side of life, she who had seen the drab
side ever since she could remember. She was adrift
here, but she would have been adrift in London too,
for she had no friends there. The few friends left
to her lived in a grimy little Lancashire town, where
her parents had lived and struggled with debt, and
died. She loved her own country, but her memories
of it, though they were tender, were sad. Her drive
through Paris on this brilliant evening was like a
dancing tune that sets your spirits dancing to its own
measure.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
39
Mme. Varasdin received her, and took her into a
small drawing-room that communicated with a larger
one by means of glass doors. It had a parqueted
floor, the inevitable mirror over the mantelpiece, a
walnut centre table, and some damaged-looking red
satin chairs.
“ This is the room I shall give you," said Mme.
Varasdin. “The bedstead will be brought down from
the attic after dinner; and there is a washstand too,
the very one I bought for Amalie von Rosenmeyer.
You see your window opens on to the balcony, so you
will have a fine view."
Amabel thought she would rather have had a ward-
robe and a chest of drawers. An anteroom with a
table and chairs did not come up to her British ideas
of comfort and privacy so well as a Bloomsbury attic
where you can lock your one door and put away your
clothes. The doors leading into the salon were cur-
tained, but she could find neither key nor bolt to them;
and through her window she could see the boots of
some one sitting on the balcony.
“Mr. Newby is here,” said Mme. Varasdin. “He
will dine with us. It is not necessary to dress for
dinner. If you take off your hat you will be ready."
Amabel thought that, under the circumstances, a
more prolonged toilet would have been difficult to
manage; so she took off her hat and then followed
her hostess on to the balcony. The boots, she found,
belonged to Mr. Newby, who rose to greet her. He


40
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
looked younger than ever, and when he saw his hos-
tess's tea-gown he stuck his monocle into his eye and
said —
" I say, Madame Varasdin! what a rippin' dress and
what rippin' flowers! Did you have the flowers made
for you? I never saw any like 'em!”
For Mme. Varasdin's toilet had not been accom-
plished by taking off a hat. She wore a loose green-
ish-blue gown that hung as Amabel had never seen a
gown hang before, and chains of uncut turquoises and
great jewelled clasps and flowers with all the blues
and greens of heaven blended in their petals.
“ They are ixias,” said Anastasie, and then M. Va-
rasdin appeared and they went in to dinner.
It was a very good dinner, but Amabel did not know
whether the talk that went on was good or bad, be-
cause she could not follow it. She was never quite
sure whether people or speculations or both together
were being discussed, and she felt rather pleased when
Mr. Varasdin coupled together two names she had
heard before, and told Mr. Newby that Mexican Jem
had cleared out of Eugenias, and that instead of ris-
ing like rockets they were dropping like sticks.
“I suppose even Mexican Jem may make a mis-
take,” said Mr. Newby.
“Well, I've left them alone,” said M. Varasdin.
“I'm afraid of a gamble, and I don't mind who
knows it.”
“What will happen to my Eugenias if they drop


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
41
like sticks? ” said Amabel. It was the first time she
had entered into the conversation.
“Your Eugenias?” said Mr. Newby.
“My uncle gave me a thousand,” said Amabel, and
she opened the bag hanging at her side and passed the
certificate across the table to Mr. Newby. He glanced
at it and was going to pass it back, when Mme. Va- .
rasdin took it from him.
“Sell them to me to-night for five hundred
pounds,” she said; “I love a gamble.”
“Don't do it,” said Varasdin, addressing his wife
with such sudden and violent excitement that his two
guests felt quite alarmed. “Don't do it. Mexican
Jem has got even. So have I, and we know what we
are about. Mr. Ferrers has given mademoiselle a
bagatelle. In a fortnight they may not be worth five
pounds. Besides, where will you get five hundred
pounds? Do you think I will give five hundred
pounds for such wickedness? Do you think I have
them to give? Will you pay for your own gambles,
then, madame? You always think you know best and
that I am a fool, but I, Hyacinth Louis Varasdin, tell
you there is nothing in Eugenias, nothing at all.”
He brought his hand down on the table with such
a bang that his wine glasses tottered, and the maid-
servant nearly dropped the dish in her hands. Anas-
tasie only blinked at her husband.
“I don't agree with you, Varasdin,” said Mr.
Newby, in his queer, high, young voice. “I believe


42
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
they'll come out right in the end. If any one had
chucked a thousand at me I should stick to 'em.”
“I must stick to them,” said Amabel, restoring the
certificate to her purse. “My uncle told me not to
sell them till he wired."
“You must take care of your purse, then,” said Mr.
Newby. “Anyone who stole it could sell them.
They're bearer shares.”
“What disagreeable ideas you have,” said Mme.
Varasdin, getting up from table.
But Mr. Newby's manner had put Amabel uncom-
fortably on her guard, and for at least a week she
slept with her purse under her pillow. She did not
know what degree of distrust her fellow-countryman
meant to instil, or which member of the household in-
spired it, but she thought it could not be Mme. Va-
rasdin. Mr. Newby's case with regard to her was
plain, and what puzzled Amabel was M. Varasdin's
alternate blindness and fidgety interference. He
fawned on the young man in his presence, and called
him a “beefsteak” when his back was turned, and
Amabel found that by a beefsteak her host meant some
one rude and loutish and dull of mind. She won-
dered whether Mme. Varasdin called her names the
moment she was out of hearing. Her respect for the
husband and wife did not grow with her sojourn in
their house, but they laid themselves out to please her,
and she was neither uncomfortable nor unhappy as a
rule. She soon discovered that they had dreadful and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
43
frequent scenes with each other, and at first, after
hearing their voices raised in shrill vituperation, she
used to feel ashamed to look them in the face. But
they were so unashamed themselves that she began to
take these storms for granted, as you take thunder
for granted when you travel to a hotter climate. They
were invariably about money, although Mr. Newby's
name somehow got mixed up with them every time.
Of course Amabel's life had given her no social ex-
perience, but even she perceived that the Varasdins
were not in good position. They seemed to know no
French people at all, but only a cosmopolitan rabble
of artists and business men. The artists were obscure
and impecunious, and the business men came from
heaven knows where, and made their money heaven
knows how. They would squander money one day
and borrow the next, and as lief get the best of a bar-
gain with a friend as with an enemy. Their women-
kind were not always as doubtful and unpleasing as
they were themselves. The matrons were often ab-
sorbed in domestic affairs and greatly tried by the
ups and downs of life. There was one very fat lady
who told Amabel that she never knew whether her
husband would come back from business with a dia-
mond necklace for her, or with a revolver that he
proposed to hold first to her head and then to his
own. She had been through every extreme of for-
tune with him, and had nearly starved while he was
well fed in an Austrian prison. She was rather proud


44
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
of the prison episode, and said that Mathias had been
the victim of a brother's guile. But when Amabel saw
Mathias she thought a man with those eyes could not
be without guile himself. He was a good-natured per-
son, devoted to his fat wife and his grown-up daugh-
ters, and inclined to make a pet of Amabel. Just at
present he was living in great magnificence on the
Champs Elysées, and the eldest daughter was about to
marry a Berlin stockbroker. The Varasdins, with
Amabel, were invited to the wedding and to a re-
ception at the house the night before.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
VI
THE Varasdins were sitting on the balcony with Mr.
Newby and Amabel. Below them the long double
line of young chestnuts stretched to right and left as
far as the eye could follow, the tall white houses rose
high above the trees, and the street lights flashed
amongst their branches. The busy traffic of the city
sounded far away, and the people strolling along the
pavement beneath were not present in any disturbing
degree to the people on the balcony. At the win-
dows of the opposite houses there was no sign of the
inhabitants, except the lace curtains with which they
shut themselves in. The stars were coming out in
a clear sky, and from the hills beyond the Bois a
pleasant breeze swept through the avenue towards
Paris.
"It is my birthday to-morrow," Mme. Varasdin was
saying. “What will you give me, Hyancinth?"
“Everything I have is yours already,” said Hya-
cinth.
“But you haven't much,” said Anastasie. “I want
a string of real pearls.”
"I will give you the pearls and mademoiselle the
Koh-i-noor on the same day. I can get one as easily
as the other.”


46
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Pearls are beastly expensive things,” said Mr.
Newby. “Don't see much good in them either.”
“You haven't seen the gown I am going to wear
at the Gregorios',” said Mme. Varasdin; “pearls
would be the making of it.”
“How much is the gown going to cost ? ” inquired
M. Varasdin.
“You will see when the bill comes in,” said Anas-
tasie blandly.
“Paris is a very costly place,” said Amabel. “ I've
spent all the money Uncle Michael left me and about
half the cheque he sent. I can't think what poor
people do here. How do they exist, Mme. Varasdin?”
“I take no interest in them. It is so easy to make
money that people who are poor are stupid. I prefer
to contemplate people like the Gregorios. They un-
derstand the art of life.”
“You mean they understand the art of swindling,"
said Mr. Newby.
Amabel looked up rather startled and expecting
Mme. Varasdin to take offense, but she only laughed.
“You like a man who sits in a prison one year and
buys a palace the next,” said M. Varasdin.
“I like a man who can get into a palace after a
prison," said his wife. “You want brains and
energy to do that.”
Something in her tone and glance made her husband
wince and then bluster.
“Gregorio is a rogue,” he shouted; “Gregorio made


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
47
all his money out of that Coal Syndicate, and it was
one of the biggest frauds. He has ruined thousands.”
“And we're all going to dance at his daughter's
wedding to-morrow," piped Mr. Newby. “I suppose
he'll have good champagne."
"I taught him how to play ping-pong the other
day,” said Amabel. “He didn't like picking up the
balls; he is so far. He is always very kind, and when
Jeanne Gregorio spilt her wine on the governess's
dress I saw him give her a hundred-franc note for a
new one. Mrs. Hunter was highly respectable, and I
never had enough to eat in her house, and she nagged
from morning till night. It seems that swindlers are
agreeable people to live with.”
" Quite,” said Mr. Newby, “as long as you drink
their champagne and pocket their bank notes and don't
trust them with a penny. If that governess saved all
her life for her old age, and put her savings into his
hands, he'd foist some of his rotten stuff on her with-
out a pang, and to-morrow she'd be in the workhouse,
and he'd be giving a party, and you and I would be
drinking his champagne. That's how it's done, Miss
Ferrers. Be Gregorio, or be you or me, but don't be
some poor devil who starves and scrapes and ends in
the gutter after all.”
“People are not forced to speculate; they are so
greedy,” said M. Varasdin.
“Oh! of course, the lamb should keep away from
the wolf,” said Mr. Newby.


48
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“After all, the raison d'être of a lamb is to be
eaten,” said Mme. Varasdin. “You like it yourself
for dinner.”
Later on in the evening, when Mr. Newby had de-
parted, the husband and wife still sat together on the
balcony. It was a most unusual thing for them to do.
“I've the devil's luck lately,” began the man.
“ That's nothing new," said the lady.
“There must be a smash soon.”
“That's why I made a bid for the pearls."
“What will they be worth if you get them? I want
thousands. The moment I touch anything it comes
to grief. The moment I take my hands off it pros-
pers. I tell you I've the devil's luck.”
“I'm sure I had when I married you," said Anas-
tasie.
“It's your extravagance that brings us to ruin,"
said Hyacinth.
“I want money and I mean to have it,” said his
wife. “I'd rather be dead than poor. People who
can't make money out of a world full of imbeciles de-
serve all the kicks they get. It is the one thing worth
doing, and if I were a man I would do it or go out.
What is the use of health or beauty or brains except
as a means to money? Life without it is a martyr-
dom that lasts as long as life itself. I, at any rate,
care for nothing else, desire nothing else. If I were
a man I would have striven for it with so single a
mind, with such a fierce determination, that I tell you


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
49
I would have got it. No obstacles should have hin-
dered me; I would have thrust them aside. No dif-
tered them. How can a man be so indolent, so dull,
so poor in spirit? You have no money? Go out into
the market-place and make some, fool. You play the
poorest part of all — you wolf — who never brings
home his lamb.”
“Oh! you have a tongue,” said M. Varasdin; “I
never denied that."
Then he go out a pencil and a pocket-book, and
did little sums, and he got more and more excited and
unhappy, and at last he dashed them both to the
ground and said he could not stand this state of
things any longer, and that unless Anastasie came to
his assistance he would go straight downstairs and
throw himself into the Seine.
“What do you expect me to do?” said Anastasie.
“Get hold of money — somehow — anyhow."
“If you would be obliging enough to throw your-
self into the Seine, I might marry Mr. Newby. The
stupid young man is rich.”
" I'm not going to drown myself to please you,” said
M. Varasdin.
"I am convinced you will not drown yourself. It
would take a little courage and perhaps be unpleas-
ant."
“Some day I shall kill you,” snarled the man.
Mme. Varasdin got up.


50
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I have often thought one of us would be better
out of the way,” she said.
But next day a basket of roses arrived for her, and
amongst the roses there was a jeweller's case, and in
the case there was a string of pearls and Mr. Newby's
card. She held them up triumphantly.
"You may give me another string whenever you
like,” she said to Hyacinth.
"Mr. Newby is very gallant,” he observed, and
Amabel, who was present, looked in vain for any trace
of embarrassment in his manner or in his wife's. They
were well satisfied. At night, when she went to the
Gregorios', Mme. Varasdin wore the pearls round her
neck, and the eyes of every woman in the room fol-
lowed her with longing. The type of woman gathered
there would rather have pearls than love or honour or
renown.
“If you have the wits of a sparrow you'll make
money out of this,” she said to her husband. “Every
one will think you've given them to me. Pearls mean
money, and money means credit.”.
“No one will think I have given them to you,”
growled M. Varasdin. “ Haven't you come here with
that English booby at your heels ? "
“But, my dear, you are dull beyond understanding.
Isn't Miss Ferrers at my heels, too, and isn't she the
prettiest girl in the room?”
"I may be dull,” said M. Varasdin; "but I'm
sharp enough to see the fellow can't keep his eyes off


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
51
you. He's too raw and silly to care about a beautiful
girl."
With this back-hander the exasperated gentleman
sheered off, and the moment he did so Mr. Newby de-
serted Amabel for the lady of riper years and more
subtle charm. He sat down beside Mme. Varasdin,
and looked through his single eyeglass at the splendid
rooms and at the people moving about in them, and
when they were unusually odd he asked her to explain
them. Sometimes he made a remark that surprised
her by its shrewdness, but she found his conversa-
tion on the whole extremely dull.
Like most continentals, she failed entirely to under-
stand a man of Mr. Newby's type, a type so common
at home that every playing-field is full of it, and every
battle is fought by it, and every ship manned by it.
He was one of the swarm of clean-shaven, clean-
minded English boys, with brains that never dazzle
and never collapse, and a character that will neither
tell lies nor forgive them. Even his civilisation was
of a kind she could not discover or appreciate. She
saw that he was awkward and tongue-tied, and she
did not understand why he called Egon Rosenmeyer a
bounder. She thought Egon Rosenmeyer charming.
He had curly hair and an impudent tongue, his anec-
dotes had to be whispered, he was a facile musician,
and as for his bonnes fortunes, they were like the
waves of the sea, countless and overlapping. He
was always ready to tell her about them, too, and


52
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
she wished he would sit beside her instead of Mr.
Newby.
“There's that little beast of a Rosenmeyer getting
introduced to Miss Ferrers,” said Mr. Newby. “ How
sick she'll be.”
“Go, and rescue her, then, and send Egon to me.
I like him.”
“How can any one like him?"
“What's wrong with him?” asked Mme. Varasdin.
But to explain that was, of course, beyond Mr.
Newby's powers.
“ A man should have some muscle,” he said.
Mme. Varasdin's eyes fixed themselves on Mr.
Newby's large, sunburnt hand. He had taken one
glove off and wore the other.
“He should if he wants to be a railway porter and
shoulder trunks, or a drayman and roll about barrels
of beer,” she said. “I don't know what use muscles
are to you and M. Rosenmeyer, or what ornament.
It is a superstition Europe does not share with you.
Nowadays, even a war is waged with brains — a suc-
cessful war, that is; you will find it out some day
when you are face to face with a civilised people."
“H-m,” said Mr. Newby. He did not get up be-
cause he saw that Amabel was coming towards them
with her new cavalier in tow. Her face and figure
and air were all English; her clothes and her coif-
fure were all French; and so she was, as Mme. Va-
rasdin had said, the prettiest girl in the room.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
53
“What do you think M. Rosenmeyer has just told
me?” she said. “ Mexican Jem is coming here to-
night.”
“How have the Gregorios managed that?” said
Mme. Varasdin.
" I'm surprised myself,” said M. Rosenmeyer. “ Old
Gregorio told me the moment I arrived. He keeps
running to the stairs and watching for him. If he was
expecting a royal duke he could not be in a greater
fuss."
“If a royal duke came here it would be to borrow
money,” said Mme. Varasdin. “If Mexican Jem only
looks your way you make it. He is a more important
guest to old Gregorio than any duke could be.”
“But who is Mexican Jem? ” asked Amabel.
“A financial power,” said M. Rosenmeyer.
“But if he is English, how is it these foreigners
know him?"
“The whole world knows him since he brought out
the great El Paso Mine,” said Mr. Newby.
“Is he very rich? ” asked Mme. Varasdin.
“If I had a year of his income I'd never do a
day's work again," said M. Rosenmeyer.
“He's an awfully decent chap, too,” said Mr.
Newby. “As straight as they make 'em."
“Oh! do you believe that of anybody?” said M.
Rosenmeyer, who understood the English idiom. “I
myself am strictly honourable, but I never expect to
find other people so.”


54
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
"H~m,” said Mr. Newby again, and M. Rosen-
meyer had no notion that the inarticulate English lad
had taken his measure.
“I think Mexican Jem must have come,” said
Amabel. “There's a buzz near that further door.”
“I see him," said Mr. Newby. “He has just come
into the room with Mme. Gregorio."
“ They crowd round him so," complained Mme. Va-
rasdin, “ any one would think he was going to throw
them shares to scramble for.”
She got up and went towards the centre of the room,
followed by Amabel and the two young men. They
made a little separate group as the host and hostess,
accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking man,
steered their way. Amabel's eyes were uncertain and
astonished, and she turned to Mr. Newby.
“Do you mean that tall, fair man?" she said. “He
has just been stopped by some one.”
“That's him," said Mr. Newby.
“ That Mexican Jem!” cried Amabel, and her voice
carried a little further than it should have done. The
gentleman looked straight at her and smiled.
“Why, he knows you,” said Mme. Varasdin. “He
is coming to us. You must present him to me.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
55
VII
“Of course he knows me,” said Amabel. “It is
Mr. Sheringham. I never heard him called Mexican
Jem.'
“ Then you didn't keep company with the Stock Ex-
change," said Mr. Newby, and the next moment he
and Amabel were shaking hands with the guest of the
evening. Madame Varasdin edged herself a little in
front of Amabel as soon as she could, and set herself
to capture Mr. Sheringham. She could not distinguish
between simple and simpleton, and she expected to play
with the three people born under the Union Jack as a
juggler plays with balls, throwing one away to catch
the other and yet keeping them all in hand. Large as her
experience was of men, she had never come across one
yet whose directness was the very weapon with which
he turned her subleties, and whose strength against her
lay partly in his want of taste for the exotic. The
impression she made on Mr. Sheringham was of a
tall, thin woman, who had eyes like a Jap and such a
fidgety way with her hands that she pulled at her
handkerchief while she talked to him. Her gold-em-
broidered gown was no doubt very fine, but it was a
gown that persistently got in front of Amabel, and the
first moment he could he walked round it.


56
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
" Come and have an ice, Miss Ferrers," he said, and
gave Amabel his arm and walked off with her.
“That's Mexican Jem,” said Mr. Newby. “What
he wants he takes, and you can no more stop him
than a pebble can stop a steam roller."
“Do fetch me an ice," said Mme. Varasdin. But
when the young man came back with it he could not
find her. He stood about for a time and felt rather
bored and then he went away. He knew when he
bought the pearls that he was playing the fool, and
to-night he knew it with still greater conviction. The
lady did not care a straw for him, and all her lures
were spread for his money. He thought the game
would soon come to an end. It had been amusing,
costly, and instructive, and he was beginning to tire
of it. He detested the husband, and his admiration
of the wife was not the admiration of esteem; it was
not even the tolerant, half-contemptuous admiration
men feel for a sinner who is her own enemy and no
one else's. The boy had been fascinated and was
coming to his senses.
Meanwhile Madame Varasdin sat in a corner of the
balcony with Egon Rosenmeyer and told him how
badly Mr. Newby bored her. The balcony was fur-
nished with palms and wicker chairs, and lighted with
Chinese lanterns that were bobbing in the breeze; and
Madame Varasdin herself, with her narrow eyes and
clinging gown, looked like one of the ivory-headed
ladies on the fan she had just unfurled.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
57
“He is as dull and heavy as his national food,"
she said, “and the girl is as excellent and insipid. Be-
tween the two I am having a time. Oh! I assure you
it is not gay at home now. What a race! And it
is always they who have the money."
“If you want money you should make eyes at the
other one,” said M. Rosenmeyer. “What became of
him?"
“He walked away with mademoiselle," said Mme.
Varasdin. “But they are astounding, these ladies and
gentlemen. Their tongues are spiritless, their man-
ners are rude, their flirtations are scandalous. Yet
to all the world they give themselves airs."
" Let us talk of something agreeable,” said M.
Rosenmeyer. “Have you heard Yvette's last song?”
Sheringham had taken Amabel to the further end
of the balcony which ran along two sides of the corner
house in which the Gregorios lived. He fetched her
an ice and some champagne, and then he sat down
and looked at her.
“What has happened to you?” he said. “Do you
remember the last time we met — in Mrs. Hunter's
drawing-room — you said you were going to East-
bourne next day — and I said I would run down there
too. I never did. I was detained by business.”
"I know," said Amabel sedately. “You were bang-
ing the market.”
“What? ” said Sheringham.


58
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
Amabel took the train of her white satin gown out
of danger.
“ You nearly. upset that champagne,” she said.
“No wonder. What do you know about markets ? ”
“Nothing at all. But when my uncle went off in a
hurry to Mexico -
“Your uncle?”
“Uncle Michael."
“ Michael Ferrers ! ‘Eugenia’ Ferrers! Is he your
uncle? Then that explains the cook."
“ The cook! Oh! do you mean Mrs. Pugsley?”
“I dare say I do,” said Sheringhiam. “I made her
acquaintance last Sunday. I wanted to see you again,
and, as it was the only way open to me, I dropped in
to lunch at Bayswater Square. I expected to meet
you at lunch, of course; but when we went down,
there sat all those pasty-faced children and a pasty-
faced old dragon with them.”
“Mrs. Hunter sent me out of the house," said
Amabel.
“So I was given to understand, when I made in-
quiries after lunch.”
“Did she say I was horrid ? "
“What she said is of no importance. At the time
it made me rather angry, and I suppose I showed
it ”
“Oh!” said Amabel, with breathless interest. “ Did
she shrivel up ?”
“Not perceptibly. Our parting was what you may


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
59
call strained. She pretended not to know where you
were.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Of course I did.”
“ That would have made her angry."
“Yes,” said Mr. Sheringham pensively, “there were
some feathers flying. The sort of feathers that do fly
in drawing-rooms, you know. I hate a row with a
woman.”
“Oh! did you have a row ? ” said Amabel.“ Do
tell me what happened.”
“Nothing happened. I said it was downright
wicked to send a girl like you adrift in London for no
reason whatever, and that seemed to annoy her. I
walked out of the house in a rage, and then that red-
headed Buttons came tearing after me —”.
“Oh! Ginger," said Amabel. “I like Ginger.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Sheringham. “He stopped me
and said, 'Would I please wait a minute and speak to
the cook?' I was just asking him what the — what
the message signified, when the cook herself ap-
peared.”
“She's an old dear,” said Amabel. “I love her
more than some fine ladies."
“I love her too,” said Mr. Sheringham. “We went
inside the Square garden, and sat down on a bench,
and she said she hoped she wasn't taking a liberty,
but she thought I might like to know as Miss Ferrers
was gone to live in Paris with an uncle as was a mil-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
lionaire. We were more than half-an-hour together,
and had a most interesting conversation. She told me
ever so many things I wanted to know."
“What sort of things?”
“Oh! little things — about you — and your career
as a governess to five pasty-faced children — and why
she took to you from the first moment she ever set
eyes on you — and how the cloak she was wearing
came from you — and that you were living with some
people called Varasdin, in the Avenue Ernani — and
then we said good-bye — she sent you her respects —
and some day when I get married, she is coming to be
my cook.”
“But I don't agree to that,” cried Amabel. “She is
coming to live with Uncle Michael and me — when we
settle down together.”
“So yesterday I came to Paris and stumbled against
old Gregorio first thing. I asked him if he knew the
Varasdins and you — and he asked me here to meet
you. That's my story. Now, what do you mean with
your talk about banging markets ? "
“Uncle Michael said it must be you — when he
went off in a hurry — because Eugenias went down."
“It wasn't me. Of course, they went down. The
reef is pinched out. They're no good. Your uncle
must have lost a big slice of his million over them, I'm
afraid.”
" I'm sorry they're no good,” said Amabel, who did
not feel much affected by the news of her uncle's mis-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
61
fortunes. The journey through life of a speculator
presented itself to her mind like a switchback with
violent ups and downs that the traveller took as a
matter of course.
" I'm uncommonly sorry too,” said Mr. Sheringham.
“I have a thousand,” explained Amabel. “What
does 'pinched out' mean?”
“No gold. I got the news through a private source
the day after I saw you, and wired from Havre to sell.
But Mr. Ferrers must have had the news soon after
me."
“My uncle will be sorry,” said Amabel. “He
seemed to take such an interest in Eugenias.”
“They've been very interesting lately,” said Sher-
ingham. “ I've dropped about a hundred thousand
on them myself.”
“ Then M. Varasdin was right,” said Amabel. “He
was afraid of them.”
“What sort of people are the Varasdins ?”
“He is a financier, whatever that may mean,” said
Amabel.
“I know pretty well what it means in his case. M.
Gregorio gave me a confidential sketch of his friend's
career. It has been chequered and sometimes cloudy.
I was thinking of the husband and wife together and
of their relation to you. How did your uncle come to
place you with them? ”
Amabel explained, and said that she was not un-
comfortable.


62
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“The lady wears very fine pearls,” said Shering-
ham.
“Oh! Mr. Newby gave her those,” said Amabel.
Mr. Sheringham looked thoughtful.
“I want to come and see you," he said. “Are you
having much fun ? Do these people show you Paris?”
“We go to theatres and cafés. We never do the
things I am dying to do.”
“What are you dying to do?”
“I want to go to St. Germain in a steam tram and
gather lilies of the valley and Solomon's Seal in the
forest. Jeanne Gregorio went with her governess the
other day. She says it was like a journey in a dream.
You fly along the road opposite people you have never
seen, past villages and a winding river, and trees and
fields. There are lovely colours and effects of light
and water, she says, and then you arrive at a palace
and a forest and the forest is full of flowers. Jeanne
Gregorio enjoys her life very much. Yesterday she
went up the Seine in a penny boat as far as the Jardin
des Plantes. She says she had never known before
how beautiful Paris was.”
“We might do that any day,” said Mr. Sheringham,
and he suggested that they should find Madame
Varasdin and make a plan for to-morrow. So they
got up and walked along the balcony and came upon
the lady still sitting with M. Rosenmeyer. She ac-
cepted Mr. Sheringham's invitation to lunch, and
managed with considerable skill to engage his atten-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
63
tion and to exclude the others. Egon Rosenmeyer
understood at once that he was ousted, and went back
to the salon. Amabel soon began to think she had
better go back too. She felt in the way. She sat
behind Madame Varasdin and could only see Mr.
Sheringham over the lady's shoulder and fan, and she
could not join in their talk because it was in French
and all about a new farce she had not seen. Besides,
Madame Varasdin did not give her a chance. Pres-
ently the strains of Jeanne Gregorio's violin floated
towards her from inside the house and she got up.
But as she reached the window she came into col-
lision with M. Varasdin, who rushed on to the balcony
with a newspaper in his hand.
“ Look! Look ! ” he cried excitedly to his wife.
“My luck! my usual luck! or is it a lie? or was
the bad news a lie? Is the whole thing a swindle,
or am I a fool?”
“Since you ask me — you are probably a fool,”
said Mme. Varasdin, taking the paper from her huis-
band's trembling hand and trying to read it by the
light of the nearest lantern. M. Varasdin turned to
Amabel.
“ It is you who are lucky if it is true," he
shrieked, and the idea seemed to give him more pain
than pleasure.
“What has happened?” said Amabel.
“You hold Eugenias, don't you — a thousand
Eugenias? A new reef has been struck — it is a big


64
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
strike — they'll go up— the devil knows where they'll
go — I should have made my fortune - ".
He stopped because his anger and excitement were
literally choking him. He tumbled into a chair,
breathing hard, still muttering to himself, demoral-
ised and helpless. The paper fluttered from Madame
Varasdin's hands. She was hard hit too. Mr. Sher-
ingham picked it up.
“May I see?” he said.
“Does it affect you?” said Amabel, watching him.
“I am in the same boat as this gentleman,” he
said, with a glance at M. Varasdin's huddled figure.
“I had my chance and lost it. I sold when there
was a slump.”
“Oh! but there is an important difference between
you and this gentleman,” said Mme. Varasdin bitterly.
“ In your affairs the matter is probably a trifle.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
65
VIII
AMABEL did not like M. Varasdin, because he had a
florid manner and a deceitful tongue, yet she some-
times pitied him. He cringed before his bland,
masterful wife, and, in spite of his smiles and his flat-
tering speeches, he had the look of a miserable man.
Mme. Varasdin had hardly spoken to him as they drove
home from the Gregorios', and her tone when she did
was so slighting that Amabel marvelled at his en-
durance. She left them as soon as she could and
went to bed, wishing she was not so lonely. Her
mind was busy, her thoughts were dancing; when
she looked at the glass her face astonished her. It
had changed as a hill does when the sunlight sud-
denly falls there, and she felt so happy and so wide
awake that she walked to and fro in her room and
talked to the dream-sister she had wished for in
many a sad hour and missed now when sorrow and
poverty were left behind. The imaginary sister had
always been a person of sense, however; had often
kept up her courage; had sometimes convinced her
that she was a fool, and to-night advised her to go to
bed and to sleep as swiftly as she could. “Joy cometh
in the morning,” said the sister; and Amabel laughed
as she shut her eyes.
Meanwhile the Varasdins had gone into the dining-


66
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
room and turned on the light. The man brought a
bottle of syrup and a syphon of soda-water from the
sideboard, and mixed a glass for his wife. He lit a
cigarette for himself, and filled a liqueur glass with
brandy. He did not sit down, but moved about the
room in a sort of sulky silence, both defiant and
afraid.
“If it was possible for you to speak without lying,
I should like to know how much money you have
got,” began Anastasie, when she, too, had brooded
in angry quiet over the grievance in her mind.
“I tell you I am ruined,” said her husband. “Per-
haps you will believe it when you see the chairs and
tables sold.”
He waited a moment to watch the effect of this
admission, before he added: “and your jewels, my
dear, they will be sold too."
But he might as well have watched a mask as his
wife's face when she did not wish it to tell him any-
thing. The contempt and anger she took no pains
to hide gave him no fresh clue to any move she
proposed to make in their present perilous position.
“What does this news mean exactly?” she said.
“Suppose you held Eugenias?”
The man put his hands to his temples with a gesture
of despair. There were lines of anger in his forehead
that terribly debased his face, and his wife turned
her eyes from him. She did not fear his impotent
display of wrath, but it was an ugly spectacle.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I ought to have had five thousand," he said. “I
could cut my throat when I think of it.”
“What will five thousand shares be worth in a
week's time?”
"Don't ask me. I can't bear it, I tell you. If
this news is true — if a great reef has been struck,
the mine is what Ferrers said it was — there will be
a rush — how can I tell you where they will go? —
anywhere - to fifty — to a hundred – it just depends
on the news. And I'm cleaned out. I could have paid
for five thousand Eugenias when Ferrers was here;
I have been dealing in Americans instead — and, as
usual, a panic came. They have had my last franc
- I'm cleaned out.”
“Well,” said Anastasie, “what do you mean to
do?”
“What is there to do? What can a man do
without money? I must have money,” said M. Varas-
din, and he brought down his clenched hand on the
table so heavily that the glasses clattered.
“Oh! don't bluster when we're by ourselves,” said
Anastasie. “You have neither sense nor spirit, and
breaking glass won't persuade me of the contrary.
We have been married fourteen weary years. I ought
to know you.”
"I can't for the life of me see what you do,
except squander any money I and other men are
fools enough to give you,” said M. Varasdin.
“Nevertheless it is I who have the brains,” said


68
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
his wife. “When you are in a mess you always expect
me to pull you out.”
“Pull me out this time, then. I'm in pretty deep.”
Madame Varasdin began to take off her long gloves
with a slow, delicate care that preserved their shape.
“Of course, I know what you mean,” she said.
“ You want the girl's Eugenias.”
“I would go to hell for them,” said Hyacinth Louis.
“They are in her purse.”
“How can I get hold of her purse?”.
“You wish me to do that, of course. It is not easy.
Besides — if we had them — would it be safe to sell
them?”
"As safe as changing a bank-note. I should go
to Buda-Pesth and sell them through Uncle Joseph.
He is always willing to help a man over a difficulty.
I should give him a commission, and the money would
be in the family. He has a great deal of family
feeling.”
“You never see either a danger or a mistake until
it has you in its clutch,” said Anastasie. “You were
born a bungler. If we get these shares I shall take
them to Uncle Joseph myself. Last time I saw him
he said: My girl, you may help Hyacinth on his feet
twenty times over and he will always return to the
gutter. He is a Schlemihl. It is trouble thrown away
to help a Schlemihl.'”
“Get the shares and you may call me any names
you please,” said M. Varasdin. “We will sell them


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
69
and settle down in a good climate and live easily and
sleep softly. That is all I ask. I'm sick of work and
struggle and failure."
“So am I,” said his wife grimly.
“You will do it, then?”
“Is there anything else to do?”
The man shrank from the hatred and anger in his
wife's low voice, and after she had gone he drank
some more brandy and lit a fresh cigar and took up the
evening paper again. But the paper contained nothing
that could lead his thoughts from his own misfortunes.
Except the one with theft in front of it he could not
see a loophole through which he could crawl towards
better days; and hitherto his thefts had not been of this
kind. An unscrupulous financier brings more misery
on people than any burglar can, but society has not
consented yet to class them together. Varasdin had
lived on the knave's borderland, sliding downhill on
the whole and yet with his eyes on the region where
men walk safely, though they bear a dishonoured name.
He desired to be a flourishing rogue and not to sit
in gaol again, where a man of his stomach suffers
torture. Yet, think as he might, he could see no way
but the one to prosperity, and all of a sudden further
suspense and patience grew intolerable. With the
weak man's longing for immediate action, even if it
is untimely action, he threw down his paper, and,
cigar in hand, marched straight into his wife's room.
She had put on a thin white wrapper and was reading


70
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
a novel, and she looked up with a scowl as her hus-
band opened the door.
“ I've been thinking it over," he said. “We must
get those Eugenias, and the sooner it's done the
better.”
“Well — get them, then," said his wife.
“You know I can't.”
“Yes, I know."
“How will you set about it? ”
“ As I set about other things — when I see some
hope of success.”
“Why can't you go into her room and take them?
She is probably asleep."
“How like you, to be satisfied with probability in
such a case.”
"I shall have to get them myself.”
“I am not anxious for the job,” said Anastasie, and
she rose and came towards the door with the intention,
he surmised, of shutting him out of the room. But he
came further into it.
“You are sure you understand?” he said. “I owe
money all round. I don't possess a hundred francs.
if something isn't done to help me at once I'm a ruined
man.”
“You told me all this five minutes ago," said
Mme. Varasdin. “I suppose that even if you are
ruined I may brush my hair.”
“We shall go under,” he said, throwing out his
hands. “We may go and beg in the streets if some-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
71
thing isn't done. And you sit here and brush your
hair with silver brushes. Do you know what ruin
means? Do you know what cold and hunger are and
the shame of rags?”.
“I have known, thanks to you. I shall know again
if I trust to you."
It seemed from their glances as if this man and
woman had reached the last extremity of hate and
distress; and yet to the man at least separation did
not suggest itself with any promise of relief. His
wife's dislike and contempt goaded him to fury, but
there was no one else in the world who could help
him — and he had no idea of helping himself.
“If you sold your pearls it would be something,"
he said sullenly.
“I am not going to sell my pearls yet,” she said.
“When I do I shall keep the money. I shall not throw
it out of the window — or give it to you. Will you
be good enough to go now? It is two o'clock, and I
have a long day before me.”
“What have you to do?”.
“I take Miss Ferrers to Paillard's to lunch with
Mr. Sheringham. We are to do something absurd in
the afternoon, something with a steamboat and the
Jardin des Plantes, I believe. We shall be together all
day, and in the evening the gentlemen will probably
dine here."
“Together — all — day,” said M. Varasdin with a
quiver in his voice, and he went quietly out of the


72
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
room. His wife listened to his step in the corrider
and heard him shut his door and lock it. Then she
went to bed herself and was soon asleep.
Next day she took great pains with her toilet, but
she found when she arrived at Paillard's that it was
trouble thrown away. Mr. Sheringham only had eyes
for Amabel, who wore a white serge coat and skirt
made by an English tailor, and a white sailor hat.
He had invited Mr. Newby to make a fourth, and
even he looked again and again at Amabel, and said,
in an undertone to Mme. Varasdin, that if ever you
did see a really pretty girl in Paris you only had to
hear her speak to discover she was English or
American.
“It is an acquired taste," said Anastasie. “Over
here we don't admire your solid red-faced dairy-
maids. Our beauties have grace and delicacy and
charm."
Mr. Newby replied with one of those little grunts
that are the inexpressive Englishman's favourite form
of dissent. He perceived that Amabel's cheeks were
not red, nor was her figure solid, but it did not seem
worth while to say so to Mme. Varasdin. He began
to talk about oysters instead. After lunch they took
two little open carriages and drove to the Jardin des
Plantes.
“We will come back by steamboat,” said Mr. Sher-
ingham to Amabel when they had started. “We have
the whole afternoon and evening before us. I am


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
73
going to dine with you too; Mme. Varasdin has asked
me. It sounds ungrateful, but I don't like Mme.
Varasdin or her husband either. I have accepted
because I want to see you and see how the land lies.
I am not sure yet whether I shall have to go back
early or late to-morrow. Why don't you come back
too?”
“Oh! why should I?” said Amabel. “Uncle
Michael expects to find me in Paris. We are going
to set up house together in New York.”
“That sort of plan doesn't always come off,” said
Mr. Sheringham.
"It's a very pleasant plan.”
"I can imagine a still pleasanter one,” said Mr.
Sheringham.
Amabel did not ask him to describe it. His voice,
his eyes, his manner were all eloquent of the desire in
his heart; and in a man's way, without actual con-
fession, he had been telling her ever since they met
that he loved her. Her thoughts were not fixed on
the city and its sights, and when they got out of the
carriage at the Jardin des Plantes she was happy and
preoccupied and perhaps not very wide awake. At
any rate Mme. Varasdin's voice and touch, a few
minutes later, seemed to rouse her out of a dream.
“The gentlemen have gone off to speak to one of
the keepers," she said. “It seems that we ought to
have had some sort of passes of admission. I wish
you would lend me your purse a moment. I have


74
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
forgotten to bring any money, and I want to go to
that stall and buy some cakes for the elephants."
Amabel's eyes were on a perambulating Polar bear,
deep down below her. Without looking at Mme. Va-
rasdin she gave her the little beaded purse-bag she was
carrying in her hand.
“Shall I come with you?” she said absently.
"No," said Mme. Varasdin. “The gentlemen ex-
pect to find us here. I will be back in a moment."


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
75
IX
MADAME VARASDIN had never attempted a theft
requiring so much skill and effrontery. She had to
extract the certificate of the shares without being seen
by the woman who sold cakes or by any chance passer-
by; and, of course, when the robbery was discovered
she would have to take the line that Amabel was care-
less, had left her purse here and there, and had
probably lost her property out of doors. She knew
where to hide the slip of paper while the storm burst,
and had, in fact, spent some minutes that morning
over the lining of an old winter jacket that usually
lay with other rubbish at the bottom of a trunk, in a
lumber room at the top of the house.
Her past life contained many episodes that prepared
her in some degree for the present hour. She had
stolen pence at school. She was the child of shifty,
thriftless parents, and her married life had always
been unstable. For Amabel she had no pity, but only
an envious grudge of her youth and her smiling for-
tunes; and she would have defrauded the girl of her
last penny and her last chance without a pang. She
had no room in her mind for any needs except her
own, and no heart for any one else's troubles. She
would very much rather have had a rich husband


76
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
than a poor one who drove her to run risks. But
money she must have. She could not work; she could
not deny herself; she was dainty, delicate, and selfish;
one of those who cumber the earth and behave as if
the earth and everything in it were made for them.
She opened the bag as she stood at the stall, and
saw that it contained an inner pocket with a separate
clasp; and when she undid the clasp she saw that
the certificate was wedged tightly inside. It was a
thick paper, folded several times, and yet rather too
long for the width of the bag. There was a handker-
chief in the purse too, and Mme. Varasdin took that
out and held it over the open pocket while she appar-
rently felt for change for the cakes, and really tugged
at the certificate. To find it, to hold it in her hands,
and then to discover that it was jammed, was a bit
of the devil's luck she had not bargained for. The
woman who had sold her the cakes had wrapped them
up, and waited patiently for payment. Mme. Varasdin
turned away from her, stooped a little over the purse
as if to look more carefully for the coins she wanted,
and by dint of stretching the inner bag violently apart,
at last got out the paper she wanted. Her hand
closed over it, but could not quite conceal it. She
hurriedly took some silver coins from the purse, kept
the handkerchief covering the shares for the moment,
and turned towards the stall again to pay for her cakes.
She meant to hide the certificate in an inside pocket
of her tailor-made coat as she walked away, but she did


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
77
not mean to let the stallkeeper see her doing this.
What she had done, so far, had been done in a moment
and unobserved, and the thought flamed within her
that, by her own dexterity, she held a fortune between
her fingers, a fortune that, a minute later, would be
her own. She put the silver on the stall, took up the
cakes and some copper change and, as she did so,
heard the creak of footsteps behind her, and then Mr.
Newby's voice in her ears.
“Buying nuts for the monkeys, Madame Varasdin?”
said he, and wondered why the lady started violently
and afterwards neither spoke nor moved. She stood
there like a creature petrified, conscious all the while
that Sheringham stood there too, and that the hand-
kerchief and the folded paper it did not wholly conceal
were still in her right hand. The sudden fall from
success to utter failure confounded and enraged her,
but she did not lose her head. She recognised that for
the moment it was failure. When she had recovered
sufficiently she put the coppers, the handkerchief, and
the certificate all together into the gaping mouth of
the bag. Then she shut it with a snap, and showed
Mr. Newby a smiling face as she gave him her parcel
of cakes to carry.
“Where did you get your purse?” he said, with
his eyes on the bead-bag. “It is exactly like one I
helped Miss Ferrers choose in the Avenue de l'Opéra
last week, and the man vowed he had not another.”
" It is Miss Ferrers' purse," said Mme. Varasdin.
nan


78
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I borrowed it just now to buy the cakes. I had
forgotten my own.”
“She wanted a big one because she carries those
shares about with her that her uncle gave her,” con-
tinued Mr. Newby. “I stuffed them into the inside
pocket for her, and I told her at the time she would
never get them out unless she tore the purse; but she
won't want to get them out till he tells her to sell, and
then the price of the purse won't matter. What are
Eugenias doing to-day, Sheringham? That strike had
much effect yet?”
“Sent them up to three already,” said Mr. Sher-
ingham.
“Wish I had a few,” said Mr. Newby.
Mr. Sheringham did not show much interest in the
sensational rise of Eugenias. He was watching Mme.
Varasdin. He had seen her start when they came up
to her; he had seen the paper and the handkerchief in
her hand, and he had seen her return both to the bag.
His curiosity was aroused, and he made up his mind
to ask Amabel whether she had taken the certificate
out of the inside pocket of the purse, and whether
the purse was torn. Madame Varasdin, however, fore-
stalled him.
“But there is a thick-folded paper in the purse,”
she said. “I got it out with the handkerchief just
now when I wanted some small coins. It was not in
the inside pocket.”
“Bai Jove," said Mr. Newby, “ Miss Ferrers must


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
79
have been playing with her Eugenias. Isn't the purse
torn?”
Madame Varasdin just undid the clasp and snapped
it to again.
"I think it is, a little,” she said. “But I hate
opening any one else's purse, don't you? It makes
one feel as if one was reading a letter meant for some-
body else."
“I never tried that,” said Mr. Newby lightly.
"I wonder why Miss Ferrers carries these shares
about with her in this way,” said Sheringham. "A
purse is easily lost.”
“Of course it is,” said Mme. Varasdin. “Miss
Ferrers is most careless. I have often seen this one
lying about. We have honest servants just at present,
I believe, but my cook is leaving "
"I don't think servants would steal shares,” said
Mr. Newby.
“She might drop them anywhere -- in a shop when
she takes them out with her handkerchief — as I did
just now. I have begged her to be more careful, but
she pays no attention to me. She sees that Hyacinth
carries papers of importance in his pocket-book, and
I suppose she thinks it is a safe thing to do.”
"She usually wears this purse hanging from her
waistband,” said Mr. Newby. “That's safe enough
- if she had left the certificate where I put it. I
wonder why she was carrying the bag loose to-day?”
“Because she is wearing a blouse that does not


80
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
admit of a waistband,” explained Mme. Varasdin.
“You should have chosen a purse with a chatelaine
hook. That can be worn with anything."
“We thought a ring safer than a hook," said Mr.
Newby.
While they talked they approached the bear-pit
again, and Amabel saw them and came their way.
“ But you have not bought many cakes,” she said,
with a disappointed air, when she saw the little parcel
in Mr. Newby's hand.
“Madame Varasdin is responsible,” said he. “We
met at the cake-stall.”
“Come and get some more," said Sheringham, ad-
dressing Amabel.
“Yes," said Mme. Varasdin; " let us all go and
buy some more and give the poor animals a feast.
I adore animals. They are greedy and suspicious with-
out being ashamed of it. We are just as bad as they
are really, but we make greater pretensions — the
morality of men lies chiefly on their lips."
"Suspicion is not always a vice,” said Sheringham.
" It is always an unamiable trait,” said Mme. Va-
rasdin.
“Then how would you catch your criminals ? "
asked Mr. Newby.
“There would be no criminals if society were less
corrupt,” said Mme. Varasdin.
“ Meanwhile, a police force is useful,” said Shering-
ham; and then they arrived at the stall and he bought


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
81
more cakes and paid for them. As they went away
from it again, Madame Varasdin returned Amabel's
purse.
"Don't let me forget that I owe you a franc," she
said.
As a matter of fact, she owed Amabel a good deal.
The seven guineas a week the girl paid regularly for
board and lodging did not pay all the expenses of the
flat, and it was a long time since Hyacinth Louis had
had a balance at the bank. Madame Varasdin often
borrowed money from her guest, and hitherto Amabel
had lent it without protest. Money had come into her
hands so suddenly and unexpectedly that for the time
being she had grown careless and let it slip anyhow
through her fingers. But she was beginning to see
that loans to her present host and hostess were like
water poured through a sieve. She wished her uncle
would come back and put an end to the connection for
her, and she often wished she had never occupied the
room with the crimson satin chairs. The Varasdins
were, of course, as civil as self-interest demanded, and
the food was good and the flat in a pleasant quarter ;
but all these advantages did not make up for a sense
of insecurity that she could not shake off. Only this
morning, something had happened to heighten it.
Any one who has to do with continental servants
knows, of course, that they are not as determined as
British servants to treat the relationship between em-
ployer and employed from a purely business point of


82
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
view. They are inclined to be friendly and loquacious,
to take your interest in their affairs for granted, and
if they like you or admire you, to say so without
beating about the bush. Before Amabel had been a
week in the Avenue Ernani she knew that the Alsatian
cook supported an aged mother, and that she was
engaged to a railway-guard who had a hot temper
but a good heart; and that Adèle, the femme-de
chambre, had been very unlucky in her situations, and
had remarked the day Amabel arrived that mademoi-
selle had a sweet nature and would, doubtless, be easy
to please. The cook used to bring Amabel a little
bunch of flowers every day, and the femme-de-chambre
used to help her to dress, and both girls would have
gossiped about the Varasdins if Amabel had not
stopped them from the first. But this morning the
cook had come to her in a state of angry excitement
and poured forth her tale. Amabel did not find angry
Alsatian-French easy to follow, but she made out that
the cook was leaving for Alsace to-morrow because
her mother was ill, and that she could not get her
wages out of the Varasdins. Bandits she called them,
among other things, and in a voluble patois she advised
Amabel not to remain with such people. When Amabel
gave her enough money for her journey, she shed tears
and kissed the girl's hand, and implored her to leave
the house.
“ It is not a house for you,” she said plainly; and
Adèle, who was present, nodded mysteriously, and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
said that she herself did not mean to stay much longer,
whether she got paid or not.
"Some day it will be ph—tt!” she said, and her
dramatic gesture described an explosion and the wreck
it leaves behind.
Amabel's growing uneasiness was not set at rest by
these remarks, but it did not occur to her that there
was any need for hurry. Financial difficulties do not,
as a rule, drive you out of the house at an hour's
notice, like an infectious disease. She resolved, how-
ever, to talk to Mr. Sheringham about the choice be-
fore her of finding different quarters in Paris and
returning to England. He was not an old, tried friend,
but she had made up her mind that he was a friend,
and that the wide world did not hold his match in
kindness, strength, and wisdom. In her own mind
she likened him to the golden Sigurd, whose eyes were
so awful to his enemies and so kind to children, to the
poor, and to the women who loved him; and as she
walked round the elephant-house with the astute finan-
cier she tried to fancy what he would look like in a
helmet and armour of gold. She thought they would
become him, and puzzled him considerably by showing
a sudden, ardent, and irrelevant interest in the fancy
balls he had attended and the costumes he had chosen.
“I went as a clown once, when I was about
eighteen,” he remembered with some difficulty.
“Oh!” said Amabel, profoundly shocked. “How
unsuitable!”


84
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I wonder you think so," said Mr. Sheringham.
“ You must have forgotten our first meeting.”
That was so far from the truth that Amabel coloured
and did not speak. They were standing in front of
an engaging giant elephant with an appetite for cakes.
They had been standing there for some time. Madame
Varasdin and Mr. Newby had disappeared.
“Do you remember our first meeting?” said Mr.
Sheringham.
" It was on Florrie Hunter's birthday, when she had
a children's party.”
" It was in the dining-room. Miss Hunter invited
me to pull a cracker — a very stiff one — I gave a
sort of backward jerk over it, and nearly upset some
one behind me who had a dish in her hands."
"You did upset the custards. Mrs. Hunter called
me clumsy and apologised to you."
“ You cried.”
“No, never!”
“I swear I saw tears in your eyes.”
“That's not crying.”
“And all the rest of the evening I tried to get near
you —
"
“Yes,” said Amabel, with a reminiscent sigh; "I
know you did.”
“You suddenly disappeared.”
“Mrs. Hunter told me to go upstairs and stay
there.”
“Did you cry when you were upstairs?”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
85
“The elephant is asking for another cake,” said
Amabel. “Let us talk about elephants and not about
tears. If I did cry I am ashamed of it. I wish I had
more courage. I wish I was not afraid of people.
I suppose if you know your quarrel is just you do
not shrink from it. I do; and I hate myself for it.”
“How many people are you afraid of, and how
many quarrels have you on your hands?” asked Mr.
Sheringham.
“You should have gone as a knight,” exclaimed
Amabel, who was watching his eyes, and she laughed
at his momentary want of comprehension. “Where
are the others ? ” she said.
“But you don't answer my question,” said he.
They walked right round the elephant-house, and
did not see the others. Then they went out into the
gardens and did not find them there.
“I know what has happened,” said Amabel. “Ma-
dame Varasdin has driven home. She told me nothing
would induce her to travel on a penny steamboat; and
I saw her shudder and open a smelling-bottle when
we went into the elephant-house. I suppose she thought
that, as you were to dine with her, you would not
mind escorting me home. You know, M. Varasdin
does not dress for dinner.”
“But we need not go yet,” said Mr. Sheringham,
looking at his watch. “You said you wanted to see
all the animals.”
“How is it you have time? I thought people like


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
It was after five when they strolled through the gar-
dens to the Quai d'Austerlitz and took the first steam-
boat that went their way. Amabel thought it was a
pleasant way of seeing Paris. She sat on the clean,
half-empty boat with Mr. Sheringham, and steamed
smoothly under the bridges of the city past the spires
of many churches and the façades of many splendid
buildings, in sight of the city traffic and sometimes
in hearing of the city wheels. Evening lights set the
city and the sky afire, and a summer breeze blew up
the river from seawards and met them freshly. Mr.
Sheringham had led Amabel to a seat in the bows,
which they had to themselves. It was a little way
below the main-deck, and they were almost out of
sight of other passengers and quite out of hearing.
Amabel looked at the clouds and thought her own
fate was as suddenly and rosily aglow as they were.
She looked at the man beside her, and wondered where
his eyes had been these many years, and why she out
of all the women in the world should please him. She
tried to discover his qualities, and she entered with
wonder into the lover's land where mortals walk as
gods.
It was a happy hour for both of them. Mr. Shering-


88
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
ham had been too hard at work all his life to fritter
and diffuse his affections, and he had fallen in love,
as a healthy-minded man often does, with the most
ardent belief and delight. His subtlety was all finan-
cial; in the human relations of life he showed himself
simple and kind. “Here by God's grace is the one
maid for me," says Geraint, the first time he sets
eyes on Enid, and the same thought had flashed across
Sheringham's mind when he turned in a hurry and
saw Amabel's scared face and the custard streaming
absurdly down the worst and meanest dress in the
room. Now she sat beside him fine and radiant as a
lily. Without his aid Fortune had turned her wheel.
But the change that meant so much to her hardly
engaged his thoughts. Poor or rich, she was the one
maid for him. He talked to her about his home and
his people, and she told him about the loneliness and
the poverty she had passed through. When words
failed them, they watched the city and the sky.
"I wish I had more courage,” said Amabel sud-
denly. “There is a disagreeable thing I ought to do,
and I believe I shall just go on from day to day not
doing it — unless something happens to make it easier.”
“Is it a very disagreeable thing? ” asked Shering-
ham.
"I want to get away from the Varasdins."
"I am glad to hear it. I don't like either of them.”
Masculine approval is always bracing and pleasant
to the feminine mind, especially when the encouraging


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
89
man happens also to be the only man in the world of
any importance.
“It is so difficult to tell Madame Varasdin,” Amabel
went on. “Besides it does seem unkind to leave them
just when my money is so necessary to them. If M.
Varasdin began to prosper again, I should not hesi-
tate. You know about business matters, Mr. Shering-
ham. Is he ever likely to get on?”
“ You can never say with a man like that.”
“Couldn't you put him in the way of things?”
“I would rather not have any dealings with him.”
“Well - I hope Uncle Michael will soon come back.
I am glad you are not operating against him, as he
thought. I wrote to him this morning and told him
you had lost a hundred thousand over Eugenias, and
that you were very pleased for his sake to hear about
the new reef.”
“Oh! Did you?” said Sheringham.
“Yes,” said Amabel. “And I asked him to send
you a few shares if they went up — instead of those
you sold so badly, you know.”
"I don't think you can expect him to do that,” said
Sheringham, taken aback." It isn't usual.”
"I am sure Uncle Michael would like to," continued
Amabel. “He seemed to be wrapped up in Eugenias,
and it would vex him to think any one lost over them,
especially any friend of ours. He carries them about
in his pocket like love letters. He gave me a thousand.
I'll show them to you."


90
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Yes, do,” said Mr. Sheringham, and he watched
her open the bag. She looked as much taken aback
as he expected.
“How very odd,” she said. “Some one has
wrenched them out of the inner pocket, and they
were in so tight — the lining is all torn and the frame
twisted— ”
She turned the contents of the bag into her lap and
examined it. Meanwhile Mr. Sheringham looked at
the certificate of the shares.
" It must have been Madame Varasdin when I lent
her the purse," she went on. “She has always been
rather keen about Eugenias and angry with her hus-
band because he had none. I suppose she wanted to
look at them. But how vexatious it is. I only bought
this bag a week ago, and it cost fifty francs. Such
things are so dear in Paris. I'll never lend it to
Madame Varasdin again. Do you think it can be
mended?”
"I daresay. But why don't you sell your shares
and invest the money — not directly perhaps, but when
they go higher still? And you should keep them in a
safe place. You know they are bearer shares. If they
were stolen you would probably never recover them."
"Stolen!” said Amabel; and he saw that he had
frightened her and he repented of it. He cared very
little whether she came to him with a thousand Euge-
nias in her hand or with never a penny. The important
thing was that she should come.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
91
“Oh, well !” he said, “I can't see why you should
carry them about.”
“Uncle Michael told me to keep them till he wired
and then to sell them at once. But he was in such a
hurry, he never told me where to sell them - at least
he said something about a respectable stockbroker -
somehow I don't like the idea of M. Varasdin.”
“I'm a stockbroker, you know,” said Sheringham.
“Oh, thank you!” said Amabel. “Then the mo-
ment Uncle Michael wires, I'll post this paper to
you."
“You may do that,” said Sheringham, “but you
should also wire your uncle's instructions. Then I
shall know what to do."
He wished she could give the certificate into his
charge at once; but just then the collector came round
for fares, and when he had gone again Amabel put
her loose money and her Eugenias back into the bag.
She called Mr. Sheringham's attention to the bridge
they were approaching — their talk shifted, and the
opportunity passed by. His suspicions were so vague,
and his uneasiness so undetermined, that he was in-
clined to wait rather than to alarm her seriously. He
had seen the shares in Madame Varasdin's hands, but
the very audacity of her attempt baffled him. Amabel
would have missed the shares by this time; she must
have raised a hue-and-cry; what would the lady who
borrowed the purse have said in her own defence?
Sheringham saw with a flash how little she would


92
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
need to say as long as the shares were not found in
her possession or their sale traced to her.
“I hope you will soon come back to England,” he
said to Amabel; and that was all the outcome just at
present of his train of thought.
When they got back to the flat, Madame Varasdin
sat on the balcony in a poppy-red gown. She had
twisted Mr. Newby's pearls round her throat, and she
wore other pearls in her hair, and for the time being
she had got rid of Mr. Newby. She entertained
Sheringham while Amabel changed her gown, and
when the girl came back it seemed as if the witch had
bewitched him. Anyhow, until the other men arrived,
she held his attention, paid him brazen court, and let
Amabel sit silent and neglected. The girl, unversed
in the ways of men, was puzzled by his temporary
capture; and, after dinner, when Madame Varasdin
went back to her seat on the balcony and invited the
three men to follow her, Amabel stayed behind in the
salon. She opened the piano, and began to play softly
to herself, without music and without lights. Voices
and laughter reached her from outside, and, through
an open window, she could just see a scarlet sleeve
whenever Madame Varasdin lifted her cigarette to
her lips. All through dinner the lady had led the talk
and turned it, while the men responded and were en-
tertained. With the best will in the world Amabel
could not take her part, and by the end of the meal
her silence had become a little dejected. Once or twice


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
93
Mr. Sheringham had looked across the table at her
inquiringly, as if he saw that something was the matter
and wondered what; but his hostess always managed
to divert his attention. As a friend for Amabel he
did not change his opinion of Madame Varasdin, but
he began to understand why young gentlemen pre-
sented her with pearls. Her way of telling gay French
stories in a low voice, and with a serene brow, was
just what would make a young gentleman feel that
he was really seeing life. At one moment Mr. Newby
had been so well amused that he was obliged to giggle.
M. Varasdin sat at his own table with the air of a
lay figure that smiles whatever face you show it, and
smiles without joy or understanding.
While Amabel played, it grew so dark that she
could hardly distinguish the notes of the piano, or the
furniture in the room; yet her heart gave a leap of
hope and delight as she heard some one come slowly
towards her. She could just make out that it was
Mr. Sheringham. He sat down beside her, while she
finished an adagio from a Beethoven Sonata.
“Why do you stay in here by yourself?” he said.
“Don't you like the balcony?”
“Is it pleasanter out there?”
“It might be if you came.”
“Very well,” said Amabel, and she was shutting
the lid of the piano when she felt an arresting touch
on her arm.
“ There is no hurry now," said Mr. Sheringham.


94
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
" Let us stay here. Why were you so silent all through
dinner, and why do you sit here alone?”
“What a beautiful dress Madame Varasdin is wear-
ing to-night,” said Amabel. “But I think she should
have worn red poppies in her hair - big, wide open
ones in a sort of crown. What a clever woman she
is, and how well she entertained you all with her talk.
I wish I understood French better and could follow
everything she says!”
“Oh, is that it?" said Mr. Sheringham. “Do you
really believe, because a man looks and laughs and
listens — I don't want to talk to you across a dinner
table. I'm past that. Here, by ourselves, in the
dark — ”
He stopped short, and stared at the other end of
the room, where some one moved swiftly through the
darkness and turned on the light.
“We want a little music," said Mme. Varasdin..
Amabel relinquished her place at the piano without
a word. The untimely interruption did not anger her
as it did Sheringham. He "had the expression of
Damn all over him.” The other men came in from
the balcony; the maid who had remained brought in
a tray with syrup and orangeade, and Mme. Varasdin
began to sing. M. Varasdin pressed his sweet drinks
on the two Englishmen, and looked rather hurt be-
cause they refused them. Amabel took her glass of
iced orangeade to the open window, stood there a
moment, and then went out on the balcony. She had


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 95
not stood there long when Mr. Sheringham joined
her.
“We can't talk here,” he said, still angry. “Some
of them will be on us directly with their syrup and
their silly songs. What business has that woman to
sing such songs when you are under her roof? But
I suppose you don't understand much French."
“I do,” said Amabel indignantly. “I took three
French prizes at school, and when I go to the Français
I can follow quite well if I get the play and read it
beforehand. I think French is the most beautiful
language there is. I enjoy hearing the great actors
as much as I enjoy music. But I can't follow all that
variety slang yet. I daresay I shall soon."
"Not if I can help it,” thought Sheringham; but
he only said that he wanted to talk to Amabel to-
morrow afternoon and come to some arrangement
that would take her back to England immediately.
“To-morrow is Wednesday,” said Amabel. “In
the morning we often go to the Avenue des Aca-
cias.”
"I have two important appointments in the morn-
ing," said Mr. Sheringham. “ It would not be fair to
other people to give them up. Besides, I particularly
want to see you by yourself. It is no use my coming
here. Will you be in the Avenue des Acacias at four
o'clock?”
"I will if you can promise to be punctual,” said
Amabel. “I should not like to wait about long by


96
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
myself. That part of the Bois is rather deserted in
the afternoon.”
“If you come at four you shall find me waiting for
you — just at this end of the Avenue, you know,"
promised Mr. Sheringham.
Directly he had gone Amabel went to her own room.
As long as the piano was going there was no chance
of sleep, but she was too happy to mind that at all.
Since her parents died she had been lonely and un-
loved, and until lately very poor; and now, to-morrow
promised what her heart desired. It hardly crossed
her mind that her lover was a rich man; when it did,
the idea was comfortable, and translated itself into
pretty frocks and rooms and the delightful exercise
of generosity, and, above all, into an emblem of her
lover's qualities. She took pride in his success and
power. She fell asleep thinking of him, and was half
roused when Mr. Newby departed, slamming the front
door. Then the peace of the night came over the flat
and she slept profoundly. What woke her she never
knew; what time it was she could not tell. But the
dawn had not risen, the stars were still blinking in
the sky when, without moving or starting, she opened
her eyes. Some one had softly turned the handle of
the door and was creeping across the room towards
the bed.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
XI
AMABEL did not stir. She lay facing the open door,
her eyes fixed on the dark figure of Mme. Varasdin,
who came as softly as a ghost towards the bed. She
came straight on without hesitation or stumbling, and
yet it seemed to Amabel that she took a long while
to cross the parqueted floor on which her bare feet
made so little sound. The girl felt horribly afraid and
inclined to start, or speak, or scream. The manner of
the woman's entry and her cat-like tread were alarming,
so was the dim outline of her face, set in resolve and
inhuman. Amabel looked at her hands. One held her
gown from the floor, one hung at her side, but it was
too dark to see whether they were empty. The girl's
heart beat wildly in her throat; she felt sick with
fright. If she moved, the woman might fly at her,
if she lay still, a mere thief might take what she came
for and go away. That she came on some sinister
errand was proclaimed in her face. Amabel had not
drawn her thick curtains, and through the muslin ones
the starlight came into the room just breaking the
darkness.
As the woman approached the bed Amabel dared
not lift her eyelids in case it should be seen that she
was not asleep, but she wondered her anxious breath
and shivering body did not betray her. She lay as


98
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
rigid as she could, but her knees were loosened and
her hands were tremulous and cold. She thought she
could feel the warmth of Mme. Varasdin's body as
she bent over the bed and cautiously slid her hand
beneath the pillow; the scent of violets seemed to fill
the room. The hand groping under the pillow slowly
closed on something and was withdrawn. The next
moment Mme. Varasdin was gliding from the bed
towards the open door. She made no attempt to
close it.
Relief and terror and anger struggled together in
Amabel's mind as she lay there indecisive and unhinged.
It was not murder the woman was after, then, but
theft: the theft of the Eugenias. With a flash Amabel
saw the events of the afternoon in their real light,
the request for her purse, the removal of the certificate,
the arrival at the bear-pit of Mme. Varasdin and the
two men, and Mr. Newby's remark that they had met
at the cake-stall. Without rhyme or reason, Amabel
suddenly found her fear melting fast in her hot indig-
nation. She made no plan, she took no care, but
jumped out of bed and hurried barefoot into the ad-
joining room. Mme. Varasdin stood close to an open
window and with her back to Amabel. Her head
stooped a little over her hands, but as the girl came
up behind her, she raised her right arm and was just
about to throw the purse into the road, when Amabel
caught her wrist and saved it. Mme. Varasdin's cry
of surprise had rage as well as fear in it, and for a


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
99
moment Amabel wished she had not followed her.
The first look in the woman's eyes was murderous,
and her free hand went up towards the girl's throat.
Amabel stepped back with a shudder and would have
fled if Mme. Varasdin's manner had not undergone a
swift, curious change. She allowed the purse and the
shares to fall to the ground, pressed her uplifted hands
to her temples, and said, in a voice of sleepy bewilder-
ment-
“What has happened? Where am I?”
“You came into my room and stole my purse,"
said Amabel. “I suppose that paper you have just
dropped is the certificate of my Eugenias."
She picked it up as she spoke and put it back in
her bag, and all the while she stood there she watched
Mme. Varasdin in case she should make a sudden
spring and wrench it out of her hands. That lady
now looked unspeakably sad and surprised. She
pressed her hands to her temples again and sank into
her chair with a melancholy groan.
“Terrible!” she exclaimed, “terrible!”
“It is disgraceful,” said Amabel.
“I thought I was safe,” said Mme. Varasdin.
“You would have been if I had not happened to
wake. Some one in the street would have picked up
the purse. I should have had no proof against you.”
“It is a horrible affliction,” said Mme. Varasdin.
“I had no idea that you were subject to it,” said
Amabel — " kleptomania.”


100
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I know nothing about kleptomania. I am not sure
that I believe in it. A thief is a thief whatever fine
names the medical profession finds for him. I am a
somnambulist. As a child I frequently walked in my
sleep, and whatever I dreamed I was doing I actually
did. One night I walked barefoot through my father's
forest in the snow. I was ill for three months after
that. Then the malady seemed to leave me, I hoped
never to return. I should probably have thrown my-
self from the balcony if you had not roused me. Other-
wise why should I be standing close to the open
window? Perhaps you have saved my life.”
"I am glad I have saved my Eugenias,” said Amabel.
The lady's defence was unanswerable at that moment
and without further inquiry; and yet it was uncon-
vincing.
“Take my advice and put them in a safer place,”
said Mme. Varasdin.
"I shall give them to Mr. Sheringham to-morrow,”
said Amabel. “I wish I had done so to-day when we
found they had been moved.”
Mme. Varasdin's glance had neither sleep nor be-
wilderment in it now. Her narrow eyes closed and
her mouth was set in dislike as she rose slowly from
her chair.
“ To-morrow has come,” she said. “It must be two
o'clock. I am afraid I have curtailed your sleep. But
you need not be nervous; I never walk twice in one
night.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
101
Amabel went back to her room, tried the bolts of
her window and outer door, and managed to push her
chest of drawers across the door opening into the
salon. She made a great noise, and once when she
stopped she heard a step on the other side, so she
knew that Mme. Varasdin was listening. When she
had barricaded herself, she got into bed again, but
found she could not sleep. At every creak she started,
and the silence of the streets increased her sense of
loneliness and her fear. She feared the return of
Mme. Varasdin; she feared husband and wife to-
gether. Suppose they made their way in and were
determined to do her some horrid harm. Now that the
strain was over, her courage ebbed away and she lay
with wide open eyes, expectant and terrified. What
had happened seemed worse in retrospect than it had
been in experience, just as a narrow escape from violent
death turns one sick when all danger is gone by. She
vowed she would not sleep under that roof another
night, or, if she could help it, confront either of the
Varasdins again; and amidst the distress and turmoil
in her mind there arose the consoling thought of her
friend. He would meet her, she would tell him she
must get away, and he would help her. Instead of
being afraid of the Varasdins as she was, he would
assuredly make them afraid of him. “And that is
the difference between a man and a woman,” thought
Amabel with the usual injustice of a woman when she
is comparing her love with her sex. Directly it was


102
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
light she got up and dressed and opened her window.
The fresh air was restoring, and so was the return
of life in the street. The first tramcar seemed to bring
back the midday world that has no traffic with night-
mares; and the people who soon appeared — artisans
on their way to work, milkmen, servants, shopkeepers
— were all decent folk, who come with dawn and leave
night and its deeds behind them. When Amabel saw
that the street was really astir again, she began to
pack her trunks, as she had made up her mind that
she would not come back to the house if she could
help it. By the time she had finished, the maid brought
her a tray with coffee and bread and butter; and when
Amabel gave her a present of money the girl looked
round with surprise at the dismantled room and tried
to find out what the young lady's plans were. But
the young lady was not in a communicative mood,
said she was going out for the day, and left a message
for madame that she would not return till late in the
afternoon. She said nothing about her trunks being
packed ready for a journey, and when she had drunk
her coffee she slipped out of the front door quietly
and quickly, just as if she did not wish to be seen.
Amabel had a good many hours to get through
before she could go to the Avenue des Acacias, but she
had mapped out the time for herself as well as she
could. She went straight to the galleries of the
Louvre and spent two hours there, her thoughts per-
haps fixed with greater persistence on the events of


104
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I've had enough for to-day," he said. “It's a
beastly grind. Let's come into one of those little side-
galleries and talk. Wonder who buys these pictures.
I wouldn't. Wonder how the fellows who paint them
make a living. Just look at that heap of decaying cab-
bages with a Cupid sitting on top. What's it mean?
Who wants to see a Cupid sitting on cabbages every
day of his life? And look at those demons writhing
in hell.”
“They are not demons,” said Amabel, who had got
up and was looking patiently at the picture; "they are
musicians in an orchestra. Their faces are blurred.
Perhaps if we were not so ignorant we should think
it very clever. Don't you know that the French are
much better at painting and acting than we are?"
“Oh, I daresay," said Mr. Newby, and the admis-
sion did not seem to trouble him. He found a com-
fortable seat, and began to look at the passers-by
through his single eyeglass.
“How the beggars stare,” he went on. “If you
were my sister, I wouldn't let you knock about Paris
by yourself in this way. It's not right."
“But I'm with you now," said Amabel, laughing
at the boy's tone, and secretly rather glad he was there.
The rooms were full of people of various kinds, and
some of the wrong kind stared at the beautiful Eng-
lish girl more than was civil or agreeable.
Mr. Newby drew himself up and, with a further
assumption of manliness, said -


106
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“I like her very much myself,” he said; "but I
like cognac, and tobacco, and baccarat, and other things
I should not consider wholesome for my little sisters.
A young gander can digest a great deal that would
injure a young goose.”
“I daresay he thinks so,” said Amabel. “Is Ma-
dame Varasdin like cognac and baccarat ? ”
“She is agreeable and stimulating,” said Mr. Newby.
“I should think she is expensive," said Amabel, and
then she blushed uncomfortably at her own indiscre-
tion. But it had occurred to her that the gander's pearl
necklace must have cost a great deal more than any
offerings made by the goose.
“I know I look like an ass,” said Mr. Newby; " but
I assure you I can take care of myself. Don't you
worry about me."
" It isn't my business to worry about you.”
"I hope that isn't a hint, because I was just going
to give you some excellent advice. You go back to
England as quick as you can, and let Sheringham sell
your Eugenias at a top-price, and live good and quiet
in one of those Christian families till you have an
uncle or husband to look after you. What you're
doing here in Paris with delightful but peculiar people
like the Varasdins, nobody can understand.”
"I wish you would come too,” said Amabel. “If
you were my little brother, I should refuse to leave
you behind.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
107
XII
"I wish you'd let me take you as far as the Bois,"
said Mr. Newby. “Suppose Sheringham was detained,
and he easily might be, you'd find it very unpleasant
waiting about by yourself.”
Amabel did not think it likely that Mr. Sheringham
would disappoint her, but she made no further objec-
tion to Mr. Newby's proposal, and they drove to the
Bois together and were put down at the Avenue des
Acacias.
“I don't see him yet,” said Mr. Newby.
“Perhaps we are early,” said Amabel, but she looked
at her watch and found that it was after four.
The Avenue was not crowded that afternoon. The
pathway was almost deserted; the benches were empty;
and carriages and motor cars drove by in a broken pro-
cession. There had been a little rain and the air was
slightly chilly, but the sun shone out amongst windy
clouds and dried the seats and sparkled on the glist-
ening trees. Amabel was so tired that she was glad
to sit down, and though she told Mr. Newby not to
wait, he sat down with her.
“I'll wait till midnight if you like,” he said; “ I've
nothing to do."
“Perhaps there is a telegram at the Avenue Ernani.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
109
"I suppose I could,” said Mr. Newby. “So could
Sheringham. Why not talk to him about it?”
"I meant to talk to him about it,” said Amabel,
with a quaver in her voice that she tried hard to
control.
“You can write to him.”
"I don't know his address.”
“You might as well say you don't know the King's
address. Stock Exchange, London, of course."
"It isn't of course at all. I don't know anything
about your Stock Exchange, and booms, and people.
What is Mr. Sheringham? What is Monsieur Varas-
din? Why do you shrug your shoulders at one and
go on your knees to the other? What's the difference
between them?”
“Oh! Lord !!!”gasped Mr. Newby.
" That doesn't tell me.”
“One is a power and known to be awfully decent,
as I said a little while ago; the other — isn't.”
“Isn't awfully decent?”.
“Rather not,” said Mr. Newby. “You have to be
jolly well on your guard with Hyancinth Louis, I can
tell you.”
“ Then why do you dine there so often?”
“If it comes to that, why do you?” said Mr.
Newby, looking very red and uncomfortable.
"I pay Madame Varasdin seven guineas a week,
and, besides that, she owes me a hundred pounds,"
said Amabel.


IIO
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
Mr. Newby could not deny himself a slight whistle.
It was not very loud or very long.
“She said you had never paid her a penny yet,” he
observed. “She said so yesterday as we drove home
together."
Amabel looked at him and drew her own conclu-
sions.
“If the truth were known I suspect we have both
paid for our dinners,” said she; and then she sud-
denly made up her mind to tell him what had happened
and to hear what he had to say.
“ Last night Madame Varasdin came into my room
when she thought I was asleep,” she began. “She
took this purse from under my pillow - "
Mr. Newby left off tracing designs in the damp
gravel with the point of his stick and sat up with a
jerk, facing Amabel. The girl finished her story in
words as dry as bones; she told him how she had fol-
lowed Mme. Varasdin, found the Eugenias in her
hands, and got them back again, and how she had felt
less afraid at the time than she had done ever since.
“But what did she say?" inquired Mr. Newby.
“She said she was a somnambulist, and had been
walking in her sleep.”
In spite of Amabel's fatigue and disappointment, she
could not help laughing at Mr. Newby's expression.
“Oh! draw it mild,” he murmured.
" It was equally impossible to contradict or to be-
lieve her,” said Amabel.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
III
“You must go back to England,” said Mr. Newby,
with decision.
" I'm very glad I met you,” said Amabel. "If I
had come here quite alone and Mr. Sheringham had
failed me, I should have been at my wits' end. I can't
go to England without my trunks, and I should have
been afraid to go back to the flat by myself. I am sure
Madame Varasdin will be furious when she finds I
will not stay there any longer. I suppose I must stay
one more night.”
“Must you?” said Mr. Newby doubtfully.
“I would rather travel by day; and I am not afraid,
because I shall get Adèle, the femme-de-chambre, to
sleep in the room, and I shall barricade that door again.
I feel sure that she will not make the attempt a second
time. She must recognise that she has failed.”
“I suppose it is not you who were dreaming?"
said Mr. Newby. “You are quite certain about it?”
“Yes,” said Amabel; and her tone carried convic-
tion.
“ I'm expecting you all to dine with me to-night,”
said Mr. Newby. “I arranged it with Madame Va-
rasdin yesterday. I've found a new restaurant some-
where towards Montmartre that isn't half bad. I sup-
pose, as it is arranged, it must stand, and perhaps it
will be pleasanter for you. Otherwise —
Amabel perceived that the young man believed her,
and that he was both shocked and angry. She fore-
saw that Mme. Varasdin's hold on him would not be


112
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
as tight as it had been, and that, to this extent at any
rate, good was growing out of evil.
" It is past five already,” she said. “I think I will
go back now and see if there is a telegram.”
“I will come with you," said Mr. Newby.
“Then I will tell Madame Varasdin at once, while
you are there, that I am going to England to-morrow.
When I have done that the worst will be over. I need
hardly see her or speak to her again except at dinner,
when you will be there too."
"All right,” said Mr. Newby. The programme was
an uncomfortable one, but he did not know how to
amend it. Of course, he must see Amabel through as
well as he could, because she was his countrywoman
and, for the moment, friendless. It was most unlucky
that Sheringham had not turned up. Sheringham had
never paid for the Varasdin dinners or presented Mme.
Varasdin with pearls, and his companionship of Ama-
bel could not have been regarded by his hostess as
a slur on herself. Mr. Newby was not unwilling to
wind up his affairs with the lady; her demands had
been excessive lately, and her recent exploit put her
beyond the pale of his large tolerance; but he would
rather have retired quietly and gradually from the little
band of her admirers. As things were, he expected
an explosion.
She surprised them both by opening the door of the
flat herself, but she gave no reason for doing so, and
they followed her into the salon. Amabel felt shy of


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
113
looking her in the face at first, but she soon found
that her embarrassment was not shared by Mme. Va-
rasdin.
“You have missed Mr. Sheringham," she said to the
girl, and there was a note of malicious satisfaction in
her voice. “He came quite early this morning, and
seemed surprised not to find you here."
“Oh!” cried Amabel, and in her voice there was
bitter disappointment.
“He waited some time, as I said I did not know
where you had gone or when you would be back. Per-
haps it struck him, mademoiselle, that you do not treat
your hostess very civilly.”
“I sent you a message by Adèle,” said Amabel.
“I did not receive it.”
“I suppose Mr. Sheringham left some message?”
"Oh! the usual thing; his kind regards. He was off
to London by the 11.50 train.”
“ Did he say anything had happened to call him back
so suddenly?”
“He talked of business matters to Monsieur Varas-
din. I paid no attention.”
Amabel saw that Mme. Varasdin did not mean to tell
her more than she could help about Mr. Sheringham's
visit, and that it was waste of time to ply her with
questions. She felt sick with vexation and disappoint-
ment, and it was hard to believe that anything pleasant
waited beyond the immediate miserable hour. Mr.
Newby stood awkwardly beside a group of palms and


114
. THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
fiddled with their leaves. For a little while none of
the three people spoke.
"He will be over here again in about a fortnight,”
said Mme. Varasdin, after some reflection.
Amabel saw her opening.
“I shall not be here then,” she said firmly.
“ What do you mean?” said Mme. Varasdin.
Mr. Newby took a step away from the palms, a step
towards Amabel. Its significance was not lost on
Anastasie, and she included him in her glance of anger
and dislike.
: “I have decided to go back to London,” said Amabel.
“But your uncle expects to find you here."
“I shall communicate with him.”
“That will take time.”
"No," said Amabel. “I shall telegraph to him from
London to-morrow. He left me quite free.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Mme. Varasdin. “You
have been under my care six weeks — when I took you
into my house, you were somewhat puzzled and friend-
less, I think — out of my compassion I threw open my
doors to you. My husband and I have treated you as
an honoured guest, and without rhyme or reason you
want to leave us at a day's notice as you leave an inn.
Allow me to inform you, Mademoiselle, that your be-
haviour is not becoming, it is not even honest. I have
been put to considerable expense on your account.
How do you propose to compensate me?"
“ You owe me a hundred pounds," began Amabel,


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
115
in so low a voice that it hardly reached Mr. Newby's
ears; but Mme. Varasdin turned and spoke to him.
“Mademoiselle is assuredly a dreamer of dreams,”
she said, and her hand went to her head for an instant
as if to intimate that there was something a little wrong
with the girl's mental faculties. “I do not owe her a
penny."
For a moment Mr. Newby hesitated; but one glance
at Amabel's sane, indignant, and contemptuous face
convinced him.
"Miss Ferrers is free to go to-morrow if she chooses,
you know," he said. “What's the good of making a
bother about it? She's homesick, and you can't keep
her here by force. As for the money transactions that
have taken place between you — "
“I am not going to discuss them with you,” said
Mme. Varasdin resolutely.
“There is nothing to discuss,” said Amabel, getting
up. “I shall go to London to-morrow, and I make
you a present of a hundred pounds.".
She went straight to her own room and rang for
Adèle, but no one answered. When she had rung
twice she went to the kitchen and then into every room
on the flat except the salon. But Adèle was nowhere
to be found. As she stood indecisively in the hall,
wondering if the girl had been sent out and would soon
return, the front door bell rang. She opened the door
herself, saw the concierge with a letter in his hand,
and observed that Adèle was not at home.


116
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Does Mademoiselle not know?” said the man.
" Adèle was dismissed this morning — paid her wages
and dismissed. She was so surprised, she hardly knew
whether to laugh or cry.”
“ But why was she dismissed?” said Amabel, and
the man was astonished to see her turn quite pale and
weak. She clung to the door and her voice shook when
she spoke. He shrugged his shoulders at her ques-
tion and pointed inside the flat.
"Ladies like madame are violent and capricious,"
said he. “I believe the poor girl broke a vase. What
surprised her was to get paid. She thought she would
have to go to the police for her money.”
Mr. Newby had just got up to go when Amabel
entered the room again, looking so white and scared
that he took alarm.
“What is it?” he said.
“I'll go to-night,” she whispered. “Adèle has been
sent away. I'm afraid to sleep here again. I'll go
to-night.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
117
XIII
Mr. NewBy looked uncomfortably at Mme. Varasdin.
She had come up to them and must have heard what
Amabel said.
“What is the matter now?” she inquired.
But that was more than Amabel had courage to tell
her just then. She stood in the doorway, the picture
of agitation and alarm, and she turned her eyes to Mr.
Newby with an appeal in them that the young man
would have responded to at any cost to himself.
"Don't you worry," he said obscurely. “I'll fix
things and let you know at dinner. I'm off now. See
you again at seven sharp.”
“Where?” asked Amabel, who had never before
troubled about the name or address of a restaurant at
which she was to dine with the Varasdins. He told
her and she listened carefully, and then before he had
time to make a move, she ran into her own room. They
heard the key turn in the lock.
" I'm afraid I frightened the poor girl last night,”
said Mme. Varasdin, narrowly watching the young
Englishman's face. “She seems quite nervous and up-
set. Instead of going out to dinner, she ought to see
a doctor and take a soothing draught. Can't you per-
suade her to ?”


118
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
" I'm afraid not,” said Mr. Newby. “She does seem
a bit upset. You see she has got it into her head that
it might happen again.”
“She did tell you about it, then! How unnecessary
and disloyal to gossip with a stranger about the infirm-
ity of a friend. I am disappointed in Miss Ferrers."
“Well! you've almost seen the last of her.”
“I suppose she means to return here to-night?”
“Oh! didn't you hear what she said to me? She
prefers to sleep in Paris to-night, so as to be nearer the
Nord for her start, I suppose. It is quite a good idea.”
"I don't agree with you. This young lady is staying
in my house. Her uncle put her in my care. At a
moment's notice, without apology or explanation, she
decamps, abetted by you. What do you suppose her
uncle will say and her English friends ? What are
your intentions with regard to her ? ”
“My intention is to have dinner with you and your
husband and Miss Ferrers, and then to take you to
some of those Montmartre theatres, as we arranged
last night. That's all at present,” said Mr. Newby, and
he walked away. The lady made no effort to detain
him. She waited until she heard her husband's step
in the corridor, and then she went out to meet him.
He took a long time to hang up his hat and coat, and
then he strolled towards her as if there was no hurry.
He did not observe that her face was livid with anger
and impatience.
"Come into my room,” she said.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
119
Her room was at the further end of the flat, and the
only available door faced the long, narrow passage.
As M. Varasdin was about to shut it, his wife pulled it
roughly from him and set it wide ajar.
“I want no listeners,” said she.
“Are the servants about? I don't hear them.”
"I want no servants,” said Mme. Varasdin. “The
cook went yesterday, I sent off Adèle to-day.”
“What for?”
“So that we should be by ourselves — with Miss
Ferrers. Is that plain enough, fool ?”
The man shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He
had sat down in the easiest at once and had yawned
and stretched his legs, but now he looked up at his
wife who seemed suddenly to be standing over him,
her face and her whole body tense with anger.
“ You are pleased to yawn and stretch your legs,"
she said; “I suppose you think there is nothing else
for you to do to-night.”
“I hope there is dinner," he said, with artificial
gaiety.
" It is your one thought. And pray what have you
brought me of late to buy dinner with?”.
“I can't bring you what I haven't got,” said the man,
his flaccid face overcast and scowling. “ I'm cleared
out. I had to borrow a few francs from Gregorio to-
day to pay my déjeuner and my tram fares. You'll
have to give me something for to-morrow.”
"I have nothing to give. I am not going to sell my


120
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
jewels to support a scamp like you. I owe Miss Fer-
rers a hundred pounds."
“ Those Eugenias would set us right. They are at
four to-day and will go much higher when confirma-
tion of the strike comes. We could buy a little villa
somewhere on the Riviera and there would be an end
to this dog's life — "
"Some dogs earn a living,” said Mme. Varasdin.
“ They are harnessed in carts and work hard. Some
lie on cushions and eat and sleep and grow fat. Which
kind of dog are you, my friend ?”
“Oh! your tongue!” said the man. “Get the Eu-
genias, and then talk if you please.”
“It isn't so easy. I've tried twice and failed. Your
turn comes now. You have the evening before you."
“ The evening!”
“ Mademoiselle has taken fright. She does not like
a somnambulist. She sleeps at a hotel to-night. To-
morrow she goes to England.”
"Diable!” said M. Varasdin. “And you call your-
self clever!”
“ You must remember that in the matter of criminal
offences it is I who am the amateur,” said his wife.
“You are the kind of woman one strangles in the
end,” said he.
“You perceive how we stand, I hope," she con-
tinued. “We have nothing but debts, and I should
like to know in which capital of Europe you have the
shreds of a reputation. Paris was our last chance, and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
I21
here too you have burnt your fingers. You are not
the man to prosper in a new country. What lies
before you unless you get hold of these Eugenias? If
you come back to-night without them you have seen
the last of me. I am at the end of my patience. Your
rascalities land you in prison instead of at the top of
the tree, and I have told you before that poverty is
not to my taste. I was not made for it.”
The man cowered as he listened to his wife's tirade,
and he muttered again that he had been unlucky and
that he couldn't pick up money in the streets, and that
their separation would not do either of them any good.
“I'm tired of supporting you,” she said; “ that's the
long and short of it. You haven't earned a sixpence
this year.”
“You scold and you scold, but you don't tell me
what I'm to do," complained M. Varasdin. .
“We are dining with Newby to-night. After dinner
I am going out with him. You will naturally conduct
Miss Ferrers to her hotel. You are not a somnam-
bulist. You have escorted her here and there these six
weeks. She can find no reason to refuse."
“She can insist on a cab. It will be a ten minutes'
drive.”
“Persuade her to walk, then. But I leave the details
to you. I admit that the matter has elements of diffi-
culty. At the same time I must remind you of the
desperate condition of our own affairs. After all, you
are a man. The meanest hound amongst you has the


122
THE. THOUSAND EUGENIAS
pull when it comes to muscle. The most beautiful
woman in the world, the cleverest woman in the world
walks through life knowing that any blackguard can
knock her down. It doesn't happen, you say? Look
through that pile of old newspapers. If you can find
one without a case of it I'll give you twenty francs
for your déjeuner to-morrow.”
M. Varasdin did not search through the papers to
which his wife pointed. He was thinking hard.
“Where are we dining, do you say?”
“At that restaurant Newby has just discovered,
right away towards Montmartre."
“She knows her way about Paris?”
“She knows how to get from here to the Louvre in
a cab or a tram. She knows the Madelaine and the
Place de la Concorde. She has stared at Notre-Dame.
She has never been near all those quiet old streets you
will be near to-night.”
"It is impossible. I should be suspected. The police
would be on us in a few hours.”
"If you bungle. What does suspicion matter so long
as proof is impossible? Of course, you must come
straight back here, and, according to what has hap-
pened, we shall act. Don't run away in a panic and
have a hue-and-cry after you before morning. Prob-
ably we shall sit still, answer all questions, and snap
our fingers in the end. It is either that or the gutter
for both of us."
“You are sure of that?”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
123
Mme. Varasdin shrugged her shoulders. A clock in
the room struck six. It was time for her to dress, and
she took from the wardrobe the quiet, close-fitting
gown she considered suitable that night. The man
sat staring at the floor, and biting his lips, and
sighing hard sometimes. He looked like a stupid, evil
beast caught in a trap, and he could see no way out
except the one he feared to try. He had led a life of
mean shifts; had sat in an Austrian prison as a swin-
dler; and had left an equivocal name in many cities.
At the beginning of his career he had shown some skill
in playing the devil's game with money; had floated
wild-cat companies, and had been known to fools, first
as a financier and then as a knave. He had feasted
and roystered, and starved and despaired. Over and
over again his wife had lifted him out of the mire with
money got he asked not how. She was so clever and
so prudent that, of late, they had even gained a footing
in the semi-respectable society formed by the success-
ful of his kind in Paris, and had led an agreeable life
there. He was no worse, he told himself, than other
men; no worse than that arch-swindler, Jacob Wolfen-
stein; not much worse than old Gregorio; a little better,
perhaps, than the notorious Whitley Brown, who still
sat at good men's tables, whose wife had curtseyed to
kings. It was his dire misfortune that ruin had him
by the throat unless he committed a theft for which
want of scruple was not sufficient without pluck and
sleight of hand.


124
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
Meanwhile, Amabel got ready for dinner and packed
what she needed for the night in a small handbag she
could, at a pinch, carry. The Eugenias she put into a
chatelaine bag that fastened into her waistband by a
long, broad hook. She thought they were safer on her
body than in either of her trunks. Besides, in half-
an-hour she would be done with this household, where
sinister deeds seemed real, and not, as they seem to
most of us, half fabulous. When she thought of the
Varasdins now she thought of events, and words, and
glances that all helped, like lights turned up of a sud-
den, to show their true colours. She remembered their
straits for money, their cat-and-dog life, the extrav-
agance of the woman, the idle complaisance of the man.
The thought of another night on the flat had become
unbearable. With Adèle to keep her company, she
might have endured it; by herself she knew she could
not. She shuddered at the thought of Mme. Varas-
din's hands near her throat again. What she feared
the girl could hardly have told you, but sheer physical
terror unnerved her, and her one desire was to get
away — away from this woman and back to the com-
pany of honest men.
When she was ready she listened anxiously at her
door and heard no movement anywhere on the flat.
She took a sudden resolve, crept softly to the front
door, which was near her own, opened it without noise
and let herself down in the lift. As she descended
she trembled lest she should still by some miracle be


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
125
overtaken, yet she stopped for a moment to speak to
the concierge, to give him a present of money, and
to leave an address for letters. Then she went out
into the street, hailed an open cab, and drove to the
address Mr. Newby had given her. He was waiting
near the door, and he looked surprised to see her arrive
alone.
“Aren't the Varasdins coming ?” said he.
“Oh yes!” said Amabel. “But I thought I
wouldn't wait for them. I wanted to ask you about
a hotel.”
“I've taken a room for you at the Ritz,” said Mr.
Newby. “You see they know your uncle there. You'll
be all right. I'm sorry I can't see you off to-morrow,
but I've promised to show some people round Ver-
sailles, and we have to make an early start.”
Amabel thanked him, and they went inside the
restaurant, sat down at the table he had chosen, and
began to talk of indifferent things. She felt relieved
and happy and a little excited, as men do when they
have faced danger and passed safely by. Her thoughts
turned to England and to the circumstances of her
new life there, and she told Mr. Newby how few
friends she had and how she would not know where
to lay her head until she had consulted with Mrs.
Pugsley.
“That state of things won't last long," said Mr.
Newby sagely. “Money makes friends.”
“It makes enemies too,” said Amabel rather rue-


126
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
fully. “The moment I get to London I shall send
these hateful Eugenias to Mr. Sheringham and ask
him to get rid of them for me. Uncle Michael told
me to wait, but I don't think he'll mind when he hears
what a worry they've been, and Mr. Sheringham will
know when they ought to be sold, I suppose. Isn't it
odd that a musty old bit of paper like this should be
worth so much money, that people should covet it,
that I should have to guard it as if it was a jewel,
and that I can sell it and get real treasures with it -
clothes, and books, and music, and journeys, if I
choose, to Ultima Thule.”
She had taken the certificate out of her bag and
unfolded it for Mr. Newby to see, and their heads
were bent over it when the swish of a silk gown close
by arrested Mr. Newby's attention.
“Put it away,” he said under his breath, and got
up to receive Monsieur and Madame Varasdin. Ama-
bel hurriedly thrust the paper into the bag at her
side and looked up to see whether the husband and
wife had observed her. Apparently they were both
engrossed in apologising to Mr. Newby for being a
quarter of an hour late.
“We waited for mademoiselle,” they said, but their
manner conveyed no reproach. Indeed, their bland
civility almost persuaded Amabel that her own be-
haviour had been panic-stricken and rude. Neverthe-
less the thought of sleeping at the Ritz was com-
fortable.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
127
XIV
The paraphernalia of common life, the habits of the
body, and the company of ordinary men, all combine
to give tragedy a distant and improbable air. Yet it
takes little faith and less reflection to show that in
every tragedy, whether of crime or fate or passion,
all parts are played by men whose needs and occupa-
tions are as everyday as our own. In real life the
most awful events are not detached from the trivial
as they are in poetry; our spirits agonise in human
bodies with human needs, and the sun shines on sor-
row as often as on joy. Nevertheless, so narrow is
our vision, so hidebound our intelligence, we find it
difficult to see in the mingled yarn the thread of
grief or danger that will soon be inextricably woven.
Amabel sat at table in a well-lighted, well-appointed
Parisian restaurant. The silver and glass were shin-
ing, the dishes were dainty, the guests who sat at other
tables afforded her entertainment. She drank cham-
pagne, and that cheerful wine restored her; she heard
Mme. Varasdin and Mr. Newby discuss the various
ways of cooking mutton, and that curiously encouraged
her. She inhabited a safe, commonplace corner of the
world, where people were occupied with their palates
and did not contemplate deeds of violence. Her fears


128
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
fell from her, she took an interest in the menu,
and she addressed herself to her dinner and to M.
Varasdin.
Amabel still thought him a mere animated barber's
block, and admired him so little that the very phrase,
bel homme, the phrase his wife used to describe
him, had been lowered in its meaning, and she would:
not have applied it except to cast some slur of hollow-
ness and vanity. This evening, he seemed to be in a
silent mood, and he made so little response to Amabel's
efforts that she guessed him to be sulky over her
departure, and left him alone. Mme. Varasdin took
note of this at once, and drew the girl into conver-
sation without any sign of rancour or regret. Her
bland face showed no change, her questions expressed
her interest in Amabel's plans, and her manner sug-
gested the tolerance with which a healthy person
condones the fancies of an invalid.
" Are you going straight to your friends?” she
asked. “Do they expect you ? "
"I shall telegraph to them to-morrow," said
Amabel.
“But you must give me an address for letters,"
said Mme. Varasdin.
"I have left one with the concierge,” said the
girl.
The lady then began to talk about London. Unhap-
pily for that city, she had not enjoyed a fortnight she
spent there some years ago. It was impossible, she


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
129
said, to think much of a nation that eats parboiled
cabbage with its dinner every day and sleeps on small
oblong pillows. Amabel asked her about theatres and
picture galleries, but she said she had not troubled
to visit either, as she had always been told that the
English could not act or paint.
“Nor have you any musicians or poets,” she added.
“It is very strange.”
“The wonder is that a nation so compact of evil
and stupidity can exist at all,” said Mr. Newby, with
something rather like a wink at Amabel.
“You are decaying fast,” said M. Varasdin sol-
emnly. He was rather flushed, and had emptied his
glass oftener than usual.
“I have enjoyed being in Paris,” said Amabel;
"and to come across French people everywhere is
like living in a fairy story where the fountains run
with champagne. I like their talk and their smiles,
and their quickness, and their kind, pretty ways.
But I want to get back to my own country, too. It
is only in your own country that you know what other
people are thinking. Besides, I am homesick for toast
and tea, and the illustrated papers, and a cabman who
can drive, and a bobby like a monument. Is it windy
to-night? I hardly noticed. Shall I have a smooth
crossing?”
"I don't think so,” said Mr. Newby; "a wind's
getting up.”
Then the talk turned on Channel passages and


130
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
the Channel tunnel, and from that went wide over the
high seas. Mr. Newby had been round the world,
and told stories of Japan and China; and Mme. Va-
rasdin asked questions about Indian cities and about
the native princes he had met out there, and about
their European hangers-on.
“Don't you know a Rajah who wants a secretary
and treasurer ? ” said she; "a rich Rajah, who would
give Hyacinth a salary for managing his finances, and
me some big diamonds because I am so charming.
I am tired of Europe. I should like to get away into
a bigger, wider world.”
Mr. Newby said he did not think a native Indian
city would seem very big or very wide after the first
three months. He recommended Charing Cross. That
suggested a comparison of cities, and it appeared that
Mme. Varasdin knew most of the important European
ones west of Russia and south of Berlin. Amabel
who only knew London and Paris, could not join in
this discussion, and she fell to thinking how odd it
was that she should sit amicably at table with people
she was leaving in such a way and for such a reason.
It seemed impossible that both should be real -- the
woman who crawled and stole in the night, and this
cheerful dining-room with the guests and the busy
servants, and Mr. Newby, and the well-dressed, easy-
mannered woman next to him. But when Amabel
looked at M. Varasdin, she felt some return of the
vague uneasiness left by the shock she had sustained.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
131
As the dinner proceeded, his face grew more deeply
flushed; for once, wine did not loose his tongue, and
the man who was usually a big eater and noisy and
boastful in his talk, now played with his food, con-
sumed nothing, and sat so brooding and speechless
that Mr. Newby at last noticed his unnatural mood.
“What are you hatching, Varasdin?” he said.
“Going to make your fortune to-morrow? Laying
the plans to-night? ”
“He really has that appearance,” said his wife;
“I hope it is so. Hyacinth, I drink to your success.
Lay your plans well to-night. See that they succeed
and bring us good fortune to-morrow.”
“We'll all join in that toast," said Mr. Newby, and
he raised his glass. Of course, Amabel did so too.
“I wish you good luck,” she said to M. Varasdin.
She thought he behaved rather badly. He took no
notice of her sentiment, he did not look her way;
he emptied his glass in such haste that he was near
choking over it, and he set it down with such an
unsteady hand that he brushed against other glasses
and upset them. His wife frowned as she watched
him.
“ You do not respond to mademoiselle,” she ob-
served. “She drinks to your success. Drink with
her.”
At his wife's bidding, M. Varasdin refilled his glass
and sipped from it with a perfunctory bow in Amabel's
direction, but his eyes avoided her, and it was to Mr.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
133
of offence in his tone as if he scented distrust and
defied the girl to express it. Amabel, inclined to doubt
her own conclusions, gave in at once. They started
before the others, and M. Varasdin carried the small
dressing-bag she had taken with her for the night.
When they got outside M. Varasdin looked at the sky
and observed that the rain held off and that if
mademoiselle pleased they might walk to the Place
Vendôme.
" But you are turning the wrong way,” said Amabel.
" It is a quiet way tliat I know very well,” said
M. Varasdin.
Amabel had little idea of locality, and she had
never been on foot in this neighbourhood before.
Her companion dived down side streets, took a turn
to the left, a turn to the right, and in a few minutes
hopelessly confused her. From where they walked
now she could not have found her way to the Made-
leine or to any other point well known to her. They
were in a poorer quarter than she had seen yet, and
some of the streets were empty and badly lighted.
She kept her eyes open for a cab, but none plied for
hire here. She began to wish herself back amongst
the busy traffic of the city, where the crowd would
have given her a sense of safety. The man beside her
hardly opened his mouth, and that was not his wont,
and added to her uneasiness. She tried to talk, and
her own voice vexed her, it was so artificial. She
forgot her fatigue and set a hurried step, and looked


134
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
furtively behind when M. Varasdin dropped back a
yard or two. She observed that he did this when-
ever the street was empty, but that when other people
were in sight he kept easily abreast. If he had let
her lag behind she thought she could have endured a
little longer, but it set her nerves on edge to listen for
his footfall at her heels and to turn her head and
see him close at her shoulder. The ignoble lines in his
face, of self-indulgence and ill-humour, were set as
if in a mask to-night, and as he hovered near her,
still and threatening, she wondered which was the
real man, this ruffian or the bel homme all volubility
and smiles.
They turned now into a long, badly lighted street
of tumble-down private houses, and there was not a
sound or a sight here to allay Amabel's vague alarm.
The very windows were mostly in darkness, the noise
of busier streets sounded far away, and there was not
a footstep on the pavement except their own.
“I am sure we are wrong," she said, with decision.
“When we get to the end of this street I shall take
a cab. I have been out all day and am tired.”
She spoke because the silence and the deserted street
were terrifying. It reassured her to break the silence
and to talk as if nothing worse was on her mind than
her weary body and this weary trudge. But she made
the mistake that a timid person makes when he snatches
his hand too suddenly from an uncertain dog and so
decides him to spring. M. Varasdin understood that


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
135
it was now or never. He fell a step behind again, and
she turned her head at once and caught him shifting
the bag he carried from the left hand to the right.
At that moment a house door opened and shut
again with a bang, and a boy came whistling into the
street. He walked ahead of them on the opposite
side, and Amabel had it in her mind to run across the
road and walk close to him until they reached a more
frequented part where there would be a constant
stream of people and the chance of a cab. But the
boy walked fast, and was fast outstripping them.
She hurried her own steps to keep up with him. The
man by her side muttered some remonstrance she
scarcely heard, and placed himself close to her and on
the kerb, so that she must pass behind him or in front
of him to cross. The boy's whistle grew a little
fainter with every yard they covered, and she had
to strain her eyes now to make out his figure. As
long as she saw it, as long as she heard him, she
thought the chances might still be with her, and she
looked for the end of the long street and hoped that
her strength and courage would not fail her. For it
was not easy to walk steadily forward with a cool
head and her heart beating hard against her side. The
boy changed his tune, whistled the new one a little
louder, and as it seemed to her for a moment slackened
his pace. She leapt in front of M. Varasdin, thinking
to cross at any hazards, and win to safety. And then
she halted on the kerb, stricken helpless with disap-


136
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
pointment. The boy had swung open the heavy door
of a courtyard, and shut it behind him. She looked
despairingly down the narrow street, and saw no one
to take his place. M. Varasdin had come close behind
her again, and she moved swiftly to one side. But
as she did so, she saw his uplifted arm, and before
she could escape, before she could guard herself or
even scream, the bag he carried came down on her
head and shoulder with a smashing blow. She groaned
and fell, and lost all consciousness.
In a moment M. Varasdin swooped over her inert
body, and unhooked the chatelaine purse from her
waistband. The girl lay quite still, and he could not
hear her breathe. But he had no courage to make sure
that she was dead. His own limbs were so tremulous
now, that he kept on his feet with difficulty. He
stuffed the purse into his pocket, picked up the
travelling bag, got to the other side of the street, and
walked quickly and softly to the end of it. He arrived
at an open place where other streets converged, and
where other people were passing. At one corner there
was a café, not well lighted, and as far as the outside
seats went, nearly empty. He sat down here and called
for a cognac. For the moment he was at the end of
his strength, and at the end of his resources. His
thoughts were in a flurry. He did not know what to
do next, or what would happen if Amabel was dead,
or if she rose as a witness against him. He did not
know which he desired, to have succeeded as a mur-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
137
derer, or to have bungled this business as he had
done many others. He had the Eugenias in his pocket,
and took no thought of them. He felt sick and chilly,
and offended with fate; but above all offended with
his wife who had driven him to do this dangerous thing,
and sat safely at home herself. He cursed her for
letting him undertake it without money in his pocket.
He could not make good his escape until he had gone
home and found her, and procured money for his
travelling expenses. He ought to have foreseen this,
and brought money with him, and be on his way
already. It would waste hours to go out to Passy and
return to Paris. The police would soon be astir. But
Anastasie had said something about flight being un-
necessary. He could not remember — did not under-
stand. The waiter might bring another cognac. He
was not ill, at least he did not count a touch of ague as
illness. The man might bring him a double quantity
if he pleased. It was showery to-day, and the damp
easily affected him. Also, he had walked far. One
franc, twenty? It was well. The waiter could keep
the change.
M. Varasdin lifted the glass to his lips and set it
down again, because his trembling hand would not hold
it. His face was petrified in fear and surprise, and if
he had not sat alone in the half darkness of an ill-
lighted corner of the café, his condition must inevitably
have attracted notice. His eyes were fixed on the
pitiful figure of Amabel staggering slowly across the


138
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
place, her hand held to her head, her clothes in dis-
order, her face discoloured with blood. She came
straight towards him. He could see her blind and ter-
rified eyes; and he rose hurriedly to his feet with a
scream. But his scream was drowned in the shout that
went up from every side, and in the puffing noise of
a motor car that dashed out of a side street across the
Place, and as it seemed, right over the girl. When
M. Varasdin came to his senses he saw a crowd
gathered where Amabel had stood. The waiter who
had served him came away from it and spoke as he
passed.
“It is a young lady,” he said; "she is quite dead.”


140
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
she will go to the Ritz to-night and to England to-
morrow. But I do not feel sure. She was in an
excitable condition. I think she needs great care. I
am glad to see that your interest in her is not as deep
as I feared. I wish I felt equally safe about Hyacinth.
You observed his dejection at dinner. The news of
Miss Ferrers' departure cast that gloom over him.”
“Much more likely the state of the market," said
Mr. Newby. “A boom, when you're not in it, is de-
pressing.”
The symptoms of lassitude and fever that had af-
flicted Mme. Varasdin vanished as the cab turned
westwards. She was impatient to be at home. She
thought it most likely that Hyacinth's courage had
failed him, that he had done nothing at all, and that
life would go on as it threatened, leading them in no
time to open disgrace and destitution. She had her
jewels, but it is not easy to sell jewels profitably
when once the police are on your tracks, and when
they do not belong to you at all but to your cred-
itors. With a man like her husband, affairs must
needs grow worse as time goes on and proves his
incapacity and want of faith by a whole known his-
tory of questionable transactions. His friends had
fallen from him, his credit was gone, his name was
rank in the market - place. She could, of course,
leave him to his fate. That path lay before her, but
without seduction. She knew too much about the
career open to an extravagant woman, unclassed, idle,


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
141
and in some measure fastidious. The future held one
hope, and before midnight she would know whether
or not it was fulfilled. Small wonder that her mood
was restless, and that she had no mind for the un-
realities of the play. Her fate hung on her husband's
boldness and discretion, and she knew him to be a
coward and a fool.
In the improbable event of his success there was
still a difficult question before her, and she saw that
she might have to settle it suddenly. He would want
to keep the plunder in his own slippery hands; he
would play ducks and drakes with it, and a few
months hence they would be beggared again. This
issue was much in her thoughts as she approached
the Avenue Ernani. She looked up at her windows
and saw no light there. She paid the cabman, went
up in the lift, and opened the door with her latch-
key. She looked into every room and found that her
husband had not returned. Then she sat down in her
own room, and for some time did not stir even to
remove her hat and gloves. She had to think and
decide. What should she do if he came back having
attempted nothing? what should she do if he had
tried and failed? Suppose he absconded with the
shares and she never saw him again? suppose he
brought them back and refused her a share in them?
Whatever he did he would act solely for himself, she
knew. She hoped nothing of him, hardly wished
him otherwise. Most of all she wished him dead and


142
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
out of her way. For a long while now she had seen
that this solution was the only convenient one; he
did no good in the world. No one would miss or
bemoan him. He had not won the esteem or the af-
fection of one fellow - creature on his way through
life. He was a man without a friend. Unfortunately
the law takes no count of quality, and it is as dan-
gerous to rid society of a drone as of a hero. It
behoved her to keep out of danger, and she thought
she saw a way, a way she would not take, however,
unless the need arose. Hyacinth should live if he
showed himself amenable; even if he came back with
empty hands he should live. Nothing should con-
demn him short of his own greed.
Mme. Varasdin got up and unlocked her jewel case.
She took from it a small bottle with the label of a
Vienna chemist. It contained a strong preparation
of morphia that had been given her some years ago
to relieve pain. She had always kept it, and had
sometimes felt tempted to use it and so shuffle off
the coil of life. She had never before thought of
administering it to any one else. She would not think
of it now with any steadiness or decision, but she
soaked the bottle in water and removed the label and
burnt it. The little bottle she hid in the pouched
bodice of her dress. Then she took off her hat and
went into the dining-room and turned on the lights.
She had just put brandy on the sideboard and soda
water and glasses, when she heard a slight sound at


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
143
the front door, and then a stealthy step in the hall.
As she turned round her husband appeared in the
room.
He was trembling with triumph and excitement;
yet he looked about him as he came in and she saw
that he was afraid.
"I am alone,” she said. “What has happened?”
“I have succeeded where you failed,” said he.
His wife looked at the bag he carried in his
hand.
“I see you have brought that bag here as a wit-
ness against you,” she observed. “The shares "
“The shares are in my pocket,” he cried, and he
put down the bag and took from his coat pocket the
purse containing the shares. His wife stood near the
sideboard and watched him. She saw him open the
purse and she saw the certificate in his hands. He
unfolded it, fluttered it towards her, and then put it
in his coat again. The purse he left lying on the
table.
“Are you safe here even for an hour?” said his
wife.
“The poor girl is dead," said the man, with a
shudder.
“ You would certainly not be safe if she was alive,”
said Mme. Varasdin.
“You told me I should. You told me to come
back. But no one knows I am here. As I came in
I gave the name of Duval, the people above us.”


144
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“What makes you think the girl is dead? How
did you get the shares?”
“How does one get anything one wants ? I took
them.”
“Was there a scene? A noise? A crowd? How
did you get away?”.
“Ask such questions of a fool and not of me. I am
new to the game, yet I played it with skill. We were
in a deserted street — I had this bag in my hands —
and I tell you once for all, Anastasie, that I will not
speak of what happened. A man of my calibre can-
not shrink from a disagreeable necessity, but I sup-
pose a cook who has to wring the neck of a pigeon
does not dwell on it afterwards with any pleasure.”
“A cook is not in danger of the guillotine," said
Mme. Varasdin.
“I did not kill the girl myself,” said her husband
sulkily.
But the colour had gone from his face, and his voice
was harsh and shaky when he began to speak again.
“I left her lying on the pavement.”
“Oh! I guessed that," interrupted his wife. “You
knocked her down, took her purse, and ran away in
a fright, the proofs gaping in your hands. Well?”
"I felt dreadfully upset. My knees were loose
under me. So I sat down at a café —”
“How far off?”
“ Beyond the end of the street. I drank three
cognacs before my strength returned. I tell you that


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
145
what I have done to-night is not easy to do; and what
I saw next was not pleasant to see. The girl came
staggering across the Place towards me.”
“I thought so."
“If you know what happened I may save myself
the trouble of telling you. Perhaps you know what
the girl looked like...that she had her hand to her
head...that there was blood on her face... have you
that picture in your mind ? ... I would gladly trans-
fer it from my own...and what came next...that
was worse to see.”
“Oh, go on!” said Mme. Varasdin, with exasper-
ation.
“She was knocked down by a motor car and killed
on the spot.”
“How do you know she was killed ? ”
“Every one rushed to see — except the man on the
motor car. He got clean away. Every one was curs-
ing and shouting, and I heard several people say she
was dead. She must have been. I saw the car knock
her down.”
“At this moment she is probably in the hands of
the police and is giving evidence against you,” said
Mme. Varasdin.
“But if she is dead we are safe. She will not have
her address on her clothes.”
“ You can never tell. She might have a card or
a letter on her. Dead or alive, she may send the
police here any moment to catch you — with her


146
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
property in your hands. Is there no river? Are
there no byways in Paris, you fool? How dare you
come back with that bag and that purse — to com-
promise us both?”.
The man's face was dazed and his body was shiver-
ing with fear.
“What will happen if she lives?” he said, in a
whisper.
“ The police will come — and this time it will be
Cayenne. The life there is not agreeable, I believe.
Come; pull yourself together, my friend. Every
minute that you spend here is a folly."
“Why did you tell me to do it?”
“I didn't tell you to do it badly.”
M. Varasdin got up, his eyes staring wide at his
wife, his hands thrown out towards her.
“Give me money,” he said; “I must go straight
to Buda-Pesth and sell the shares."
"Are you mad?” said his wife. “You must go
straight to South America. I will watch events here,
and when it is safe I will go to Buda-Pesth and sell
the shares.”
M. Varasdin looked distrustfully at his wife.
“I ran the risk,” he said; "they are mine. I mean
to turn them into a million. As for South America,
it is too obvious. Besides, it lies across the sea, and
I have always thought that if I was in danger I would
avoid big ports. I believe in the Danubian towns.
From Buda-Pesth I shall go to Sofia."


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
147
“I advise you, if you value your safety, to leave
the shares with me,” said his wife.
He hardly heard what she said. He was listening
to every sound that came up from the street below,
and his eyes were haggard.
“I must go,” he said. “Give me money."
His wife did not move, but her eyes were fastened
on him intently, and she watched him take Amabel's
purse from his pocket and empty the contents on the
table. There was a small handkerchief, some loose
gold and silver, ten hundred-franc notes, and the
folded certificate of the Eugenias.
“I can do without you,” he said.
“Are you going to keep it all?” she asked; "all
the money as well as the shares ?”
"I shall want it if the police are after me. You
can any time raise enough to join me. Sell your
pearls.”
“ The French police are quick and clever. Of course,
you will change your name. But have you anything
in your pockets to betray you — except the shares —
any letters? Any marks on your clothes?”
The man dived into his pockets and pulled out a
silver cigarette-case, a handkerchief, and various cards
and letters.
“There is nothing else,” he said. “Now I will go.”
“I will come with you to the station,” said his
wife.
“Shall I take a bag with what I want ? ”


148
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
"Nothing — nothing by which you might be known.
If you were wise you would leave me the Eugenias.”
"And never see either them or you again — and
be hunted like a mad dog — and not a penny to make
it worth while — do you take me for a fool ? You
have driven me into a crime — do you think I love
the sight of your face when I remember the girl's?
I struck the blow — but it is you who have a heart
of stone."
“But it is you the police will take,” said Mme.
Varasdin, and she laughed.
“We waste time," said the man; “I must catch the
midnight train."
Mme. Varasdin went to her own rooms and put
on a close hat, a thick veil, and a dark, long cloak;
clothes in which she was inconspicuous and almost
unrecognisable. She did not fasten her cloak yet, and
she carried her gloves in her hands. She was not
away three minutes, but when she returned to her hus-
band she found him in a state of collapse that threat-
ened to be unmanageable. He was shaking like a
man with a palsy; when he tried to stand, he sank
back into his chair ; when he tried to speak, sobs came
from his throat and tears rolled down his grey
shrunken face. He met his wife's eyes and found no
pity in them.
“I can't walk,” he moaned; " what shall I do?”.
Mme. Varasdin went to the sideboard. She filled
a high tumbler nearly half full of brandy, she took


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 149
the little bottle from her dress and emptied it into the
glass, she added soda-water and carried the drink to
him.
"A dose of morphia will do him no harm,” she said
to herself, and, whether she believed it or not, her
shifty soul hardly knew. She watched him empty
the glass. Then she swept together the things on the
table, and put them into Amabel's travelling-bag.
“ This must go into the Seine to-night,” she said.
“I feel better," said M. Varasdin; “I could walk
some distance now. We will take a cab where we are
not known. But if the police come to-day or to-
morrow, what shall you say?"
“I shall have nothing to say. I shall not know
where you are or what you have done. We shall not
be able to communicate with each other, but that will
not trouble you greatly, I imagine. You will console
yourself by reflecting that I can sell the pearls.”
“I wonder why you are coming with me to the
station?" said the man suspiciously. “I don't believe
you care whether I am dead or alive."
“I am coming to get rid of this bag, and to see
you don't muddle your departure," said Mme. Varas-
din. “You know I am not fond of notoriety and the
guillotine.”
“You would not care —” muttered M. Varasdin.
“You would think of yourself, and not of me, even
then. You have a heart of stone.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
151
herself that the dose had been haphazard, and that he
might not die.
She turned down a by-street as soon as she could.
He shambled along beside her, but his gait began to
drag and his breathing to sound heavy, and she was
glad to hail the first close cab they met. She helped
him in, and then she told the driver to go by the
Champs Elysées to a café on the Boulevard des Ita-
liens, a route that at this hour of night would take
them through the crowds coming away from the Opera
and from theatres. She was not quite sure of what
would happen next, but she knew she must somehow,
make her escape, and that it would be easiest to make
it in a crowd.
“Did you tell him the Garde de l'Est ? ” said M.
Varasdin, when they had started.
“ Certainly not,” she said; “ when the police are after
you he might remember driving you there. We will
get out somewhere near and walk to the station."
The man made no answer but lolled in the corner of
the cab, his head shaken with every jolt, his arms
hanging limply at his sides. When they passed a café,
or crossed one of the open places where streets converge
and there are many twinkling lights, Mme. Varasdin
looked anxiously at his face, and she saw that the
pupils of his eyes were small and sharp, and his mouth
a little open; while his breathing grew heavier and his
hands felt cold.
She waited a little longer. They were crossing the


152
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
Place de la Concorde when she ventured very cautious-
ly to unfasten the buttons of his coat. Her own breath
came with difficulty, the suspense of the moment was
so painful. Everything hung on the next few minutes,
her future, her freedom, ease, or infamy. She felt
neither pity nor shame, but horror of his heavy body
and his helplessness. To be shut up with him turned
her faint, and for an instant she wavered, thinking to
call for help. Then she roused herself, took the little
bottle from its hiding-place, and left it beside him on
the seat. Her hand paused on his arm, slid to his
heart, felt the quick, uneven beats, and crept very care-
fully to the place where the treasure was carried. He
made no sign. She understood that he was past all
desire, and she half envied him. He had persistently
stood at ease while others struggled, and it seemed to
her that he was doing so still, sleeping, safe and idle,
while she heard the wolves.
But she held in her hand the scrap of paper for
which she had gone to the depths. She had possession
of the Eugenias and the roll of notes, and a handful
of loose coin. And the miracle went on, the treasure
was hidden now on her own person, and still he did
not wake. She looked out of the cab at the busy life
of the main Boulevards they were now traversing.
From each theatre a crowd came forth to swell the
evening traffic, the cafés were overflowing, and where-
ever there was some slight attraction, the changing
lights of an advertisement, or a gay shop window,


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
153
people gathered in clusters on the pavement. The ve-
hicular traffic of Paris is, of course, insignificant com-
pared with that of London, but the combination of bad
driving, furious motor cars, steam trams, and heavy
carts, bring about some pretty tangles. Mme. Varasdin
was on the look-out for a block of this kind, and she
found herself in one near the Opera House, from which
a stream of carriages was now debouching. The in-
stant her chance came she had the wit and nerve to
take it. On one side of the cab there was a puffing
motor car, on the other a labyrinth of carriages, her
horse's head was nearly inside the door of a tram car,
there were market carts and newspaper boys, and
cyclists with Chinese lanterns, and a frantic gendarme
with a white baton; and behind her more carts and
carriages, all for the moment at a standstill. She
opened the cab door, saw that the driver was absorbed
in an altercation with a cyclist, and stepped to the
ground unobserved. The clamour was so great that
she ventured to push the door to again, and then she
slipped to the back of the cab, and, with some risk to
her limbs, made her way to the pavement. As she
reached it the tram car started, and the whole block
of vehicles moved slowly on.
Mme. Varasdin had Amabel's bag in her hands, and
every hour that passed made it a more dangerous thing
to carry. There was no telling how soon the police
would be on her track or to which members of the
force she was known. She looked business-like and


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
155
The police would make some effort to discover his
name and would fail, and he would be buried, and
that would be the end of his story.
If Amabel lived, she would charge Hyacinth with
assault and robbery, and Hyacinth would have vanished
and his injured and deserted wife would not know his
whereabouts. If Amabel died, her friends would raise
an inquiry perhaps, but Mme. Varasdin could not see
that she was in any danger of being connected with it.
The girl had been knocked down by a motor car in a
low quarter of Paris, and a low crowd had gathered
round her, and some one in the crowd had made off
with her property. Every one would believe that had
taken place.
Of course, Mme. Varasdin saw that she must not
sell the Eugenias yet, and that weeks or even months
hence the transaction would be risky and difficult. But
with the help of Uncle Joseph she thought it might be
managed. She would give him a good commission,
and he would sell in one of the big markets. The
shares would probably pass from hand to hand as a
bank-note does; and it is usually as difficult to trace
a bank-note as a coin.
Mme. Varasdin had to ring at the street door to get
back into the house, but the concierge was able to let
her in without getting out of bed. As she passed his
office she did as M. Varasdin had done and shouted
the name of the family that lived above her, a lively
family of many members, who all kept more or less


156
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
late hours. She had to find her way to the lift in the
dark and send herself up, and then she went into her
dining-room, where the gas was still turned on, and
where the glass from which her husband drank was
still on the table. And now for the first time her nerve
gave way a little. This morning the flat had held a
household, and in a day she had rid it of life. She
stood here alone with her dishonour and the stakes
for which she had played. As she caught sight of her
face in a mirror she wondered that any one could have
sat beside her and raised no cry. Hunted and haggard
she looked now that the strain was slackening, and no
one stood by to see. She felt solitary, she listened to
every sound, and her mind began to follow new issues
and to scent new dangers. Her eye fell on the empty
glass; she took it up and observed a sediment at the
bottom. If the police had arrived in her absence they
would have seized it, and as she carried it to the
kitchen she asked herself whether she had forgotten
any other evidence as damning. When she had washed
the glass at the sink and sluiced away all traces of the
contents, she went back to the dining-room. Her
husband had come straight in here to-night, and had
gone from here to the street; the things he had taken
from his coat were in the Seine, the glass from which
he had drunk stood now with other glasses in a pantry
cupboard, the brandy went back into the sideboard. If
the concierge had seen him come it did not matter
much. His exit with his wife had been unobserved,


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
157
and so was her stealthy return. Mme. Varasdin opened
a half-bottle of champagne, drank it as she undressed,
and fell asleep.
At ten o'clock next day she was out of the house
again and on her way to Paris. She would not buy
papers at the nearest kiosk and take them upstairs to
read, because in Paris you never know with whom
your concierge will gossip, or which of your habits he
will observe. She walked to the Etoile, got a sheaf
of papers there, took a close carriage, and told the
man to drive to a registry office at the other end of
the town. He started, and she looked eagerly through
each printed page, and every paper had two items of
news set amongst other tragedies and accidents of the
night. One paragraph described three motor car
disasters, the moderate crop of twenty-four hours. A
car had dashed down a hill and broken itself and its
occupants against the sides of a bridge; a car had
frightened the horses in a private carriage; a car had
knocked down a young lady and vanished without ex-
pressing regret or making inquiries. The young lady
lay unconscious at the Hospital of Laborisière, and
was not expected to live. Her identity was not known.
The other paragraph described the suicide in a cab
of a nameless gentleman of middle age. An empty
bottle that had contained a strong solution of morphia
had been found beside him. The cabman told a story
of a woman with the man and of her disappearance.
But the gentleman had not been robbed; a watch and


158
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
chain of some value were on him and a few small
coins. The police were making inquiries, but they had
no clues, and they placed no faith in the cabman's
story. The Commissary of Police had ordered the body
to be on view at the Morgue for three days for pur-
poses of identification.
The Press did not pay great attention to any of
these events. Its space and its talent were engaged
that week in chronicling the Mexican Boom. The ex-
citement in London and New York was indescribable,
and every one with a pen was hard at work describing
it. The fever had touched Paris too. Women were
speculating as wildly as men. Eugenias had rushed
up to fifty.
“But it is magnificent. It is worth while,” said
Mme. Varasdin to herself, and her hand crept to the
bosom of her dress, where, for the present, she carried
the shares. “If all goes well, perhaps I can sell a little
sooner. It would be horrible to keep them for the
slump. I will not hide them in the attic just yet. At
present I am in no danger, and to rummage in the
attic might attract suspicion. When once Hyacinth
is buried, the girl may live or die, but she will have
no case against me.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
159
XVII
The evening papers added nothing of importance. The
suicide had not been identified; the unknown young
lady who had been knocked down by a motor car still
lay at the hospital between life and death, and unable
to give any account of herself. By the following day
both cases had been crowded out of the papers. A
crime passionnel, with lugubrious developments, mag-
netised the city, and the obscure man, who had so
plainly and commonly killed himself, the unknown girl,
one motor car victim amongst many, were both for-
gotten. Mme. Varasdin had a new maidservant in the
place of the two she had dismissed, and the concierge
was told that mademoiselle had returned to England,
and that monsieur, in the kindness of his heart, had
accompanied her before proceeding on a business
journey.
“Why have they taken no trunks?” said the wife
of the concierge.
“People do not always stop for trunks,” he said.
“ Have you observed that madame looks ill and
anxious ? Monsieur was certainly a charming man,
and mademoiselle doubtless found him irresistible. I
find it very natural, and madame has the trunks to
console her. Let us hope they were well filled. But


160
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
I do not know what to do with this telegram that has
just arrived for mademoiselle."
It was true that Mme. Varasdin looked ill. Every
hour increased her sense of security, but it increased
her impatience too, and she burned to be gone and
gather in the fruits of her daring. Besides, the days
were interminable and the nights without peace. If
she had felt quite safe, or if she could have shifted
her quarters, she thought the strain of waiting would
have been slight. But she saw that some inquiry with
regard to Amabel might arise at any moment, and that
if she could stay and face it, her future position would
be stronger than if she yielded to her nerves and fled.
And it was not agreeable to spend endless, silent hours
in the flat, where every corner and every object ac-
cused her. She studied railway time-tables a good
deal, and formed her plans carefully. She thought
she would stay on in Paris a week or so, and see any
one who came. Her husband had vanished; Amabel
had vanished. That was the story she had to tell.
For their fate from the moment she saw them depart
together she was not responsible.
She had packed a small handbag with her jewels,
her cash, and a few necessaries; and, instead of the
indoor gowns she usually wore, she put on every
morning now a neat cloth travelling-dress and walking-
shoes. The Eugenias she still carried on her person,
and her pearls she had sold in the Rue de la Paix.
She did not want to start in a hurry and leave her


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
161
clothes behind her, but she wanted to be ready if the
necessity arose. With all her thinking, she could not
see every possible issue of a situation that involved
several people, one of whom still hung between life
and death. Some accident might yet undo her, unless
she could get clean away.
The second day had come and half gone, when her
new maid burst into the room and, with the fuss and
loquacity of the untrained continental servant, an-
nounced that an English gentleman waited at the door
and would not be denied. He asked to see an English
lady who lived on the flat, and he would not take her
assurance that madame lived there alone. Mme. Va-
rasdin had made up her mind that she would probably
have Mr. Sheringham to deal with, but she had not
expected him so soon. As she hesitated, he walked
in and made some apology for his intrusion. But
his manner was aloof and business-like, and, as
the maid shut the door behind her, he asked for Ama-
bel.
“Miss Ferrers left me the day before yesterday,"
said Mme. Varasdin.
“The day I called here! Why did she leave so
suddenly ?”
“Why have you come back so suddenly? You bade
me good-bye for a fortnight.”
“I telegraphed to Miss Ferrers yesterday and re-
ceived no answer.”
“ Naturally. She was not here to receive or answer


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
163
“ And how is Monsieur Varasdin?” said Shering-
ham. The question was one to mark time. He took
little interest in that gentleman's welfare.
“I have no idea where he is,” said his wife.
Sheringham's glance measured her again — he saw
nothing to trust or esteem. He felt sure she was play-
ing her own game, probably a malevolent game, and
he feared lest Amabel should be a pawn on the losing
side.
“Where did you last see Miss Ferrers ?” he asked.
“At the door of the restaurant where we had all
dined with Mr. Newby — the day before yesterday.”
“And where did you last see your husband ? "
“ Mais — mon Dieu — at the door of the restaurant.
Is it not plain? They departed together.”
“Do you want to insinuate that they are together
now?”
“You have not known Hyacinth for fifteen years,"
said Mme. Varasdin, with a sigh. “ He is one of those
men no woman or girl can resist. His adventures have
been like the stars in the sky. I have always forgiven
him, but it has not always been easy."
“I may as well tell you that I don't believe a word
you are saying,” observed Sheringham.
“I can hardly expect you to. Of course, you are
very angry; but as time goes on you will believe. Mr.
Newby will tell you they started together. They have
disappeared. They give no sign. Ask Miss Ferrers'
friends if she has arrived in England. Ask at the


164
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
Ritz, where Mr. Newby engaged a room, if she slept
there. I have done nothing."
“That is odd,” said Sheringham suspiciously.
“Why have you done nothing ?”
“Because I know my husband," said Mme. Varas-
din. “As far as I can I always avoid an open scandal.
What should I gain by it? Hyacinth will come back
to me.”
Mr. Sheringham took up his hat and walked to the
door, without offering to shake hands with the injured
wife. She followed him a little way, and her voice
wooed him as he departed.
"Come back and tell me what you discover,” she
said.
"I may come back — it depends upon what hap-
pens,” said Mr. Sheringham. “But I am quite sure
that your story is preposterous. You have probably
hidden your husband - "
He was checked by the start and the sudden pallor
he saw on Mme. Varasdin's face.
"Hidden him from his creditors," he finished lamely;
but as he drove to Mr. Newby's hotel, it was the
lady's glance as he left her that haunted him.
“She is afraid of something," he said to himself,
" badly afraid.”
Mr. Newby, for a wonder, was in, and expressed
his surprise at seeing Mr. Sheringham in Paris again
so soon. He gave his guest an easy-chair and a cigar,
and asked after the Boom.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
165
Sheringham said it was still growing, and that he
would be glad of a whisky and soda.
“I have just called on Mme. Varasdin," he said,
when his friend had rung and given the order.
“I thought of calling there myself this evening,"
said Mr. Newby. “Is she better?”
“She didn't say she had been ill.”
“I haven't seen her since the night before last, when
we dined together. The truth is, I feel a little bit
awkward. You never know how a woman's going
to take anything, and as for seeing that there are dif-
ferent sorts in the world, and that you have to con-
duct yourselves accordingly, it's beyond any woman.
But it was a rum start, wasn't it?”
“What was a rum start ?” asked Sheringham.
“Oh! haven't you seen Miss Ferrers? I suppose
there has hardly been time. When did you leave Lon-
don?”
“ By the early boat this morning.”
“Miss Ferrers left yesterday.”
“Did you see her off?”
“Unfortunately it was impossible. I was nailed to
spend the whole day in Versailles.”
A waiter came in with the whisky and soda for
Sheringham, and until he had gone the two men
smoked and waited.
“Can you tell me why Miss Ferrers left Paris in
such a hurry?” said Sheringham, when they were by
themselves again.


166 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
"I think she got frightened.”
“Frightened!”
His voice and his arrested hand showed that he had
taken alarm himself. His cigar went out while he
listened to what Mr. Newby had to say.
“I met Miss Ferrers in the Salon. I took her to
the Bois, where she expected to meet you. She told
a queer story about Mme. Varasdin going into her
room at night and stealing her purse. It had upset
her a bit, and she said she would return to England
next day. I went back to the Avenue Ernani, and
something seemed to frighten her there again. A
servant she liked had been sent away. So she said
she would sleep at the Ritz, and I engaged a room
for her.”
“You believed her story ? ”
“Oh yes! Mme. Varasdin spoke of it herself, said
she had been sleep-walking. She is a very clever lady,
and has a great deal of je ne sais quoi about her, but
the funny thing in clever people is that they take most
of the others for fools. Sleep-walking is too thin.
Eugenias are at fifty, and Miss Ferrers had a thousand
under her pillow. I didn't want to frighten her "
He stopped short, because he saw that he had most
effectually frightened Sheringham.
"I never thought about those accursed Eugenias,"
said the great financier. “ The girl was carrying a
thousand about with her, and these wolves knew it.
Is it true that she left the restaurant with Varasdin?”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
167
“He was to see her to the hotel. I had promised
to take his wife round the Montmartre theatres.”
“We must go to the hotel at once and make in-
quiries,” said Sheringham. “I am uneasy. You don't
know, of course. Varasdin has disappeared.”
The two men stared at each other.
“Telegraph to England,” said Mr. Newby.
“Come to the Ritz,” said Sheringham, and they
got into a cab and drove straight to the Place Ven-
dôme.
The hotel clerk turned over the pages of his ledger
and had some conversation with another clerk. He
remembered Mr. Newby, and the room had been re-
served on Wednesday night for the young lady, but
the young lady had not appeared.
“Oh, come!” said Mr. Newby, “there's some
muddle. You've a lot of people going in and out.
A tall young English lady, dressed in grey, and next
morning you sent to the Avenue Ernani for her
trunks.”
“No, they didn't,” interposed Sheringham. “The
concierge, when he gave me my telegram, said the
trunks had never left the house at all. That struck me
as suspicious.”
“I remember Miss Ferrers,” said the clerk. “She
was here with Mr. Ferrers in the spring. She has
not entered the hotel since.”
"I don't like it,” said Sheringham, and he went
aside with his friend and they consulted together.


168
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“She probably went back to London by the night
train,” said Mr. Newby. “Can't you wire?”
"Did she tell you where she meant to stay in Lon-
don?”
“ No."
“Then how can I wire? I'll run over and see for
myself, and if I don't find her I'll wire to you to-
morrow morning and then you —-'
“But how can you look for her at large in London?”
" It won't be quite at large. I know with whom she
would communicate, and there might be a letter waiting
for me.”
“I feel sure she is in London," said Mr. Newby.
“So should I if Varasdin was in the Avenue Er-
nani,” said Mr. Sheringham. “Have you anything
on to-morrow ?”
“Nothing at all.”
“ Then wait for my telegram. I may want you to
go straight to the police.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
169
XVIII
At half-past seven next morning Sheringham knocked
at Mrs. Hunter's door and explained to the astonished
and inquisitive Ginger that he desired to see the cook.
Ginger could not understand it, but he understood a
little present of five shillings, and in a few minutes
Sheringham was shut into the dining-room with Ama-
bel's friend. Mrs. Pugsley had never seen Mr. Sher-
ingham before, but she knew all about him. “'Im as
Miss 'Unter is after,” they called him below stairs.
“A very pleasant gentleman when he is pleasant,” the
cook thought to herself as she took his measure; and
he at once liked her sedate manner and capable, good-
humoured face. But what she had to tell him only
added to his growing uneasiness. She had not heard
from Amabel for a month; she knew nothing of her
coming to England. On the contrary, in her last letter
Miss Ferrers had said she must stay in Paris because
her uncle would expect to find her there.
“Do you think if she was in London she would
have let you know?” asked Sheringham.
"I feel sure she would, sir,” said the cook. “In
fact, it was as good as settled. She was to let me
know before she came and I was to live with her
either as cook or confidential maid, and I said I hoped


172
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
expenses in case he sent for her, and was in his
hansom again, and on his way to his office, before
Ginger had asked his first question, or had his ears
boxed in reply.
Sheringham had managed to communicate with his
head clerk, and found that, early as it was, he had
arrived at the office and had been busy at the tele-
phone, according to his chief's instructions. He had
not been able to hear of Miss Ferrers at any of the
large London hotels; and no letter from her awaited
Sheringham. At nine o'clock he left for Paris again.
Travelling hard made little mark on his strong
physique, but his anxiety grew more acute as he
reached his journey's end. He had wired to Mr.
Newby and hoped to see him at the Nord, and was
disappointed. He drove first to the young gentle-
man's hotel, and heard that he had been out all day
and that no one knew when he would return; he drove
to his own hotel, and neither letters nor callers had
come for him. Then he went out to the Avenue
Ernani, and was admitted, and found Mme. Varas-
din sitting by herself again, still wearing her quiet
cloth gown, and still with a manner that was on
guard.
When Mr. Sheringham was shown in, she sprang
to her feet, and, as he spoke, he saw first alarm and
then relief in her face.
"Miss Ferrers is not in London,” he said. “I do
not know where she is.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
173
She sat down again, and passed a handkerchief over
her eyes, and it occurred to him that she had no tears
to wipe away, but, perhaps, an involuntary thrill of
satisfaction.
"I, too, have discovered nothing," she said. “I sit
here with my sorrow — and the days do not come
to an end."
“We must see whether the police can help us,” said
Sheringham.
“They are such bunglers and so meddlesome. The
first thing they will do will be to proclaim to all
Paris that my husband has forsaken me. That makes
it impossible for him to return. Besides, such pub-
licity would be most injurious to Miss Ferrers."
“You are singularly forgiving. I should not have
expected you to consider Miss Ferrers — if you believe
your own story.”
“Can you think of a more likely one?” said Mme.
Varasdin.
“I imagine that the police will — when they hear
that the girl had fifty thousand pounds worth of
shares in her possession.”
The lady blinked, and a moment of tense silence
gave emphasis to Mr. Sheringham's reply. He had
thrown down the glove, and his challenge contained
a suggestion she could not pass by.
“Then for once Hyacinth has been clever," she
said, deciding neither to resent nor deny the imputa-
tion, but to fit it to her purpose. “I am afraid, how-


· THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
175
· a sigh. “Come and see me again to-morrow. I may
have news.”
Before Sheringham could reply the salon door was
thrown open by the new maid, and Mr. Newby walked
in. That he brought bad news was plain to both the
people he greeted, and they waited with alarm for him
to speak. He turned first to the man.
“I got your wire this morning," he said. “I went
straight to the police. They've been awfully decent,
and we've found out things. Miss Ferrers is alive.”
“Good God, I hope so!” said Sheringham. “Where
is she?”
" At the Laborisière. She has concussion of the
brain and is still unconscious. But they say now she
will recover."
“What happened to her?”
“A motor car knocked her down somewhere in
Montmartre. How she got so far from the Ritz no one
knows yet. She was alone...it happened about an
hour after she left the restaurant...and - ”
Mr. Newby hesitated, and both men looked at Mme.
Varasdin. Her face was grey and shrunken now, and
she stared beyond them with horror in her fixed, ex-
pectant eyes.
“Go on,” said Sheringham.
“Her bag and purse were stolen. Of course, directly
the accident happened a crowd gathered.”
“But what had become of Monsieur Varasdin?”
said Sheringham. “Why was she alone?”


176
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“Poor Varasdin," said Mr. Newby.
Mme. Varasdin did not speak, and Sheringham, who
was watching her, saw that she could not. He saw
the twitch in her throat, and the waiting stillness of
her body, and the despair of a creature at bay in her
eyes.
"Have you found Monsieur Varasdin too?” said
Sheringham.
“Yes, I have,” said Mr. Newby, in a pained voice.
“Where is he?”
“He is dead. I have just seen him — at the
Morgue."
A low, choking groan from Mme. Varasdin checked
the young man, and he looked at her helplessly. She
was nearer complete collapse of mind and body than
she had been at any moment during the last forty-eight
hours. In so short a time she would have been safe,
safe even if Amabel had recovered and proclaimed the
theft of the shares. She could have persuaded the
world that her husband had absconded with them, and
let the police lead a merry dance in search of him. Her
success had hung on the burial of her husband as a
nameless suicide, and if Sheringham had stayed away
a fortnight as he said he would, if Mr. Newby had not
been asked by Sheringham to pry and meddle, her
position would have been secure. But the identifica-
tion of Hyacinth at the Morgue imperilled everything.
There would be an inquiry. The cabman would come
forward with his story; who could tell what the con-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
179
if the girl would ask madame if she still wished to go
out with them. The girl went and returned at once.
“Madame is not in her room,” she reported.
“Perhaps she is in some other room,” said Mr.
Newby.
The girl went off again and came back again, and
had the same tale to tell. Madame was nowhere on
the flat.
The two men looked at each other.
“Has she taken offence?” said Mr. Newby. “Has
she gone to the Morgue by herself?”
“I heard some one go softly into the hall,” said the
maid. “The front door stands open still. Evidently
madame did not wish to attract attention.”
“It is very strange,” said Mr. Newby.
“It is very strange,” said the girl, and the men saw
she had something more to communicate.
“Well!” they said.
“Madame's travelling-bag... the locked one... has
gone from the wardrobe. Madame has perhaps started
on a journey."
Sheringham said something vague, and let the girl
go. Then he turned to Mr. Newby.
“She's bolted,” he said; "she won't go near the
Morgue. That was a blind. I should like to know
what is in that travelling-bag. And now I'll tell you
the other thing that has been going round in my head.
What did Varasdin die of? ”
“Morphia poisoning."


180
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“She knew it. How did she know it? The manner
of his death was not mentioned by you. Most people
who lie at the Morgue have been drowned. She spoke
of doses. There has been foul play, I tell you, and
she is in it. And she has those shares.”
“Good God!” said Mr. Newby. “What shall we
do next? The police — ”
“ I'm not going to wait for the police,” said Sher-
ingham.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
181
XIX
“I THINK I shall go to the Morgue,” said Mr. Newby.
“ You may be on the wrong tack, and, anyhow, I don't
see where else there is to go.”
Sheringham hardly heard what his friend said. His
eyes were absent, his mind was at work; and when he
stirred, it was to ask for a railway book. The two
men found one in the dining-room, and it opened with
tell-tale ease at the trains travelling towards Vienna
from the Gare de l'Est. It was to follow one trail out
of many, but to follow it hot, and Sheringham decided
to try it.
“Yes, go to the Morgue,” he said to Mr. Newby;
“ if you find no one there, perhaps the police will help
you again."
The next moment he was out of the room, and out
of the flat. As he emerged from the house he held up
a twenty-franc piece to a passing cab, and told the
driver on what condition he should have it. The man
answered to the bribe, and by favour of fortune, landed
his fare undamaged at the railway station five minutes
before the Viennese express was timed to start. Sher-
ingham went straight to the booking-office, and asked
for a ticket to Nancy. He hoped he would not want
it, but he meant to take a journey, if that was the only


182 THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
way. At Nancy there was a halt of a quarter of an
hour, and he could book on there if necessary.
When he reached the departure platform, most
people who were travelling in that train were either
in their seats or standing beside the carriages they had
chosen. A careful glance along the thin scattered
groups satisfied him that he knew no one there. Then
he got into the train, and walked right to the end of
it and back again, and all the while he kept his eyes
and ears open for new arrivals. He had entered the
first compartment of the hindmost carriage, and had
just decided that he was a fool for his pains, when a
clanging bell, a whistle, and a scurry on the platform,
convinced him that he must instantly jump out or be
carried some way from Paris. He cast a cursory glance
into the end compartments, found that they were empty,
and was making for the door, when he saw through the
window the hurrying figure of a tall, thickly veiled
lady coming towards the train. He thought he knew
her walk, and when she spoke to the conductor he
was sure he knew her voice. As the train moved
off she settled herself in the compartment adjoining
his, and he heard her say that she was going to
Vienna.
Sheringham debated with himself whether he should
wait, or act at once. He wanted to get back to London.
He knew that his head clerk was raging at the chief's
not to be understood or forgiven defection in the very
midst of a mighty boom in his own market. He wanted


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
183
also to get back to Paris and Amabel, and watch, hour
by hour, for Amabel's recovery. Nothing drew him
to Vienna except an outraged sense of justice, but in
a man of his temperament that sense prevails. His
affairs, which were intricate and of consequence, and
his anxiety about the girl he loved, gave way for the
time to his conviction that there was a wrong to set
right, and that it fell to him to do it. For his purpose
an interview without witnesses was, of course, a prime
necessity; and the train had hardly travelled a mile
when a dissatisfied passenger spoilt his plan for the
time being. A stout, voluble woman came stumping
along the corridor in the wake of the conductor, com-
plaining that she had caught her death through an
Englishman who would open a window, although she
had told him that the night air invariably made people
blind. She put her head into Sheringham's compart-
ment, when she saw that here, too, sat one of the crazy,
draught-loving race. Finally she subsided next door.
So Sheringham waited, got his dinner between two
stations, and was back at his post before they reached
Chalons. He hoped that the stout lady might descend
at Chalons, and that he might be saved from travelling
further than Bar le Duc, but she disappointed him.
Bar le Duc was her destination. From that hour, the
train had a clear run to Nancy of more than an hour,
and Sheringham said to himself that he would enter
on his return journey there, having done what he came
out to do. He had been travelling, without much break


184
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
or sleep, for thirty-six hours, but he had never felt
more wide-awake. The thought of Amabel steeled his
nerves, and fed his anger, for he believed that she had
been robbed and deserted, and that the woman next
door had a hand in it. He still waited a little. The
train sped through the darkness, the wheels rolled, mile
after mile, with a monotonous rhythm, and inside the
carriages the hush of night began to replace the clat-
ter and movement of the earlier hours. They were
not twenty minutes from Nancy when he left his seat,
opened the door of the next compartment, and closed
it behind him, before the woman, half asleep in the
corner, roused and recognised him. The noise of the
opening door had not terrified her. She expected,
when she looked up, to see the conductor. To see
Sheringham instead, frightened her out of her self-
control. She gave a start, and a betraying cry of sur-
prise, and her right hand, which was ungloved, crept
towards something that lay hidden between her body
and the cushioned side of the carriage. He was un-
armed, and he guessed at once that she was not.
"I want to see both your hands," he said.
She did not move, and through her veil he could see
the glitter of her narrow eyes. She looked as cold and
wicked as a snake and he remembered Amabel, and his
anger burned within him.
“You can't shoot here, you know," he continued.
“You would be arrested at once.”
“But you would be out of my way.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
185
"I should do you more harm dead than I mean to
do you alive. You had better listen to my terms."
“What do you want of me?”
“ To begin with, I want to see your hands."
With a swiftness for which he was not prepared
Mme. Varasdin rose and faced him, and the nozzle of
the revolver in her steady hand pointed at his heart.
“If you don't go away at once I'll shoot you,” she
said. “I'll find some story to persuade a French jury.
I am a woman. You are an Englishman. I am not
afraid. It is your life that hangs on a thread.”
But Mme. Varasdin did not understand the hot
imperious temper of the man with whom she had to
deal in this hour. Like most foreigners she thought
that because an Englishman keeps a rein on his pas-
sions he has no passions to rouse, and cannot be moved
to any extremity of anger. As she threatened Shering-
ham his face went white, but it was the pallor of a
fiercer wrath and a harder determination than her own.
She looked to see him flinch and perhaps to turn ig-
nobly at her command; and before she had time to
touch the trigger, he swooped like a hawk towards her
and caught both her hands. Without hurry and without
violence he forced her fingers from the point of danger
and the revolver from her grasp. His luck was with
him. Taken by surprise, less resolute than he, and
mindful perhaps of her precarious position, she did
not struggle much, but stared at him with a sort of
sour helplessness as he turned the tables on her.


186
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
"If you have a knife I shall take it from you," he
said. “You had better sit down." He released her
hands and she sank back into the corner of the carriage
she had occupied.
“The conductor may appear at any moment,” she
said sullenly.
“I am not afraid of him," said Sheringham.
“You play a fine part — to bully some one weaker
than yourself.”
"I warn you that I am not a man of sentiment. I
believe you have something in your possession to which
you have no right. I believe other things about you
too, but on one condition I consent to leave them out
of the discussion: in short, as far as I am concerned,
to let you go free.”
“ What is your condition?”
“The bonds that you have stolen. The thousand
Eugenias.”
“Are you mad? I have no Eugenias.”
“I give you ten minutes,” said Sheringham. “When
the train stops at Nancy the Eugenias will be given up
to me, or I shall put you in the hands of the police.
I shall charge you with the murder of your husband.”
The woman began to tremble violently, and Sher-
ingham began to hate the job he had undertaken. But
its unpleasantness did not affect his resolve to see it
through.
"I can say I have never seen you before and that
you have threatened my life,” said Mme. Varasdin.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
187
“If I raised my voice the guard would come and the
revolver would be found in your possession."
“ But the Eugenias would be found in yours," said
Sheringham at a venture. He spoke with a blunt-
ness that took the woman aback, and he saw her
hand go up to the bosom of her dress and fall to her
lap again.
“Any one can own Eugenias," she said.
“ Just as you like,” said Sheringham. “We will go
to the police together and face inquiry. I trust them to
find out when and where you bought this revolver.
It was probably on your way to the station.”
"I wish I had killed you with it,” said Mme.
Varasdin.
Her eyes were fixed on the man still standing with
his back to the carriage door. She recognized that his
fighting spirit was more than a match for her own, and
that neither cajolery nor bluster would avail her.
“ You have no proofs against me,” she said.
“The Eugenias will be found on you. Miss Ferrers
will tell us how she came to lose them. I have no doubt
that your husband was concerned in it. We shall have
to trace his movements from the moment he robbed
Miss Ferrers to the moment he entered the cab, dying
of morphia administered by you.”
“It was a suicide.”
“ Then how did you know it? No one had told you.
Mr. Newby said he had seen the body at the Morgue.
Most people who lie at the Morgue have died by


188
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
drowning. You volunteered in our hearing that this
was a case of suicide by morphia.”
“He told me he meant to do it.”
“Say that to your judges — when the stolen bonds
have been found in your possession. Explain to them
why you did not attempt to identify your husband's
body, and tried to put me off with that preposterous
story of his elopement with Miss Ferrers. Really you
have not been clever, Madame Varasdin."
“Nevertheless," said Mme. Varasdin, “ if it had not
been for you — or if you had been just twelve hours
later — How could I foresee that you would be med-
dling in what is none of your business? What right
have you to interfere ? As for the shares, they are no
more yours than they are mine."
“But you will give them up to me,” said Shering-
ham.
The train jogged on through the darkness, and pres-
ently began to slacken speed. They were approaching
Nancy.
“You must make up your mind,” he said. “I see
the lights of the city. I am going to act the mo-
ment we draw up. I will not be carried on any
further."
“Even if I had Eugenias it would be no proof,” said
Mme. Varasdin, speaking with some violence.“ How
could you possibly prove that they were stolen from
Miss Ferrers?”
Sheringham smiled a little, and he spoke with the


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
189
quiet assurance of a man who has the game in his
hands.
“I suspected you that day in the Jardin des Plantes,"
he said. “As we were coming home Miss Ferrers
showed me the certificate. I took a precaution. I en-
tered the number in a note-book.”
That was the last turn of the screw. Mme. Varas-
din knew she had lost the game. Yet she bargained
as she drew the shares from beneath her cloak; and she
still kept them in her hands, as if to give them up was
beyond her strength. Her face was white and wicked,
and when she spoke she snarled so that her voice
sounded in Sheringham's ears like the voice of a
trapped beast who would spring at your throat if he
could.
“Why should I trust you?” she said. “You will
get the shares and then hunt me down.”
“To bring you to justice won't bring the poor devil
you drugged to life again,” said Sheringham.
“I swear I am innocent of that,” she cried.
“Here we are,” said Sheringham, as the train drew
up. “Now! which is it to be? Will you go on to
Vienna, or will you break your journey here?”
She threw the paper on the floor at his feet, and he
stooped and picked it up. Then he lifted his hat
gravely, and turned to go.
"Stay,” she said; and he waited, wondering what
she could have to say.
"I suppose you think you have done a fine thing,"


190
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
she went on. “You will carry those shares as a love-
offering to your bride; and to me and to my fate you
will never give another thought. You have taken from
me what I risked life and took life to obtain. Oh yes !
I killed my husband. I was glad when he died. Do
you know what it is to drag through the world with
a fool and a knave chained to you? I was free by my
own doing. I was rich by my own hands, and you
have threatened my freedom and forced my fortune
from me. And you do not need the money; neither you
nor the girl you love. It is everything to me. For
mercy's sake, give me the shares. Give them to me
as you would give a crust to a starving dog."
“No,” said Sheringham resolutely. “They are not
mine to give."
As he spoke he moved more quickly than before
from the carriage, for the quarter of an hour had
come to an end, and the train was already in motion.
He stepped rather hurriedly on to the platform, and
did not perceive, in his hurry, that Mme. Varasdin
had crept after him. The guard had jumped into his
van, Sheringham tried to shut the door of the carriage,
a loud-voiced porter ordered him back. By this time
he saw Mme. Varasdin close to the open window, and
while he turned the handle of the door, she leant out
of it, and spoke again.
"Keep that and the shares too, then,” she said, and,
with her hand covered by the voluminous sleeve of her
cloak, she drove a knife into his shoulder. For a mo-


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
191
ment he did not realise what had happened, and at
first he felt no pain. The rear-light was travelling far
down the line, and the officials on the platform were
dispersing in various directions, when one of them
observed that the tall gentleman who had left the train
as it moved out of the station, stood very still, and then
staggered and fell. The man ran to his assistance.
“Is Monsieur ill? ” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sheringham, and then he fainted.


192
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
XX
A WEEK later a cab stopped in front of the Hôtel Ritz,
and Mrs. Pugsley, attended by Ginger, got out of it.
Mrs. Pugsley wore a waterproof cloak and a bonnet
trimmed high on the crown, and tied under the chin.
She carried an old leather bag, and she had brought
with her a tin trunk and a portmanteau for Ginger.
The hotel porter looked at her doubtfully. Ginger paid
the cabman with an English half-crown, and was danc-
ing with delight at the man's gesticulations.
" It's all you'll get, Froggy,” he said.
“We want Miss Ferrers,” said Mrs. Pugsley to
the porter.
“Hark at the motor cars," said Ginger, at her
elbow; “ do you suppose there's a race on? And
’ow quick the Mounseers do talk. I can't make out
a word they say. That chap isn't going to take my
’arf - crown. Look at 'im waving 'is 'ands at me.
What'll we do?”
“We want Miss Ferrers," said the cook again, and
again the porter signed to her to enter the hotel. He
thought there was some mistake, and that she would
soon emerge again and be driven to quarters where
people who travel with tin trunks are welcome.
" Come on,” said Ginger. “ 'E means we're to ask
inside.”


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
193
He led the way. The journey, short as it was, had
brought about a state of things that Mrs. Pugsley
hoped would not last much longer. Every step in their
pilgrimage seemed to leave her more dependent on the
boy's counsel, and less capable of dealing with his im-
pudence. He went ahead of her now, and walked up
to the clerk's desk and asked for Miss Ferrers.
“Mr. Ferrers,” corrected the clerk.
“Oh! if you like,” said Ginger;" we say Miss when
it's a young lady. Will you please say Mrs. Pugsley
is 'ere and George. Has Mr. Sherringham arrived
yet?”
“P'raps 'e'll call 'im Miss,” he whispered to the
cook.
The clerk looked more doubtful than the porter had
done, but at that hour the usual waiting-room was
empty, and he took the new arrivals there. They
looked about them with great interest, and in a few
minutes a middle-aged gentleman came in to them.
"Did you inquire for Mr. Ferrers ?” he said.
“For Miss Ferrers,” said the cook," for Miss
Amabel Ferrers."
“Do you know where my niece is, then?” said the
gentleman, looking very much surprised.
“I think she must be in a hospital, sir."
“In a hospital? Amabel? Why?”
“Mr. Sheringham says so. I had a long telegraft
from him day before yesterday.”
“What Mr. Sheringham is that?”


194
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“A Mr. James Sheringham, sir. Isn’t he on the
Stock Exchange, George?”
“I believe you,” said George. “And I've 'eard Mr.
'Unter allude to him as Mexican Jem.”
“But Mr. Sheringham does not know my niece.”
“Oh yes! he does, sir," said Ginger. “I see 'im
when 'e upset the custard over her at Mrs. 'Unter's
party.”
A light seemed gradually to break upon the puzzled
gentleman, and he turned to Mrs. Pugsley.
"Are you the cook my niece was so fond of when
she lived with Mrs. Hunter ?” he asked.
“I was Mrs. Hunter's cook — until yesterday," said
Mrs. Pugsley. “Then I got the telegraft from Mr.
Sheringham, which I'll show you at once, sir.”
She took the telegram from her bag, and Mr. Fer-
rers read it.
"Miss Ferrers arrives at Hôtel Ritz, Paris, to-mor-
row. Recovering from serious illness. Can you be
there to receive her? Take George. All expenses
paid. Shall arrive Paris soon after you.”
“I should say, sir,” explained Mrs. Pugsley — “I
should say that Mr. Sheringham had been to see me
a week previous, and had told me I might be wanted.”
“But why does he arrange things for my niece?
And why has she been in a hospital? He explains
nothing."
“That is what I found when I tried to answer Mrs.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
197
n
“You called him by some nickname when you said
he was banging your market," said Amabel.
Mr. Ferrers opened his eyes, and Mexican Jem
stroked his moustache and smiled.
“I dropped a hundred thousand in that slump,"
Sheringham said. “But, of course, I was right at
the time. I see Eugenias are at fifty.”
“ By the way, Amabel, I gave you a few," said Mr.
Ferrers. “Where are they? I suppose that's a ques-
tion I may ask you?”
“I haven't got them,” said Amabel, and her uncle
saw that he had agitated and distressed her. “I have
always thought that M. Varasdin took them after he
knocked me down.”
The three men seemed to speak at the same moment
and to come a little nearer to her, moved by horror
and surprise.
"If any one of you had been there,” she said, and
she shivered at the memory of that miserable hour.
She saw the long, dark, lonely street again — she felt
the stunning blow.
“Never mind,” said her uncle anxiously — “never
mind the Eugenias. If I had known I wouldn't have
asked about them.”
"But here they are,” said Sheringham, who, with
his right arm in a sling, had found it difficult to ex-
tract the certificate from his coat.
“Hullo!” said Mr. Newby. “Then you were on
the right tack after all.”


198
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“It's as plain as daylight. Varasdin stole them
from Miss Ferrers. His wife stole them from him
when she had drugged him."
“ But how did you get them out of her?”
"I charged her with the murder of her husband.”
“Why is your arm in a sling ?” asked Mr. Ferrers.
“Oh, she had a dig at me with a knife!” said Sher-
ingham. “The Nancy police could get nothing out
of me for forty-eight hours, so she got clean away.
I don't suppose they will ever find her.”
Mr. Ferrers said at this point that he had a great
many questions to ask, and he took the two men into
his own room and heard all they could tell him of
what had happened. None of them doubted that
Mme. Varasdin had poisoned her husband.
“It was not suspected here,” said Mr. Newby. “He
was buried as a suicide."
“If she is ever brought to book for it, she will have
herself to thank,” said Sheringham. “Of course, the
police inquired into her attack on me. I had to give
her name. I said as little as I could. We can't bring
Varasdin to life again, and I should prefer to have
done with her.”
“I'm glad she didn't get off with the shares," said
Mr. Ferrers admiringly to Mexican Jem. “You really
have been a first-rate friend to Amabel.”
"Well, that's only natural,” said the financier, and
there and then he explained why.
“But I looked forward to settling down in New


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS 199
York and having her to keep house for me,” said Mr.
Ferrers.
“I'll ask her to keep house for both of us in Lon-
don,” said Sheringham, and he went off to Amabel
and found that she had been resting, and felt the
better for it.
"But I dream of it,” she said nervously. “I see
the long dark street and his face. The motor car
comes and I can't escape. He is dead. I hope I need
never see her again. Suppose she went to New York
and I came across her there?”
“I know a certain way of avoiding that,” said Sher-
ingham; “marry me and live in London."
“I wonder whether Uncle Michael would like it?”
said Amabel, when her lover had softened the bluntness
of his proposal by explaining at some length and in the
usual way how ardently he desired her to accept him.
“We will invite him to live with us,” said Shering-
ham. “To tell the truth I have done it already."
“Did you feel so sure of me?” said Amabel rather
wistfully.
“Not of you so much as of myself from the first
moment I saw you. And when a man sets his
heart — ”
“When Mexican Jem sets his mind, you mean "
“But I did feel sure of you too,” said Sheringham,
“I felt sure from the moment I met you in old Gre-
gorio's ballroom. You may deny it if you will, but
you looked delighted to see me.”


200
THE IMU
THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
“So I was," admitted Amabel.
“Then there is nothing more to be said,” observed
Mexican Jem.
But they found a great deal to say until Mrs. Pugs-
ley and Ginger came into the room to bring Amabel
some tea made with the help of an English tea-basket.
“Miss Ferrers and I are going to be married,” said
Sheringham very soon to Mrs. Pugsley. “We shall
want a cook."
“ And a under-footman,” said Ginger.
“And a best man,” said Sheringham to Mr. Newby,
who appeared with Mr. Ferrers just then.
“And some one to give you away, my dear,” said
Amabel's uncle.
“Let us be married to-morrow,” said Mr. Sher-
ingham.
“I have no clothes,” said Amabel.
*“But you have a thousand Eugenias and one uncle,"
said Mr. Ferrers.
“And you have two trunks,” said Mr. Newby. “I
forgot that. I explained about them to the police,
and they are awaiting your instructions at the Avenue
Ernani.”
"Shall I go and fetch them, sir?” said Ginger, and
he was allowed to do so.
“Of course, it can't really be to-morrow,” said
Sheringham. "At least I should think not. As Brit-
ish subjects abroad there would be formalities."
“Of course it can't be to-morrow,” said Amabel.


THE THOUSAND EUGENIAS
201
“How can you have a wedding without a wedding
gown?”
“ And a wedding cake," said Mrs. Pugsley.
“ Are there no gowns and cakes in Paris?” said
Sheringham.
“ There may be gowns,” said Amabel.
“But no cakes,” said Mrs. Pugsley. “I have often
been told that foreigners get married without them.”
“I must really go back to London,” said the bride-
groom. “I don't want to find myself bankrupt on
my wedding day.”
“I would give you the thousand Eugenias,” said
the bride.
“You shall go back to London to-morrow,” said
Mr. Ferrers. “The doctor shall fix the date of our
return, the milliners shall fix the date of the wedding,
and you, Mrs. Pugsley, shall fix the height of the
cake.”
“ I'm glad we're going back to London," said Mrs.
Pugsley. “I've heard a deal of French cooking all my
life, and now I've tasted it, and I don't deny it has
points, which is more than I can say for the meat. Of
course, they can cook. With old cab-horse for beef,
they'd die if they didn't.”
"I shall go back to London too,” said Mr. Newby.
“I look forward to a grilled steak myself.”
“Never mind milliners and doctors,” said Amabel.
"We'll all go back to-morrow.”
“I call that a sensible remark,” said Mexican Jem.


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
Once upon a time there was a clergyman's widow
who lived in a little country town, and had two daugh-
ters called Anne and Alice. They were very poor.
In fact, the united income of the family did not ex-
ceed two hundred a year, which is not much when three
ladies have to pay for all they receive and give out
of it. Mrs. Crewe had been a pretty woman in her
time, and she saw with satisfaction that her girls
were taking after her. So she hoped that in spite of
their poverty they would some day marry and relieve
her income of the long, depressing strain upon it.
In many respects she was a foolish woman, but she
took pains with the education of Anne and Alice.
She sent them regularly to school, and she looked after
their health and their manners as well as she could.
Luckily there was an excellent school in Burnside,
where the girls were taught for next to nothing.
Nevertheless, in after years, Mrs. Crewe bore the
school a grudge, because she felt sure that Anne had
picked up her unfeminine ideas within its walls. Mrs.
202


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
205
side made up its mind that Anne Crewe was "un-
feminine,” and wondered thereai, which shows that
Burnside went with the swim, and puzzled itself about
questions of heredity.
At sixteen a girl without money cannot as a rule
do much to escape from uncongenial surroundings;
and when you are young you think that the thing you
want and cannot have at once will not be worth having
later on. Poor Anne fretted and fumed all through
her early youth, and offended her neighbours by show-
ing how much she wished to get away. A few felt
sorry for her, but the majority called her an am-
bitious, discontented girl, and supposed that they com-
pletely described her. The same people would have
been full of pity for a bird beating its wings against
a cage. Many of us are kinder to animals than to
human beings.
It was only to be expected that a sweet girl like Alice
would behave very differently from her sister, and it
seemed like a reward for good conduct when, at the
age of seventeen, she received one of those summonses
all women ardently desire. In Burnside the marriage
of a penniless young lady was not an everyday event.
There were very few young gentlemen in the town, and
five girls out of six never married at all. Mrs. Crewe
may have been a silly woman, but this fact had not
escaped her observation; so when the struggling local
solicitor, Mr. Beeston, proposed to Alice, she urged
the girl not to throw away a chance that would prob-


206
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
ably never occur again. Like a dutiful daughter,
Alice obeyed her mother and accepted the man. She
did not like him much, but Mrs. Crewe said that
women always grew fond of their husbands after mar-
riage. Meanwhile, she enjoyed getting new clothes
and wedding presents, and she thought it was better
to be called Mrs. Beeston than to remain Alice Crewe
all her days. The young couple would be very short
of money. Anne foresaw that her sister would be
worse off as a matron than she had been as a maid,
and she asked her mother to point out the advantages
of a marriage neither sanctified by affection nor com-
forted by money. But Mrs. Crewe only quoted texts
at her elder daughter, and continued to cut out under-
clothing for her younger one.
In course of time Anne had an offer, and refused it.
She did not care for the man, and she said she would
not marry for board and lodging. When this view
of hers leaked out, Burnside began to think her hardly
respectable. It compared her with that sweet, woman-
ly creature, her sister, who had five children and a
broken constitution at the age of twenty-six, and it
felt quite relieved when she suddenly cut her leading
strings and escaped to London. For five years she
had tried through the penny post to get her foot on
the journalistic ladder, and at last some one at the
top reached her a helping hand. An editor who had
been taking anything she sent of late offered her
regular work.


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
207
From Burnside Anne Crewe vanished. She did not
make a name by her writing - at least, not a name that
reached Burnside. Her mother said that she sent
cheerful letters, and seemed able to maintain herself;
in fact, she once or twice came to Alice's assistance
with a cheque. At first Mrs. Crewe used to write for
Anne whenever anything went a little wrong: if her
servant gave notice, for instance, or if Alice's chil-
dren had the measles. Anne used to explain that she
had regular work to do, and could not run off when it
suited her, but no one in Burnside accepted that ex-
cuse for her selfish behaviour. Though she some-
times sent Alice a cheque, people agreed in whispers
that money cannot make up for personal sympathy.
Anne did not even spend her annual holiday in Burn-
side, and perhaps it was natural her mother should
think this unkind. She had no idea that her daughter
did hard work for her pay, and really needed rest and
bracing air once in twelve months. Mrs. Crewe was
very silly about it. She refused to visit Anne or to
travel with her, and in Burnside she hardly ever spoke
of her. People thought there must be a good reason
for her silence, and they pictured Anne starving in a
garret, addressing an unemployed mob from a cart,
and probably wearing a divided skirt.
Mrs. Crewe always talked of “my daughter Mrs.
Beeston ” in a voice of maternal pride, although poor
Alice's affairs were far from flourishing. She had
not learned to love her husband after marriage; and


208
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
you can hardly blame her for this, because he had
turned out a drunkard as well as a fool. He was his
wife's inferior in every respect but that of physical
strength, and he proved his superiority in this one
point by beating her. Of course his practice did not
flourish, for his habits were not hidden under a
bushel, and as his family increased every year, it soon
became difficult to satisfy their appetite for bread and
butter, as well as his own appetite for drink. He had
a long-suffering set of clients, and a mother-in-law
who would starve herself for her child and grand-
children, so he took things easily. Mrs. Crewe had a
weak spot in her understanding for her son-in-law the
lawyer, even when she had seen the bruises on Alice's
arms.
“Are you sure you didn't provoke him, darling ?”
she said.
Some of the children died, and the others were usu-
ally ill. They were born without constitutions, and
brought up without care, for at the age of twenty-six
their mother had neither strength nor spirit left.
Poverty, sickness, and sorrow had worn out the girl
who had given herself so lightly at her mother's bid-
ding. The parent blunders, and the child pays; so it
was, so it is, and so it ever must be.
But it is doubtful whether Mrs. Crewe realised that
she had not done well for her daughter in advising
her to marry Mr. Beeston. She would have been bit-
terly disappointed if Alice had not gone forth from her


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
209
house as a bride. She seemed to consider the world
a vale of tears, in which it is better to have a drunken
son-in-law than none at all, and more satisfactory to
bury grandchildren than never to possess them. She
still had the pleasure of alluding to him as “my son-
in-law," but this was soon the only pleasure left to her
in connection with Mr. Beeston.
There are some unhappy women in the world who
can imagine what his wife and children suffered at his
hands; what the years brought them of want and
bodily terror. Once, in a drunken fit, he half killed
his eldest boy; another time he set a dog at his wife
and brought on a serious illness. Over and over
again the children were saved from starvation by Mrs.
Crewe and various friends. And every year Alice
carried a child beneath her breaking heart, a child born
to a father's curses and a mother's tears. At last,
one winter evening, Mr. Beeston went into his wife's
room with a hatchet, and said he was going to murder
her. He had done this before, but Alice had never
got used to it. Her nerves were weak. She man-
aged to escape to a back room and lock the door
against him; but as he followed her with the hatchet,
and began very coolly and resolutely to cut out a panel
of the door, and as the children were in the room with
her, she felt driven to open the window and call for
help. Otherwise, she reflected, he would come in and
kill them all, and their fate would be described in one
of those little newspaper paragraphs that you find un-


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ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
either soured or silly. She sat down in her daugh-
ter's sitting-room and wondered what the world was
coming to, and how much Burnside would believe of
what she told them when she got back.
Anne had taken great pains with the room, but her
friends saw nothing very wonderful about it. Per-
haps they envied her the oriel window with two little
steps up to it. She had found the pretty fireplace
ready for her, and the green tiles, and the white paint,
and a delicate wall-paper. Her one extravagance had
been a Persian carpet. The chairs and tables were
plain cheap ones; books and pots and pictures collect
themselves. She had bought daffodils in honour of
her mother's visit, and the sun always shone in of an
afternoon, when he shone on London at all. So the
room looked pleasant and spring-like, and, in Mrs.
Crewe's opinion, quite luxurious. Presently Anne ar-
rived, and she looked pleasant and spring-like too.
“My dear!” exclaimed her mother, " you seem
younger than Alice, and prettier than ever."
“I have not had the trouble poor Alice has," said
Anne, and she kissed her mother affectionately.
“ Poor Alice !” she said again, half to herself, as she
made the tea.
Somehow it had never occurred to Mrs. Crewe to
think of her married daughter as “poor Alice"; but
to her Burnside friends she had often spoken of “poor
Anne.”
“ You must work very hard to earn all this,” she


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
213
said, looking round the room. She could not give up
her old point of view without striking a blow for it.
“Yes, I work hard,” said Anne.
“But you look very well.”
“I am very well.”
Mrs. Crewe sighed.
“Poor Alice!” she said after a pause, and she felt
that since she arrived in London she had travelled far.
They talked chiefly of Alice all the evening; and it
was only as Anne bade her mother good-night that she
lingered a little and said something of her own affairs.
“ They have just made me sub-editor,” she ex-
claimed; “ that means an increase of salary. Then I
write for some of the Colonial papers. I shall be able
to help you and Alice. I had no idea things were so
bad.”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Crewe, “ do you never
think of marriage yourself?”
Anne blushed.
If it had not been for that blush, Mrs. Crewe would
have gone to bed with the pleasant conviction that the
worst of her troubles were over. Instead of which
she began the very next day to look out anxiously for
its cause. She soon observed that in Anne's talk and
Anne's plans the name of Mr. Zagadin occurred more
often than any other; and she wished her daughter
would mention his age and prospects, or, better still,
present him, so that Mrs. Crewe could judge whether
Anne's establishment in life as Mrs. Zagadin would be


214
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
a satisfactory step in her career. If she married, she
would probably be unable to help her mother and sister
much. A matron has more claims on her purse than
a spinster, and less control of her money. Neverthe-
less, Mrs. Crewe hoped that Mr. Zagadin was a fine
fellow, and would press his suit. Even though she had
to pinch and scrape to the end of her days in con-
sequence, she wished to see Anne married — that is,
she wished it if Mr. Zagadin passed muster. For-
merly, she would have wished it in any case.
Before she had been twenty-four hours in town the
opportunity she desired presented itself. Anne came
home earlier than usual, and said that Mr. Zagadin
had wired to ask whether he might come to dinner
there that night. She had arranged already for extra
supplies, and she had brought in fresh flowers for the
table. She set it herself with mimosa and green
glasses, and then she went away and put on her best
blouse. Mrs. Crewe, who had spent a depressing after-
noon over her son-in-law's affairs, hoped that the sight
of Mr. Zagadin would raise her spirits. She sighed a
little over his name, and wished it was a Mr. Smith or
Brown for whom Anne brought home mimosa sprays.
“What is he, my dear?” she asked, as her daugh-
ter and she sat over the fire awaiting their guest.
“An Anarchist,” said Anne; "a Russian Anarchist.”
“Dear me! Not the one you interviewed yester-
day?”
“That was his cousin, who is a great inventive


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
215
genius, they say. He told me he had nearly found out
how to make bombs as small as peppercorns, and so
powerful that if you dropped one from the top of St.
Paul's, it would wreck London.”
“How terrible! But your Mr. Zagadin isn't that
kind of Anarchist, I hope?".
“He isn't inventive. He is in very bad health, poor
fellow, ever since he was tortured.”
“Tortured!”
“Yes; he will show you the marks on his hands.
And then he worked in the salt mines for years, and
his eyes are weak. So are his lungs, because he es-
caped in winter, and nearly died of exposure.”
“But, my dear, how does he earn his living? Being
an Anarchist won't pay his weekly bills, I suppose."
“I don't know about that. Of course, mother, you
mustn't expect him to look and talk like a Burnside
young man.”
“A Burnside young man wouldn't ask himself to
dine with a young unmarried lady,” said Mrs. Crewe
at once, for this had been on her mind.
“Oh, he wouldn't think anything of that,” said Anne.
“But, my dear, Anarchists are such wicked people.”
“Poor Mr. Zagadin isn't wicked.”
“But they want to kill everybody."
“ This one wouldn't hurt a fly — at least, not an
English fly.”
“I suppose he won't have any dynamite with him?”
said Mrs. Crewe nervously,


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
217
and his smile came with a nervous twitch that made
you miserable, and all the evening his cough tore him
in pieces. Yet he went on talking, and the two women
listened, fascinated. All he had to tell them stirred
their deep compassion, and the poor little man him-
self did likewise. A child would have seen that he
was half-starved and too thinly clad. When he said
good-night, Mrs. Crewe wished it was possible to wrap
the roast beef in brown paper and put it in his pocket,
but she felt sure that even an Anarchist would con-
sider such behaviour a breach of etiquette.
"Poor little man!” she said, when Anne came back
to the fire. Anne looked at her mother gratefully.
“Yes, I know," she said; “one longs to be the
sun and shine on him.”
There is no ignorance so dark and obstinate as
the ignorance of near relationship may be. Strangers
will not belittle or exalt you as unfairly as your kith
and kin will when they are inclined either way. Mrs.
Crewe had never taken the trouble to readjust her
ideas of Anne, whose early youth had vexed and
puzzled her. But to-night scales fell from her eyes,
and for an amazing moment she saw her child as
others saw her — a bright, sweet - tempered woman
with brains and energy, able to help a creature weaker
than herself; willing, perhaps, to give herself unwisely,
away.
“What a pretty blouse that is !” she said; and
Anne thought the observation rather silly and ill-


218
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
timed. She did not know what wise, appropriate
reflections had preceded it.
Nothing more was said about Mr. Zagadin that
night, but Mrs. Crewe lay awake for hours thinking
of him. Self-sacrifice is presumably a virtue, but it
is not the one a mother wishes her child to practise
when she chooses a husband. At least, most mothers
would prefer more cheerful reasons for a wedding. Of
course, Mrs. Crewe still desired a wedding, and she was
sure, after one evening's acquaintance, that Mr. Zaga-
din did not resemble Mr. Beeston. He was evidently
amiable, though a little dazed in his mind. It was most
unfortunate that his physique should be so feeble and
his opinions so wicked and inconvenient. How can a
woman settle down comfortably with a man who may
be “wanted” any moment under the Dangerous Ex-
plosives Act? True, it was his cousin who was on
the track of the peppercorns, but Mr. Zagadin knew
all about them. True, also, that Mr. Zagadin said
neither he nor his cousin wished to drop them from
St. Paul's, because they felt most grateful to the
English people for allowing them to pursue their
researches unmolested. But Mrs. Crewe supposed
that, when they were manufactured, the two gentle-
men would drop them somewhere — probably on the
homesteads of their own people. She thought that if
the Russian Government caught him again, it would
go very hard with him. In fact, he had said as much,
and yet spoken as if his return might be ordered


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
219
at a moment's notice any time. Moreover, the poor
fellow was in bad health. Even if he knew how to
earn a living, or wished to do so, he would not be
well enough. Apparently he sat indoors all day trans-
lating abstruse German philosophy into Russian. It
was a fine employment, no doubt, but not one by which
a man can support a wife and family. Mrs. Crewe did
not know much about the ins and outs of Grub Street,
but she knew that.
During the next few days Mrs. Crewe tried hard to
find out Anne's point of view, because, after all these
years of semi-estrangement, she could not expect to
have much voice in her daughter's affairs. But on
this subject Anne was not communicative, and when
her mother had been a week in London she still did
not know whether the Anarchist would ever be her
son-in-law. It was an uneasy position, because by the
end of the week she had quite made up her mind that
she did not wish him to be. Whenever she could she
engaged Anne in conversation about Anarchists —
their tenets, ways, and prospects in life. She also
read one or two numbers of a little newspaper in which
Mr. Zagadin and his friends expressed their opinions.
She also saw Mr. Zagadin nearly every day, and heard
him cough and watched him smile. By the end of the
fourth day her nerves were not what they had been,
and when she went to sleep she had bad dreams of
plots and explosions. In the daytime, as she travelled
about London by train and omnibus, she wondered


220
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
whether the apparent peace and safety everywhere
would soon be exchanged for the most awful scenes
of bloodshed and violence. If the little newspaper were
a true prophet, this great city, these busy, prosperous
citizens, would soon be scattered and destroyed by a
handful of Mr. Zagadin's friends. Mrs. Crewe felt
that when this happened it would be most unpleasant
to admit that Anne was Mrs. Zagadin, especially in
Burnside, where no one had ever appreciated Anne.
It would spoil entirely the impression Mrs. Crewe
meant to make when she got back by describing Anne's
success and Anne's clothes and furniture. Burnside
had openly pitied both Alice and her mother for all
they endured at the hands of the lawyer. It is in
human nature to wish a taste of change. Mrs. Crewe
had drunk of pity to the dregs, and since her arrival
in London she had looked forward to stirring a little
harmless envy by her pictures of Anne's flat.
Mr. Zagadin usually paid his visits in the evening
or on a Sunday afternoon. Twice a week he came as
a matter of course to give Anne a lesson in Russian.
The other evenings some excuse or accident accounted
for his coming; but unless Anne meant to go out, he
always came. Mrs. Crewe and he were excellent
friends, and she sent to Burnside for a bottle of home-
made cough mixture that her grandchildren took every
winter. She advised Mr. Zagadin to try a double dose
at bedtime, since he suffered from sleeplessness, and
she had been so distressed by the holes in his coat that


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
221
she persuaded him to let her borrow it for twenty-four
hours and thoroughly mend it. He did not appear
until he had it back again, and she felt sure that he
possessed no other. She could not help liking him,
and sometimes, when Anne was away for a little
while, they had animated discussions about the vast
questions in which he was interested. They were such
very big, difficult questions, that hitherto they had not
come in Mrs. Crewe's way either for discussion or
consideration. But so long as Mr. Zagadin could talk
he did not seem to mind much who listened, and Mrs.
Crewe did her best to wrestle with his erring spirit.
Her experience as a Sunday-school teacher stood her
in stead. But every word he spoke convinced her
more firmly that he was not the man for Anne.
One afternoon she was sitting by herself and trying
to make up her mind that she must soon go back to
Burnside and leave her daughter to manage her own
affairs. She felt happier than usual about Alice,
because her sister had just sent her a cheque for fifty
pounds, and she would have felt happy about Anne if
it had not been for Mr. Zagadin. She had enjoyed
her visit to London. Anne had taken her to several
theatres, and bought her a new bonnet and cloak, and
invited people to meet her — respectable people who
possessed more than one coat and did not want to
blow up their fellow-creatures — not even those who
possessed twenty coats to their one. Mrs. Crewe saw
that a capable, generous woman like Anne may be


224
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
He sank back in his chair and looked at Mrs. Crewe.
“Then I must trust to you,” he said.
“Yes — do," said Mrs. Crewe. She thought she
understood. He had come to his last penny and
wanted to borrow. Perhaps Anne owed him money
for the Russian lessons. Anyhow, Mrs. Crewe was
quite prepared to give him one of the two sovereigns
then in her purse. He looked as if he had been
starving for days.
But when he spoke again he did not ask for
money.
“It has come!” he said in a deep, tragic voice.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Crewe inadequately. She still felt
puzzled, but the sadness of his eyes began to affect the
kind, dense old lady. They seemed to draw her with
them to see what they saw — a ghastly real thing that
waited for him.
"I go back to-night,” he continued, in the same
deep, hopeless voice. “I leave Liverpool Street at
half-past eight. Don't forget-- Liverpool Street at
half-past eight!”
"I won't forget,” said Mrs. Crewe. “Is that what
you want me to tell Anne?”.
“Yes. I hope she will be in time. I hope she
will come.”
Mrs. Crewe started.
“What?” she cried.
"I want your daughter to go with me.”
“Go — with — you? To Russia ? "


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
225
“Yes. Tell her so. I think she will come. The
danger is great — I do not hide it — but the glory is
great too. If we succeed, the world will tremble. If
we fail — we die.” And he shrugged his shoulders.
“But I don't want Anne to die,” said Mrs. Crewe.
“Besides, I can't spare her.”
“Well — perhaps we should not die. It is never
certain. Perhaps we should go to Siberia or Sagha-
lien. There, too, there is a great work to do. How
can you grudge one life when it may sow the seeds of
freedom in a thousand minds? Your daughter has
great gifts. I will lead her where she can employ
them.”
“I think she employs them very well in London,"
said Mrs. Crewe. “I am quite satisfied, and I believe
she is.”
“How can you be satisfied when millions of your
fellow-creatures are miserable slaves ? I want to give
your daughter to Russia. Do you grudge one woman's
life to a whole country?”
Mrs. Crewe did, most decidedly, but she thought it
was useless to say so. She felt a little afraid of Mr.
Zagadin this afternoon. The shadow of his sinister
creed had fallen on his face; his eyes were restless and
terror-stricken.
“Even if Anne wished to marry you — " she
began, but he interrupted her quite fiercely.
“Who speaks of marriage?” he asked.
Mrs. Crewe stared at him uncomprehendingly.


226
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
“ You don't suppose my daughter could travel about
with you unless she was your wife," she said ; “it is
not the English custom.”
The nervous twitch that came with his smile was
worse than ever to-day, and Mrs. Crewe looked past
him in order not to see it.
“I speak of martyrdom and you speak of English
custom,” he said. “Give me a pen and paper. I will
write to your daughter."
He sat down and wrote at great speed for about
five minutes.
“Shall you start to-night — in any case?” asked
Mrs. Crewe when he got up; because, of course, she
had been making up her mind to withhold the letter
for a few hours, and wondering at his simplicity in
expecting her to deliver it.
“If the world were tottering to its end, I should
start,” he answered.
Mrs. Crewe felt very glad to hear it, and then she
began to wonder what the poor man's fate would be,
and even whether he would ever reach his journey's
end.
“Do take care of yourself,” she said. “Have you
a warm wrap for the journey?”.
"I have not. Tell your daughter to bring some.
What is mine is hers.”
“But really," urged Mrs. Crewe, “ you must not
expect my daughter. It is preposterous.”
“I do expect her,” said Mr. Zagadin. “She is a


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
227
noble woman — formed for heroic deeds — not for
the petty, comfortable life in which you would enslave
her. She shall be a Charlotte Corday and kill tyrants.
A man may face anything, even what I face, with her
by his side. My body is weak, even my spirit fails
me. I look to her for courage.”
His cough suddenly shook him, and he could say
no more. When the fit abated he offered Mrs. Crewe
his hand, but he did not offer her the letter.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She went with him to the door.
"Perhaps you will soon come back to England,”
she said, with a wish to cheer him up a little.
“I go to a work from which no man comes back," he
answered.
“But it is horrible,” she exclaimed, “and you so ill,
too. Can't you throw the whole thing up, and stay
here, and let your friends look after you? Who forces
you to go?”
He shook his head mournfully, and walked towards
the head of the stairs.
“ You have not left the letter,” Mrs. Crewe cailed
after him.
“I shall leave it with the hall-porter,” he said.
Mrs. Crewe returned to the sitting-room. It was
nearly half-past six now, and Anne might return at any
moment. What would she do? Would she say the
danger was visionary, and Mr. Zagadin's need of her
real? Would she say she could keep herself out of


228
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
danger, and him, too? Mrs. Crewe could not feel sure.
There is no delusion too silly for a woman inclined to
throw herself away. The deeper the precipice the more
irresistible the fascination.
Mrs. Crewe put on her outdoor things and went
downstairs. She peeped into the porter's office, and
saw Mr. Zagadin's letter lying on the table. The porter
was not there. If he had been she could have easily
given him a sixpence, and asked him to go upstairs and
make sure that she had shut the door of the flat. But
fortune favoured her, and she was not driven to prac-
tise this deception. She stepped across the threshold
and snatched the letter, and fled into the street. Her
heart beat, and her knees trembled, and she knew what
it means to see suspicion in every eye, and to hear pur-
suit in every footstep. But she was quite resolved to
wander about for two hours. When you have nowhere
to go, and nothing to do, and are not inclined to look
about you, two hours in the London streets will pass
like time in prison. It seemed to Mrs. Crewe that all
the clocks had stopped, and that every road had shrunk
in length. She spent a quarter of an hour in a baker's
shop eating buns she did not want; she went a little
journey by the Underground; she tried the inside of a
bus, and the outside of a tram. London had certainly
dwindled that night. She could not get far enough
away. But she would not go back to St. George's Man-
sions until half-past eight.
As she slowly mounted the four flights of steps to


230
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
"Oh, Anne," exclaimed her mother, “surely you
would not have gone! It would have broken my heart.”
“But I might have wished him good-bye — might
have taken him things for the journey. He is as un-
practical and as unfit to take care of himself as a child.
You ought not to have withheld his letter, mother.
Where have you been all this time?”
“I really don't know where I have been,” said Mrs.
Crewe; “ all over London, I think. I can't understand
you, Anne. Surely you don't want to turn your back
on your work and your people to go and blow up poor
harmless Russians with dynamite! He calls it martyr-
dom; but you haven't been to Siberia and lost your
senses.”
“Oh! I never think of that side of him," interrupted
Anne rather impatiently. “I think of his cleverness
— and his cough. I daresay I could have kept myself
out of harm's way, and him too.”
“But in his own country he is considered a criminal.
If they catch him they'll put him in prison. No doubt,
if he had a wife they'd imprison her too, and send her
to Siberia. They're not very particular out there.”
“Well — it is all over,” said Anne after a long
pause.
“But if he writes — if he asks you to join him?”
“He says in his letter he won't do that.”
“But if he did — you would not go?”
“I suppose not,” said Anne; “ but I wish I had bid-
den him good-bye.”


ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
231
For a long time neither mother nor child spoke
again, and they both thought of Mr. Zagadin speeding
towards Harwich, ill and disappointed, and very poor.
"I wish I had given him my railway rug,” said Mrs.
Crewe.
“I shall have to write and tell him I didn't get his
letter till it was too late,” said Anne. “I needn't say
how it happened.”
" I've no doubt he thinks us very unkind,” said Mrs.
Crewe, whose eyes looked tearful. “I hope it isn't
wrong to be so fond of an Anarchist.”
But Mrs. Crewe never repented the theft of the let-
ter; and when she told Alice about it, the latter seemed
to think her mother had acted as rightly as any one
does who saves a fellow-creature from unnecessary
suicide.
“There is no knowing,” she said; “Anne might
have gone out of sheer pity."
A month later Mrs. Crewe heard from Anne that
poor Mr. Zagadin had neither done the awful deeds
nor suffered the awful vengeance he expected, because
he had been arrested the moment he had set foot on
Russian soil. In prison, he fell ill of pneumonia, and
died within the week. The news made Mrs. Crewe
feel quite conscience-stricken. If she had given him
her railway rug perhaps he could have taken it to
prison with him and kept warm. Even his death did
not make her wish for a moment that she had given
him Anne.


232
ANNE AND THE ANARCHIST
Later still she told the story to one or two of her
Burnside friends, and they also said she had acted
wisely, though they added that it seemed a pity Anne
should die an old maid. Mrs. Crewe replied that she
used to be of the same opinion, but that since her visit
to London she considered her elder daughter's single
life a greater success in every way than her younger
daughter's married one.
Nevertheless it gave her great pleasure to tell them,
about a year after Mr. Zagadin's death, that Anne was
going to marry her editor, and would give up her flat
for a house in Chelsea Square.
"I hope he is a Conservative editor,” said Burnside,
“then we will try to forget that Anne nearly ran off
with an Anarchist.”


“THE LAST STRAW”
Miss BRUNTON often said that she had no patience
with women who allowed other people to put upon
them. A woman, she protested, should be a person of
sense and spirit, not a poor, yielding reed swayed by
every breeze. Her sister, Mrs. Simpson, used to take
a remark of this kind to herself, and retort that a
woman who had only herself to think of could easily
keep up her courage. A spinster earning a comfortable
livelihood did not know how hardly life pressed on the
mother of a family. Miss Brunton never argued the
point, because she knew that you might as well try to
write on water as on Aggy's mind. But her eyes had a
twinkle in them when her sister compared their lots to
her own disadvantage. She knew who was likely to
wear out first.
For many years Miss Brunton had been an assistant
mistress in the Blackport High School, which is a large
and flourishing concern. Before coming to Blackport
she had languished as a governess in private families,
and every one considered that she greatly improved her
position by getting a post in a High School. Besides,
Aggy Brunton had married Professor Simpson of
233


234
“ THE LAST STRAW”
Blackport College, and therefore lived in Blackport,
and would be able to befriend her sister in many ways.
Miss Brunton was very glad to go and live near
Aggy, but her reasons were not exactly those put for-
ward by her friends when they congratulated her.
Aggy had never been able to look after herself, or
her husband, or her children; and Miss Brunton
thought it would be easier to do her own work and
lend her sister a helping hand if the work and the
sister were near neighbours. At first she lived in
Professor Simpson's house, and as long as this ar-
rangement lasted she certainly found plenty to do
there. A child was born every year to parents who
were unthrifty, delicate, and poor. How Miss Brun-
ton had the strength and the patience to be schoolmis-
tress, nurse, and housekeeper day by day no one could
understand. She often owned that she felt tired;
sometimes her spirits flagged. But she would soon
whip them up again. Melancholy, like other luxuries,
was not for her. Aggy might sit by the fire and weep
while the world ran away; but her sister felt the weight
of the world on her shoulders, and meant to support it
or die.
However, soon after the fifth child arrived, Miss
Brunton had to turn out because, unless she slept in
a cupboard, the house would no longer hold her. She
took small cheap lodgings close by, and Aggy said it
would be nearly the same thing as having Susan with
them; which was quite true as far as Aggy was con-


236
“THE LAST STRAW”
woman never has anything to do. Married women
without children count as single in this respect. A
spinster who maintains herself is a person of leisure
compared with a rich man's wife who has a baby in
the nursery. This is a great mystery, but every mother
understands it. Mrs. Simpson used to talk with envy
of her sister's tranquil life and even of her circum-
stances, which she said were really easier than her
own. At any rate her husband and she could not
afford a holiday in Switzerland, and when they
wanted a new book they looked for it on Miss Brun-
ton's table.
“My month in Switzerland has cost me eighteen
pounds," said Miss Brunton. “I wonder how much
you have spent at Filey.”
“A great deal more than we meant to. We always
do,” said Mrs. Simpson with a sigh. She was a thin
little woman with a drab skin and colourless scanty
hair. “Do you spend all you make? ” she continued.
“Do you never think of providing for your old age?"
“Of course I do,” said Miss Brunton briskly. “Who
would if I did not, pray?”
Mrs. Simpson's friends were under the impression
that she suffered a good deal from her sister's quick
temper. She looked slightly injured now and said -
“It must be so easy for you to save, living in these
two little rooms, and only yourself to think of. Have
you put by much?”
“ About two hundred pounds."


238
“THE LAST STRAW”
for feathers. Mrs. Simpson could have been as well
dressed as her acquaintances without any undue strain
on her husband's purse.
But the skilful management of an income is really
more important than its figure. Mrs. Simpson mud-
dled away her money as she muddled away her time
and her health; and of course her husband and children
suffered for her sins. She was one of those incompe-
tent, helpless creatures who at eighteen possess a pretty
complexion and an amiable, vacant smile. They al-
ways marry and have families, and make every one be-
longing to them uncomfortable, and why men choose
them for wives and mothers men alone can say. Poor
Professor Simpson had twelve years in which to repent
of his folly, and then, in an epidemic of influenza, he
went out of the game. It was after his death that Miss
Brunton's real troubles began.
In future Aggy and her five children would have to
live on three hundred a year, and she assured her sister
it could not be done. Susan said, “ Stuff and non-
sense! it must be done.” It was preposterous to talk;
as if they had any alternative! How did Aggy propose
to spend more than her income without getting into
debt? Luckily, by the terms of her husband's will, she
could not touch the capital. Aggy reminded her sister
that twenty years ago she had taken a prize at school
for flower-painting. Why should she not recall that
lost art and give lessons in it to the young ladies of
Blackport? Miss Brunton said it would be much bet-


“THE LAST STRAW”
239
ter for her sister to recall the little she knew about
cooking and manage her house and children with the
help of one servant.
“Susan means well,” said Aggy to her friends; " but
of course she does not know what it is to have children
and feel anxious to provide for them. I must be both
father and mother to my darlings now, and I am not
strong. Susan always had the constitution of a horse.
She ought to have been a man."
“Yes,” said her friends; "she would have made a
very good man.”
Professor Simpson died just before Christmas, so
Miss Brunton was able to spend the vacation in helping
Aggy to recover and remove. Aggy's grief was very
harrowing to those about her; she gave it such full ex-
pression. Even on the day of the funeral Miss Brun-
ton felt inclined to shake her because she would howl
over the baby in his cradle directly he had been got to
sleep. She wept at every meal for weeks, because the
sight of Susan in dear Archibald's chair made her
miserable, and she wept at the bare mention of re-
trenchment, because she said her husband had always
wished her to have everything she wanted. She seemed
to blame her sister for supposing that three hundred
a year would not go as far as eight.
With great difficulty Miss Brunton managed to get
the Simpsons into a house they could reasonably af-
ford: and then the day soon came when she confessed
to her friends that she meant to live with her sister


240
“ THE LAST STRAW”
again. None of them asked why. They understood
that Aggy would get on a little better with most of
Susan's income added to her own.
Perhaps Aggy did get on a little better than if
Susan had led her own life and left her sister to shift
for herself. It never occurred to Miss Brunton that
she had any choice in the matter for longer than an
angry moment. She regarded her near relatives much
as we regard our own bodies. We regret their imper-
fections, but we do not try in this world to get away
from them.
The new conditions would have been more bearable
if Miss Brunton could have held the reins — managed
the housekeeping and the family expenditure, as well
as her work at school. But of course Aggy stood on
her dignity and resented both advice and interference.
She attributed all her troubles to fate, and not to her
own want of sense and self-control. One afternoon
Miss Brunton came back from school and found Oscar,
a boy of five, badly scalded.
“How did it happen?" she asked.
“He pulled the kitchen kettle over himself,” ex-
plained Aggy. “ Sarah was down in the wash-house at
the time.”
“But where were you?”
“Paying calls."
“Why do you do that on a washing-day when Sarah
cannot possibly look after the children?”
“I cannot give up my friends and my position,


“ THE LAST STRAW”
241
Susan. I wish to keep both for my family. We must
get a second servant.”
“We cannot afford it.”
“We must. It is very easy for you to talk — away
all day in that big cheerful school, sitting on a platform
and looking at a lot of well-behaved girls — you don't
know what it is to spend the morning with five children
as naughty as mine.”
When night came Aggy asked her sister to sit up
with Oscar.
"A sleepless night never seems to hurt you," she
said. “I am quite exhausted with the shock of finding
him scalded.”
"I will take him this night, but not again to-mor-
_row," said Miss Brunton; "I can't teach when I am
dead tired. It would not be fair to the school."
“Of course I shall come in now and then.”
“No, you won't,” said Miss Brunton, “ I shall lock
the door.”
Aggy took offence at her sister's manner, but she
knew her to be a person of her word, so she went to
bed and slept soundly. The next night Oscar slept and
did not disturb his mother.
The fear of letting the wear and tear of her home
life affect her work at school acted like a spur on Miss
Brunton ; kept her going when she might have flagged,
and even drove her to resist encroachment. She never
allowed any one to make her unpunctual, and when
Easter came she set off for a short holiday, although


242
“THE LAST STRAW”
Mrs. Simpson showed that she thought it a selfish thing
to do. In the end she wished she had not spent ten
shillings on the journey, because, before she had been
away forty-eight hours, she received a telegram to say
that Rosie had inflammation of the lungs. Of course,
Rosie's aunt had to pack her trunks and return post
haste to Blackport.
"I can't refuse to go when they are in trouble,” she
said to her indignant holiday companion. “Aggy's
troubles are of her own making, but they are terribly
real. She took this child with her on the top of a tram
last week in that bitter east wind. I told her it was
folly, and she asked me what I knew about children.”
When Miss Brunton got back to Blackport she found
Rosie much better. In fact, the doctor had only feared
inflammation of the lungs, and had managed to keep
it off.
“You ought not to have sent for me," said Miss
Brunton to her sister. “ The child has not been se-
riously ill.”
She wished afterwards that she had held her peace,
because her rebuke sent Aggy into hysterics. Mrs.
Simpson cried and laughed, and said she was worn out
with nursing, and vowed she had neither asked nor ex-
pected her sister to come. She always kept her troubles
to herself, and never again would she fly to Susan for
sympathy in a sorrowful hour. Then she took a sleep-
ing draught and went to bed, while Susan looked after
Rosie and the other children.


“ THE LAST STRAW”
243
The proper mission of women is, of course, to weave
roses into the tangled threads of manly lives. But there
are some women who never get a chance of performing
the pretty task for which Nature, the poet says, de-
signed them. On the contrary, their hands have to
make the best of tangles just as hard and just as tiring
as those that engage the attention of their masculine
neighbours. Miss Brunton had succeeded to her
brother-in-law's anxieties, but not to his position of
authority in the house or to his income. Of course,
you may say that the remedy lay in her own hands.
She had only to harden her heart. But that is exactly
what some people cannot do. Miss Brunton loved her
nephews and nieces. They put their grimy little arms'
round her neck and came to her for help in their
troubles. She wore herself out over the effort to keep
them properly fed and clothed. She tried to make her
sister put by a little money towards their education.
But in this she never succeeded, and at the end of two
years her own savings had diminished. The latest
drain on her resources had been caused by a fire in the
nursery. When she spoke of claiming restitution from
the insurance company, Aggy said that the premium
had not been paid since her husband's death. She had
always had other things to do with her money. After
this Miss Brunton felt that no discovery of extrava-
gance or folly would be surprising. She wondered
whether they would ever find themselves without a
roof to their heads.


244
“THE LAST STRAW"
Even a tough constitution cannot stand incessant
work and worry for very long. Frofessor Simpson had
been dead for about two and a half years when Miss
Brunton found that she must either rest or break down.
So she told Aggy that she meant to spend the summer
vacation in Switzerland.
“You are lucky,” said Aggy. “Always off some-
where!”
Miss Brunton had not been out of Blackport since
last summer, when she had taken the Simpsons to the
Isle of Man, and nursed them through the measles
there. She mentioned this fact to Aggy, but Aggy only
wriggled away from it, and observed that the children
and she would have to content themselves with Black-
pool. Miss Brunton felt positive that her sister could
not afford to go anywhere at all, but she gave great
offence by saying so. Aggy asked how she could
grudge the poor delicate children a fortnight at the
seaside, when she was planning an expensive holiday
on the Continent for herself.
Mrs. Simpson did not realise that her sister was near
a collapse. All her life she had leaned on Susan, taken
her strength for granted, reckoned she had no troubles
because she did not parade them. She had not the
sense or the sympathy to see that even to the strong
natures there come moments of discouragement.
Aggy went to Blackpool early in the summer, about
a month before the end of the term. Miss Brunton
begged her to go later, and not take the elder children


“ THE LAST STRAW”.
245
away from school, but Mrs. Simpson observed that she
had to study economy. Lodgings were cheap in June.
“You have bought a great many new clothes,” said
Susan, as she helped to pack. “I hope they are paid
for!”
“They are,” said Mrs. Simpson shortly.
"I can't understand it,” persisted Susan. “ Last
month you said you could not pay your bills until this
month's cheque had come, and now you have settled
with the tradespeople and replenished the family ward-
robe. Have you enough in your purse for your railway
fares? And how are you going to pay your expenses
at Blackpool?”
“Oh, don't poke and pry into my affairs !” said
Aggy impatiently. “The children would die without
a change of air, and we can't go about like Red Indians,
in ragged blankets.”
Miss Brunton did not feel reassured, but she could
do nothing to stop the expedition. For a day or two
she enjoyed the silent, empty house, and then she sud-
denly began to hate it. The deserted rooms oppressed
her, the lonely meals choked her. For the first time
in her life she failed to outstep the blue devils always
at her heels. She began to dwell on the future — and
Heaven help the woman without mate or money who
does that! She began to think that she could not af-
ford the journey to Switzerland. It would make a hole
in the hundred pounds left of her savings — the only
shield in case of emergency between her and destitu-


246
“THE LAST STRAW”
tion. Then a solemn word of warning from the great
doctor she had consulted left her no choice. She prom-
ised him to go. After that she felt more cheerful, and
made her plans. She was to start the very day school
closed, soon after the Simpsons came back from Black-
pool.
The children looked rosy and sunburnt, but Aggy
looked worried. Perhaps if Miss Brunton had been
as wide awake as usual, she would have guessed that
her sister had something on her mind. But just at the
end of term a week of great heat tried her to the ut-
most, and she had no strength or vision for any one's
business but her own.
At last speech-day arrived, and when the necessary
festivities came to an end Miss Brunton walked home
numb and dull with weariness. She felt too tired to
travel, too tired to live. The little street seemed to pant
beneath the sweltering sun; every window was set open
and some front doors were ajar. It was quieter than
usual, as if the heat had made the inmates idle and
drowsy. But when Miss Brunton approached her sis-
ter's house, alarming and familiar sounds reached her
from one of the open upper windows — the uncon-
trolled sobs of a woman nearly in hysterics. For a
moment Miss Brunton paused, inclined to run away.
But habit proved too strong for her; she could not
turn her back on a difficulty. She opened the door
with her latchkey, and walked upstairs and into the
front bedroom. There lay Aggy, crying, and laugh-


“THE LAST STRAW”
247
ing, and raving incoherently, while a frightened maid-
servant stood near with a bottle of smelling salts.
Miss Brunton sent the girl out of the room, locked
the door, and sat down. She knew that Aggy's
hysterics soon came to an end if no one tried to coax
her out of them. In a few minutes Mrs. Simpson got
off the bed and came to the window where her sister
had taken a chair.
“ Good-bye!” she said with a sob.
Miss Brunton did not answer.
Aggy next went to her wardrobe and put on a
hat and cloak. When she stood at the glass Miss
Brunton went to the door and put the key in her
pocket. Then she sat down again. She was too tired
to talk, and she knew she would soon hear all about
it. When Aggy found the door locked she pulled it
noisily to and fro, and beat on it with her fists, and
sobbed to her sister to come and open it at once. So
Miss Brunton seized her wrists, and dragged her back
to the window and made her sit down. The tussle was
exhausting, but successful.
"Let me go," howled Aggy; “I want to drown
myself.”
“Sit still and don't behave like an idiot,” said Miss
Brunton. “The neighbours will hear you if you
make such a row.”
“I don't care who hears me! I shall be dead in an
hour, and then you'll be sorry. Give me the key this
moment, Susan!”


248
“ THE LAST STRAW”
Miss Brunton sat still and waited until her sister
sulkily left off crying; then she said —
“I want my tea, Aggy. Are you going to tell me
what's the matter?”
“I don't know why I should! You can't do any-
thing! Read that!”.
Miss Brunton took the crumpled letter her sister
held out, and as she read it her face turned wan and
old. The letter said that unless Mrs. Simpson paid the
hundred and forty pounds she had borrowed within
forty-eight hours, the usual proceedings would be
taken. In due course she must expect her furniture
to be seized and sold in discharge of the debt.
"You have been borrowing money," said Miss
Brunton. She showed no surprise, and her manner
was heavy and hopeless rather than angry. Yet Aggy
felt afraid.
“I had to," she protested. “I can't let my children
starve! It is impossible for an unmarried woman to
understand what a mother –
Miss Brunton put up her hand to stem the torrent
of words.
“Who writes ? Where did you get the money ? "
she asked.
" I saw an advertisement in the Herald. His letters
were most considerate at first. He said he did it to
help people — especially ladies — and that he wanted
no security. And now he is going to turn us into the
streets; and the trustees will let him do it.”


250
“THE LAST STRAW”
Mr. Taylor had always acted as Professor Simp-
son's solicitor
" It is not very pleasant to let other people know
of one's private affairs," objected Aggy.
“When you have made a mess of them it is often
necessary.”
" I'm sure I'm sorry you have to go out again,"
said Aggy, who had gone back already to her usual
injured tone. “What time do you start to-morrow?
Can I pack for you?”
Miss Brunton turned on her.
“Where do you think I should get the money now?
From your money-lender?”.
“Oh!” whimpered Aggy, “can't you go?”
“Of course not.”
“I wish I had never told you. I wish you had let
me drown myself. It would have been much better."
“I daresay it would,” said Miss Brunton impatiently,
and she shut the door very quietly as she went out of
the house, because she longed to bang it.
She saw Mr. Taylor's managing clerk and gave him
hier instructions, and she came away possessing nothing
in the world but a couple of pounds in her purse, which
would have to last her until her salary fell due again.
Perhaps if Mr. Taylor himself had seen her he would
have made some different arrangement; but his clerk
merely heard what she had to say, and promised to have
the matter attended to at once. It never occurred to
Miss Brunton that she could borrow the money. Per-


“ THE LAST STRAW”
251
haps it would not have been easy, but at any rate she
did not think of it. She had never borrowed a penny
in her life.
As she left the office her head swam and her knees
trembled. She clung to the railings and looked fear-
fully up and down the street lest any one should see
her and speak to her. She felt bewildered and ex-
hausted, so that she could not think of the morrow
or question the wisdom of what she had just done.
But her courage had come to an end for the time.
She had fought a good fight, and now she thought
with desire of rest. She walked slowly on, her eyes
on the ground, her memory throwing up odd transient
flashes from bygone days; broken pictures of hours
that had been neither important nor especially happy;
other pictures graven on her mind in the decisive
moments of life. As long as the streets were quiet
she remained in this half-stupefied condition; but pres-
ently she had to walk through the noisiest street in
Blackport, and there the traffic jarred cruelly on her
irritable nerves. She hurried on, but the street was a
long one, and she could not escape directly. One heavy
lorry seemed to pursue her. It stopped when she
stopped, and came after her when she ran on. At last
she could bear it no longer, and she made a rush across
the crowded road. She heard shouts, stared around,
and suddenly felt afraid to go on. Something hit her
violently in the chest —


252
“ THE LAST STRAW”
Aggy sat beside her looking very white and tearful.
There were screens round the bed, but she could see
by the ceiling that she lay in a large room.
“It's all right about the money,” she said. It was
a great effort to speak, and she did not hear Aggy's
answer, because she lost consciousness again. Next
time she opened her eyes she saw a doctor and a nurse
as well as Aggy. She looked at her sister with mild
surprise, and wondered why the tears streamed down
her poor, weak, little face.
“I suppose I am dying,” she thought.
“Oh! Susan,” cried Aggy, “I wish there was some-
thing I could do for you. I wish I had not let you go
out again when you were so tired.”
Susan's eyes stared dreamily at her sister.
“ I'm all right,” she whispered; “the doctor said I
only wanted rest. I'm going to get it.”
She shut her eyes and they waited. Presently she
opened them once more.
“You go and look after the children,” she said
to Aggy.
Then she died.


254
A SENSIBLE WOMAN
I would have said “Yes” to Geraint. I have
looked out for Le Maître de Forges. Petruchio is
my favourite hero in fiction. Do you begin to under-
stand what kind of man I admire? I often think that
I ought to have been born two hundred years ago,
when women still considered men their masters. Even
if I had been early Victorian I might have knelt at
some one's feet and called him my lord and my love.
How nice it sounds!
It is a great misfortune to have a plain person and
a romantic mind. Behaviour, like bonnets, must be
chosen to suit one's features, and for a stout girl with
no complexion to carry on like a beauty would be
ridiculous. I should wish to be wooed by a man I
could worship. But on the one occasion when this
came to pass I had to neglect the rites for which my
heart hungered and behave like a sensible woman.
Men always tell me I am a sensible woman, and I
do not consider this a proof of insight on their part.
When they propose they nearly always mention that
they do not call for looks.
Captain Ellison said something of the kind when
he proposed to me, but though I felt annoyed I ac-
cepted him. I saw that he was fond of me in a
friendly fashion, and at the time I thought that might
serve. I loved him in the other fashion, which I
suppose is not sensible. His uncle, old General Elli-
son, pushed him to my feet. He invited us together
to his house, and then showed his tactics at once.


A SENSIBLE WOMAN
257
I nearly replied that she ought to have brought a
nurse, but I did not want to hurt her feelings.
I suppose I have a tell-tale countenance, because
after staring at each other rather awkwardly she
said —
"I hope I shall suit you. Perhaps you think I don't
look old enough?”
I have great self-control, and I consider that I
showed it on that occasion. I did not tell her she
would not suit me at all. I did not even smile. By
the time we had finished dinner I had discovered that
at any rate it was a pleasure to look at her.
The next few weeks we spent in London buying
clothes for ourselves. I did not send her away after
all. There really seemed nowhere to send her to when
I came to inquire more closely into her affairs. Be-
sides, Mickey got a cold, and when I saw how tenderly
she nursed him I thought she might do as much for
me some day if I won her affection. The tortoise
stayed behind at Lenham Court.
I really could not call her “ Mrs. Fazackery,” and
I am not fond of “Matilda,” so one day when we
were both feeding Mickey with beef-tea I asked her
whether she liked the name of Una. She said she had
never heard it. I was not surprised, because only the
day before she had asked me whether “ The Corsican
Brothers ” was by Shakespeare. She did not care for
reading
However, she said I might call her what I pleased.


A SENSIBLE WOMAN
259
taken the least interest in sport myself. I once tried
to sit on a horse and failed; so I never tried again.
I hate making a fool of myself.
Of course, I had to give in about poor Tilly. Gerald
did not treat me at all like a doll or a dickey-bird.
If he had, I am sure I should have enoyed it. His
way was to take for granted that a sensible woman
would agree with him; and he always persisted until
I did agree. However, I said that I would not tell
Tilly her fate just yet. In fact, I persuaded Gerald
to come and make her acquaintance first, because
I thought that when he saw what a pretty chirpy
creature she was, he might change his mind about
turning her adrift.
He came at Easter, and at his request I asked no
one to meet him. He said he wished to get to know
me better before our marriage in June. Tilly was not
at home when he arrived, so he and I had tea together
in my favourite corner of the hall. We were soon
busy making plans. We always made plans, or talked
of sensible subjects, and we never quarrelled. A
courtship without quarrels is like a summer without
showers.
My friends say that at this period of my life I
behaved like an idiot. I can't see it. I could not
guess that Captain Ellison would throw up everything
for the sake of a pretty face. He must have seen
a good many in his time, and yet he asked me to
marry him. Anyhow, I could not have kept Tilly


260
A SENSIBLE WOMAN
out of his way. She danced in while we were at tea,
her hands full of daffodils, and Mickey, as usual,
trotting at her heels. She stopped short when she
saw that one guest had come, and seemed ready to
run away. But I did not let her.
A quarter of an hour later we had cleared a space
on the floor, and were all three on our knees teaching
Mickey and Captain Ellison's fox-terrier Toby to make
friends. The fox-terrier barked, and Mickey spit and
swore, and we laughed. I had never seen Gerald in
such good spirits. I was afraid Toby would kill
Mickey, but Gerald said that he was a most intel-
ligent dog, and quite understood that Mickey must
not be molested. To prove it he let him loose, and
the next moment every one and everything seemed to
scatter as if an explosion had taken place. Toby with
a yelp had pounced on the cat. Mickey went off like
fireworks in Tilly's hands. Gerald got hold of the dog.
I started back and upset the tea-tray. I am sure there
had never been such a noise in the house before.
At dinner we talked mainly about horses, and next
morning at breakfast our fancy turned to dogs. These
two people seemed to think animals more interesting
than human beings, because when I invited them to
drive to a rubbishly little dog-show in our county town
they looked pleased, but when I mentioned that some
of the neighbours were coming to dinner they showed
no pleasure whatever; on the contrary.
I am inclined now to regret that I went to the dog-


A SENSIBLE WOMAN
261
show. It came on to rain heavily, and I caught a
severe cold driving home. If I had known that I
should spend most of the next week in my bedroom,
I should probably have asked Gerald to go off some-
where. As it was, I told Tilly day by day that she
must look after him. My friends say I ought to have
known what would come of it. Friends are sometimes
offensively plain-spoken.
I shall always believe that I owe my present forlorn
condition to Mickey, and I bear no one else a grudge.
One afternoon, when I had been upstairs nearly a
week, I put on a tea-gown and went down. I thought
I would give them a pleasant surprise, and appear in
the hall for tea. To my alarm, when I got to the foot
of the staircase I heard Tilly sobbing as if her heart
would break. I also heard Gerald talking to her in a
low, coaxing manner. I did not catch what he said,
nor did I see them yet, because a large screen shel-
tered that part of the hall. But as I went towards it
Toby slunk past me with the air of a criminal, and I
had a presentiment of what had happened — at least
of one event. I advanced a little farther, and then
stopped short. Mickey lay stretched out on the hearth-
rug; Tilly drooped over him and wept; Captain Elli-
son was trying to console her.
I still think he ought not to have addressed her as
“ darling” until he had come to an understanding
with me; but I daresay he was a good deal agitated.
It did not seem to soothe them to look up suddenly


262
A SENSIBLE WOMAN
and see me. I felt uncomfortable, and I suppose I
showed it. Tilly picked up her inanimate Mickey and
bolted upstairs. I sat down and waited for Gerald
to explain.
He began by saying I was a sensible woman, so I
steeled myself to hear something disagreeable. He
acknowledged that he had fallen in love with Tilly;
but he said that he had not known it until Toby killed
Mickey and made her cry. He did not know whether
she cared for him; and he considered that he could
not ask her unless I gave him permission to do so.
He said that things should remain as they were if I
thought it best.
He looked most dejected, and fiddled with his
moustache.
I had taken his ring off my finger, and when he
finished speaking I gave it back to him.
“ It will have to be made smaller for Tilly," I said.
He stared and stammered, and then he looked in-
decently delighted. I had to laugh or to cry, so I
laughed. Tears do not become me as they do Tilly.
I laughed at his stupidity. I could see he thought
I did not mind giving him up.
“Then it's all right?” he said, offering to shake
hands.
I nodded, and he went off like a shot. I hear he
tells every one I behaved like a brick. I am very
glad he thinks so. My friends say, I behaved like a
fool. They were annoyed because I let Tilly stay


A SENSIBLE WOMAN
263
with me until Captain Ellison took her away; but she
had nowhere to go. General Ellison has not forgiven
his nephew yet. He is one of those who say that
Gerald has gone to the devil. I always reply that he
seems very happy there; and then they call me blas-
phemous.
Tilly is coming here in November to plant rose-trees
on Mickey's grave. I have told her she may bring
her husband if she likes.


AUNT THOMASINA
Last night, at a dance, Mr. Simpson pretended not
to know me. I believe that he speaks of me in terms
that would wither me if they reached my ears. I am
afraid I treated him rather badly. In fact, my hus-
band says there was no excuse for me, and he advises
me not to tell the story. But my husband never lived
with Aunt Thomasina.
Mr. Tredennis asked me to marry him five years
ago, when I was eighteen and he was twenty-two. I
said “Yes," at once. Most girls would say “Yes”
to Peter. Of course, he had no money. I only had
Aunt Thomasina, and we agreed that we could not
live on her. So he went to India to carve out a
career. He left me his photograph and a diamond
ring, which Aunt Thomasina would not let me wear.
She did not recognise our engagement, because Peter
had no money. We were not even allowed to corre-
spond.
For five years I had to live on a week of memories,
a ring, and a photograph which grew rather faded
and shabby as time went on. The memories suffered
a little, too. But the worst thing happened to the
ring — I lost it.
d.
264


AUNT THOMASINA
265
In spite of Aunt Thomasina's prohibition, I had
got into the way of wearing it on occasions when I
particularly wished to remember Peter and my promise
to him. Until I lost it I always had it on when any
one made me an offer of marriage. Of course, I could
not foresee exactly when an offer would be forth-
coming ; but as it happened, I watched its supporting
sparkles when I went blackberrying with Captain
Agincourt, when I met Betty Marsden's brother at
Hurlingham, and when I danced every dance with
Sir Dennis East at the Duchess of Stars' ball. I think
that I must have dropped the ring in a blackberry-bush,
because, though I mentioned Captain Agincourt first,
in point of time he came just before Mr. Simpson.
On my twenty-third birthday, Aunt Thomasina said
she could bear it no longer, and that I should marry
the first man who asked me. I felt sure that, if she
said so, I should. Therefore I reviewed my admirers
more carefully than usual. I had not exactly for-
gotten Peter, but I had outgrown him. I don't know
how else to describe the change that had taken place
in me. From eighteen to twenty-three is a long time,
at least twice as long as from thirty-eight to forty-
three, for instance. Peter, dear boy, had become too
young for me. When I looked at his photograph,
I felt ready to be an elder sister to him. But I knew
that he had seven already. I used to tell myself that
he had grown older, but I never believed it. My Peter
was twenty-two, and had rosy cheeks.


AUNT THOMASINA
267
“ It's an ill wind that blows no one any good,'”
said I.
“A week is a long time," said he, fidgeting from
one foot to the other on the hearthrug.
“ It soon goes,” I sighed.
That night I looked at Peter's photograph, and
wondered whether we should ever meet again. I pic-
tured the meeting. It should take place at a great
reception. He should recognize that he had come
back too late, and his heart should ache at the sight
of my incomparable beauty. Because I did think he
might have written now and then, just to keep my
heart up, in spite of Aunt Thomasina's prohibition.
So I wanted his heart to ache. I wished my incom-
parable beauty had been a matter of fact. But what
my imagination really boggled at was that tiresome
little Mr. Simpson, who, under the circumstances,
would be my husband. You can't invent a really
effective sentimental situation with a man like Mr.
Simpson in the foreground. Besides, Aunt Thomasina
has brought me up in a very old-fashioned way, and
I felt sure that I should not philander with any one
after marriage. That is partly why I did not look
forward to it. As a girl, I have enjoyed many little
episodes that do not concern Peter and Mr. Simpson.
Captain Agincourt and I spent a very agreeable after-
noon among the blackberry-bushes.
While Mr. Simpson was in Scotland we telegraphed
to each other every day. He had proposed writing,


268
AUNT THOMASINA
but I said that a correspondence by telegraph would
be more of a joke. So he consented at once. The
days flew, but each one helped to show me what I
had half-known before. I really could not marry Mr.
Simpson. I knew he would not easily believe it, be-
cause he had said to Aunt Thomasina that I was a
lucky girl. The memory of this remark served to
keep my mind firm when it threatened to give way
and pretend that it would be easier to marry Mr.
Simpson than to throw him over. But I quaked when
I thought of Aunt Thomasina.
The day it all happened she had gone out. I was
waiting in the drawing-room for Mr. Simpson, who
had telegraphed that he would arrive about four. I
looked forward to a painful interview, because about
two hours ago I had despatched his ring and an ex-
planatory letter to his rooms. I hoped he would take
it quietly, and look out for another lucky girl at once.
But I did not feel at all quiet myself, and, while I
waited, I had a great deal of very unpleasant imaginary
conversation. This grew so harrowing that I began
to think of myself as Mrs. Simpson with comparative
relief, when the butler opened the door and announced
some one. I did not catch the name, and, when I
turned round, I did not know the man who came
towards me. At least I thought so.
“Lady Sandway is out," I began.
“Have you forgotten me, Monica ? " said he.
Well, I had, and it was no wonder. I stared and


AUNT THOMASINA
269
stared, and could not believe my eyes. But I knew
his manner, though this, too, had greatly changed.
“Five years is a long time,” I murmured.
“ Is it too long?” he asked hastily. "Am I too
late?”
“Why did you never write?”
“ Because you forbade it.”
“Oh! What a reason!”
He stood there and looked at me, and I looked at
him. Dear Peter! How glad I was to see him again!
Every moment I recognised something I used to know,
and every moment I discovered that the boy had grown
into a man.
“I wish you had never left me your photograph,”
I said.
“Am I too late, Monica? Don't keep me in
suspense.”
Mr. Simpson came in before I could speak. I in-
troduced the two men to each other, and rang for
tea. Until it came we talked of the recent gale, and,
when we were left to ourselves, I started subjects of
burning interest, one on the top of another.
“This is new," said Peter, at length; “I don't re-
member that you used to be keen about politics."
“I am Member for Shrimpington," said Mr. Simp-
son, as if that explained it.
I said that my interest in politics was entirely due
to Aunt Thomasina, who could not go to sleep after
dinner unless I read the debates to her.


270
AUNT THOMASINA
“I'm told I ought to go in for politics, myself,”
said Peter.
I put down the sugar-basin, and looked at him.
“Are you going to stay in England ?” I ex-
claimed.
“Yes. Didn't you know? Polruan is dead, poor
chap. I'm his heir."
“I thought Evans announced a strange name," said
I. “Are you Lord Polruan now, then? What a dif-
ference it will make to Aunt Thomasina !”
“Are you related to Lady Sandway?” asked Mr.
Simpson.
"Not yet,” said Peter. Then he turned to me.
“You'd rather live in England than India ?” he
asked.
“Certainly," I answered;“ but I have always wished
to see India."
“Well, that's not impossible,” whispered Mr. Simp-
son. “What about a wedding journey there?”
“Shall we?” said I to Peter, with an appealing
glance.
“Oh, if you like,” he replied. He has confessed
since that he thought me rather forward.
“What have you done with your ring?" said Mr.
Simpson suddenly. The one he had given me was
very valuable, and I suppose he had just missed it
from my hand.
“I daresay you have lost it,” said Peter good-
naturedly; and I knew he referred to the one of little


AUNT THOMASINA
271
value that he had given me five years ago. I felt
quite pleased to be able to answer straightfor-
wardly.
“I have,” I said, addressing him; “ I'm afraid I
dropped it in a blackberry-bush.”
“Scissors!” said Mr. Simpson. He really said
something much ruder that I should not think of re-
peating. I say "scissors ” myself sometimes.
"Scissors !” said Mr. Simpson; "that ring cost
two hundred pounds, and where do blackberry-bushes
grow in Bruton Street ?”
“Nonsense,” said Peter, who by this time looked
downright angry. He had very old-fashioned ideas,
and did not like to hear a man use strong language
in the presence of a lady. “ The ring didn't cost
twenty pounds. I wasn't worth two hundred when
I bought it.”
Mr. Simpson looked as if a new idea had just
entered his head.
“ Are you the 'childish entanglement'?” he in-
quired.
“ Has that been your description of me, Monica ? ”
said Peter.
I took my courage in my hands and turned to Mr.
Simpson.
“I did not want to explain now — before Lord
Polruan. I wrote to you this morning, and said what
I had to say. The letter is at your rooms."
“But where is the ring ?” he cried.


272
AUNT THOMASINA
“In the letter," I said.
“Do you mean that you want to jilt me? You —
a girl without a penny!”.
I knew he would not behave well. Perhaps I did
not deserve much at his hands, but, at the same time,
many men would not have said the things he tried to
say — until Peter stopped him. He would not believe
that I had written to him before I saw Peter, or even
knew that he had come back from India with a title
and a fortune. He asked me whether Aunt Thomasina
knew of the letter I had written to him, and I had to
confess that she did not.
“Lady Sandway will agree with me that your be-
haviour is disgraceful,” he said.
At that moment Lady Sandway entered the room.
She went straight up to — Peter.
“My dear Lord Polruan," she cooed, “what a
pleasure to see you again!”
“Do you know what has happened, Lady Sand-
way?” blurted out Mr. Simpson at once. “Your
niece has thrown me over.”
“Really!” said Aunt Thomasina. “ Then - ”
Of course, she was a very worldly old lady, but
I never supposed her worldliness would stand me in
such good stead. She threw off Mr. Simpson like an
old glove, just as she had once thrown off poor Peter.
But she admitted later that she never could abide Mr.
Simpson's manners.
“I have just seen Lady Caroline Cadbury," she


AUNT THOMASINA
273
said, still standing, as if she expected Mr. Simpson
to go at once.
“I shall propose to her to-night,” he said savagely.
I suppose he did, because next day she wrote to tell
Aunt Thomasina that she had accepted him, and hoped
I would forgive her, as it was a case of an irresistible
attachment on both sides. I did not see Aunt Tho-
masina's reply.
Peter maintains that I treated Mr. Simpson very
badly. It is all very well; but if I had married Mr.
Simpson, what would have become of Peter?


AN ICONOCLAST
277
MR. B. (uneasily). You're too suspicious, my dear.
Rose. No wonder! Since I left school and you
grew so famous, I've prevented at least six women
from becoming my stepmother. (Indignantly.) I've
no time to establish myself, Dad; you take so much
looking after.
Mr. B. When all's said and done, a man can't be
married against his will.
Rose. Oh! can't he?
MR. B. He must propose to the woman.
Rose. Oh dear no, Dad. Where have you lived ?
MR. B. (looking at his watch). I rather thought
of taking lunch out to-day, on my bicycle. Anything
will do...bread and cheese –
Rose. That's no good, Dad. It only delays mat-
ters. To-day I'm here.
Mr. B. But what can you do, my dear ?
Rose. I must think. (Thinks.)
[Mr. B. takes up ROLAND DE Bohun's letter again
and chuckles over it. Rose looks pensively
at her father. A long silence, broken at last
by Mr. B.
Mr. B. Well, Rose?
Rose. I have an idea. Miss Mortlake, as you
know, is a flopper.
MR. B. A how much?
Rose. A flopper...always on her knees to some
one. Just now it's you. A little while ago it was
Wilkins, the Minor Poet.


278
AN ICONOCLAST
MR. B. Will you set up a new idol for her, then ?
Rose. No; I thought I'd pull down the old one —
if you don't mind, Dad.
Mr. B. My dear girl, you may shatter me in frag-
ments if you please. Anything for a quiet life. There's
the front door.
[He gets up in a flurry and disappears through
a low French window into the garden. The
parlour-maid announces Miss MORTLAKE, an
anæmic-looking young woman with very
round prominent eyes, a restless manner, and
untidy hair. She wears a shocking coat and
skirt, a velveteen hat that has been out in
the rain, and thick square-toed boots.
Miss M. You got my letter, I hope, Miss Berenger.
It is so delightful to come in this informal friendly
way. When I met your father at the New Gallery
last week we somehow began to talk about pilgrimages.
You can't be a moment in Mr. Berenger's company
without talking of something that ennobles the soul,
can you?
Rose. It's not my experience. I only see father at
meals, and then he's usually growling at the food.
It doesn't ennoble my soul. It annoys me. There was
a beautiful steak-pie at breakfast this morning. The
gravy was all jelly and -
Miss M. My dear Miss Berenger! I can't think
of your father in connection with steak-pies and jelly.
I suppose he eats and drinks like other people, though


AN ICONOCLAST
279
one can hardly imagine the creator of “Maud Wy-
vern ” doing anything but dream and write...and per-
haps walk over his own hills...and perhaps read fine
poetry.
Rose. Father reads the Daily Mail, and Punch,
and the Sphere...chiefly, and if he dreams I hear
of it. He says his dinner has disagreed with him.
Miss M. (shudders). But, as I was telling you,
your father spoke of Stratford-on-Avon, he spoke of
Abbotsford, he spoke of Freshwater; and I said boldly,
“ All these may wait for me, Mr. Berenger. When I
put on cockleshells and sandali'd shoon I shall go to
Admers.”
Rose (with her eyes on Miss M.'s boots). And
what did father say?
Miss M. He said you always had lunch at one,
and might come any day by the 12.15. I've trodden
on air ever since. Is this his study? (In a sepulchral
voice.) Was it here that Maud Wyvern lived and
died? Where does he sit? Where does he write?
Let me sit in his chair.
Rose. He sits there... with his feet on the mantel-
piece.
Miss M. How original.
Rose. It's expensive. That mantelpiece was
painted white a month ago. You see the colour now.
You won't find the chair comfortable. All the springs
are broken. Dad weighs thirteen stone, you know.
He'll have no figure left soon.


AN ICONOCLAST
281
Miss M. I never touch wine, Mr. Berenger.
Rose (jumping up). I'll mix your brandy and
water for you, Dad. Dear me, Minton has forgotten
the hot water. (Rings.)
MR. B. Thank you, Rose, I think I won't have it
to-day.
Rose. Oh! you'd better. You're so used to it, you
know. (Mixes a steaming glass and places it as near
as she can to Miss M., who edges away from it in
disgust.)
Miss M. I met a great admirer of yours the other
day, Mr. Beringer; such a cultured woman. She said
she had read “ Maud Wyvern” five times, and when-
ever she came to Maud's death she dissolved in tears.
It is just what I do myself. Did you weep when you
wrote it?
Rose. I can answer that question. (Mr. B. looks
surprised.) Don't you remember, Dad? You came
in to me — chortling. “That'll fetch 'em,” you said.
“ That's good for fifty thousand.” So it has been.
I've had five new hats since Maud Wyvern died.
MR. B. Rose, your imagination runs away with
you.
Miss M. I really should not like to live in the
house with that girl. I wonder if she is quite truth-
ful. A fiendish temper and brandy and water for
lunch. How unlike one's ideal! (Aloud.) I have
always fancied, Mr. Beringer, that in your portrait
of Sir Guy Ferrers you drew largely on yourself.


AN ICONOCLAST
283
Miss M. What anxious work!
Rose. It chiefly consisted in chasing them up
and down stairs. They play at being Red Indians,
and you can hear their yells at the end of the
garden.
Miss M. But how can your father write if you
make such a noise?
Rose. He can't. He waits till we're all in bed.
He sits up half the night, and has breakfast any time.
That's why he's so dyspeptic.
Miss M. Dyspeptic! The author of “ Maud Wy-
vern” dyspeptic!
Mr. B. (returning). Tommy is very much ashamed
of himself, Miss Mortlake. The truth is, that the
tennis-ball was really a tomahawk hurled by Red Eagle,
the terror of the plains, and you can't expect an Indian
chief in the heat of battle to look out for an open
window. In future I have said that I will not have
Red Indians this side of the yew-hedge. They are
too careless.
Miss M. (to herself). Then she does speak the
truth. They do pretend to be Red Indians. What a
very odd idea!
Rose (getting up). Shall we go into the drawing-
room? I suppose you don't mind smoke, Miss Mort-
lake?
Miss M. I'm afraid I do, Miss Berenger. Even
a cigarette gives me vertigo.
Rose. How distressing! I hope stale smoke doesn't,


284
AN ICONOCLAST
because all of our rooms smell of it. Dad has his
pipe whenever he pleases.
Miss M. I never can understand why a man of
refined habits should want to smoke. I don't.
Rose. But you're not a man — of refined habits.
Miss M. It is so impossible to put a self-indulgent
man on a pedestal.
Rose. Well, if I were a man I'd prefer an easy-
chair.
Miss M. But have you no high ideals? The man
I worship must be heroic and austere.
Rose. I suppose it's a matter of taste.
Miss M. It is so thrilling to look up and adore.
Rose. I never tried it.
Miss M. So heart-breaking to see the idol fall.
Rose. There is always the pedestal — and idols
are cheap to-day.
i Miss M. Ah! You have your father's mocking
spirit — the spirit, I mean, of his wonderful, his in-
comparable books. It is odd that his conversation
should be so — 50 —
Rose. Flat. You see, Dad writes at night. He
gets lively after supper.
Miss M. (to herself). Supper! What a house-
hold! What ways. (Aloud.) Does he — then —does
he — drink brandy and water for supper?
Rose. Rather.
Miss M. !!!
[MR. B. comes into the drawing-rooi. Rose gets


'AN ICONOCLAST
287
Mr. B. Poor fellow!
Miss M. (her eyes very round). And he never
touches brandy again.
Mr. B. (stifling a yawn). I should have thought
he wanted some after that.
Miss M. My novels are not flippant, Mr. Berenger.
They are like my life — purposeful and truly inward.
And as my life is, so must my surroundings be. What
I dream of is no doubt rare and difficult to attain.
I want a companion whose lightest word carries a
gospel, and whose every hour is devoted to the im-
provement of the soul; who climbs a little higher
day by day, and lifts me higher too.
MR. B. Well, I hope you'll find him — her — Miss
Mortlake.
Miss M. I have not found him yet. I thought I
had. (Suddenly.) I'm afraid it's time to start if I
am to catch the 3.15.
Enter Rose, with flowers.
Rose. I've gathered you some roses. They won't
live long, but for a day they will remind you of
Admers.
Miss M. Then I will leave them here. I wish to
forget Admers. (Marches out, leaving her astonished
host and hostess staring at each other.)
MR. B. Rose, you little minx, what have you been
saying to her?
Rose. I said you liked your dinner well cooked;
so you do. I said the boys were noisy little demons;


A SKY SIGN
SCENE: A sitting-room on a fourth floor flat in Ken-
sington. Books, flowers, autotypes, copper jars,
honeysuckle cretonne, a Persian carpet, comfort-
able chairs.
FLORA HATHAWAY. I can't see it. Give up the
man you care for because you think a married woman
can't write as much for the magazines as a single one !
I should let the magazines go to -
STELLA Blois. You always caricature one's views,
Flora. I have not said I care for Jack.
FLORA. Said! Hath not a friend eyes? You
needn't get so red. If Captain Daresham worshipped
the ground I trod on
STELLA. It's different for you, Flora. You're a
darling, but you do nothing but dress and flirt and
play the banjo. Now, you ought to marry.
FLORA. If you throw over Captain Daresham I
shall consider him fair game. I have a new toque,
with blue poppies — Aha! You don't like the idea.
Thought you wouldn't.
STELLA. I have drudged and slaved and given up.
I have worked early and late. At last success is
289


A SKY SIGN
291
FLORA. Yes; and directly you did see it you'd want
to give up work and go on with marriage. Ta-ta!
STELLA. Are you going? Stay to tea.
Flora. Is it likely?
[She goes. STELLA sees her to the door, and
then returns to the sitting-room. She stands
still and looks round.
STELLA. How pretty this room is! I can do just
as I like here — lead the life that pleases me — see
the friends I choose — spend my time and money as
I will. Why should I desire any change? Do I
desire any? I wish I knew!
[She sits down and takes up a book, but does
not open it. A little later, a maid-servant
opens the door and shows in a tall, broad-
shouldered young man, whom she announces
as CAPTAIN DARESHAM.
STELLA. Tea, Mary. How d'ye do, Jack?
CAPTAIN D. Many happy returns, Stella! How
jolly this room always looks !
STELLA. It may well look jolly when you fill it
with roses. Thank you so much for them.
[Mary brings in tea. The china is old and del-
icate, the silver very bright. CAPTAIN DAR-
SHAM sits down near the tea-table and
watches STELLA make the tea. Mary goes.
CAPTAIN D. What pretty hands you have, Stella !
STELLA (absently). Have 1? Let me see. You
do take sugar? - one of your old-fashioned ways.


A SKY SIGN
293
you were a blanc-mange. I want you just as you
are — have done for the last two years.
STELLA. You said you wished me more of a fool.
What can that mean if not that you want to shape
me in your own — your own –
CAPTAIN D. In my own image. Thank you, Stella.
I asked for a plain answer, and I suppose I've got it.
STELLA. Why can't you keep your temper, as I do?
CAPTAIN D. Because you might have let me down
more easily.
STELLA. I don't call it nice to say you'll go back
to India to-morrow unless I marry you. Highway-
man manners! Why can't we go on as we are?
CAPTAIN D. Because we can't. At least, I can't.
I want a straight answer. I've waited a long time
for one.
STELLA. Very well — No.
CAPTAIN D. (getting up). Do you mean that?
STELLA. When you look like that, I do.
CAPTAIN D. Good-bye, then.
STELLA. Are you going? Good-bye.
[She averts her head and lets him go without
shaking hands. The bang of a door is heard.
She makes a little rush forward, and then
stops short.
STELLA. Gone! And now I can begin the novel.
(She sits down and stares at a bowl of roses.) It will
have to be a very great novel to make it worth while.
I wonder when he will start for India ? Surely he


294
A SKY SIGN
will come and see me again first. If he didn't - I
should have the novel — which is not begun.
[MARY comes in and removes the tea - things.
Then she returns.
Mary. If you please, mềm, can I go out for half-
an-hour?
STELLA. Certainly.
[She sits down at her writing-table and takes a
note-book from a drawer. Presently the out-
side door bangs again.
STELLA. It is much better so. Marriage would be
very distracting. I believe that the wear and tear of
ordering three meals a day for a man is quite in-
calculable. But I shall miss Jack. India is a long
way off, and the climate never suited him. How pro-
voking men are! They always want to marry every
one directly. As if marriage were the only relation-
ship worth having. Well, I can see my life a long
way ahead now. I shall live here ten months out of
the year and grind away at my writing; the other
two months I shall spend in a Swiss hotel. I shall
get a little older every year, and, as that minx Flora
says, a little uglier. Flora will marry, and then there
will be no one who cares a rap for me. Some day
Jack will come back with a liver and a family. (The
bell rings.) Jack come back already! Oh!
[She rushes to the door and opens it. A SEEDY-
LOOKING SPECTACLED FOREIGNER, in a dilapi-
dated coat, makes his way in before she has


A SKY SIGN
297
a pity! Then I cannot go and see him. Ah! he said
he would help me to return to Hamburg. The fare
is two pounds ten, madam.
STELLA. I thought you said you came from Berlin!
SEEDY-LOOKING F. From Hamburg, madam. The
fare is two pounds ten.
STELLA. I can't give you as much as that. If five
shillings is of any use —
SEEDY-LOOKING F. Five shillings, madam! — to a
man who has served his country — to a colleague —
a man of letters, who has lost his memory!
STELLA (to herself). I don't like it. He has a bad
face. I wonder if I could floor him. He's a little
man, but I've no more muscle than a mouse. I wish
Jack would come back and turn him out. I've no
money in my pocket. I must get some out of the
writing-table drawer. I hate having to walk to the
other end of the room. Suppose he came after me
and knocked me down. But I should hear him move.
Anyhow, I must do it to get rid of him.
[She gets up and walks hurriedly to the writing-
table. The moment her back is turned, her
visitor rises softly and steals to a table
covered with silver knick-knacks. He puts
two or three in his pocket. STELLA sees this
in a small mirror.
STELLA (to herself). A common thief. I knew it.
What shall I do? Get past him and lock him in? The
key is on this side of the door. Perhaps I had better


A SKY SIGN
299
CAPTAIN D. I hope so.
STELLA. I must buy a pistol and a dagger and
keep them within reach.
[A long silence.
STELLA. Why did you come back, Jack?
CAPTAIN D. Why did you let that blackguard in?
STELLA. I thought it was you. I flew to the door,
and —
CAPTAIN D. Oh! you thought it was me and you
flew to the door! Then you wanted me to come back?
STELLA. I'm always glad to see you.
CAPTAIN D. (gravely). Look here, Stella. You
mustn't play with me any longer; it's not good enough
for either of us; either I go, altogether, or I stay,
and we get married at once. Which is it to be?
STELLA (smiling and putting her hand in his). I
don't know what you mean by “at once,” Jack; but
if you object to machine-stitching, as I do, your hand-
sewn things take – You never let me finish a sen-
tence!
[Mary is heard letting herself in at the outside
door, and speaking to some one else there.
A moment later Flora HATHAWAY walks in
without announcement. She perceives that
she should not have done so.
FLORA. I forgot my – Oh!


WALL-PAPERS
301
it by all means, if that's what you like, but don't
expect me to sit in the room.
CYNTHIA. I'm afraid there won't be a room in
the house we can sit in together. Surely we shall
find that inconvenient. ..
MR. E. What's the matter with the dining-room?
Cynthia. There would have been nothing the
matter with it if you had left it to me. Aunt Sabrina
recommended that beautiful carpet...
Mr. E. I draw the line at a mustard-coloured
carpet. You've got yellow curtains in there, and very
odd they'll look. Red's the colour for a dining-room.
Cynthia. What an early Victorian idea!
MR. E. And, by the way, Cynthia, I went into
Bunthorn's yesterday and saw the chairs you'd chosen,
and I said I'd speak to you about them. They won't
do, you know. And where's the sense of a board on
trestles, instead of a properly made table? I'm not
a mediæval baron.
CYNTHIA. No; but you can try to live like one.
MR. E. Perhaps you'd like your floor strewn with
rushes and lighted by torches.
CYNTHIA. I should. Even a suburban drawing-
room in the nineteenth century might look beautiful
by torchlight.
MR. E. Well, we'd better get back to our papers.
Dawkins will be here directly. He said five o'clock.
How about this one? Poppies.
[Cynthia starts so hastily to her feet that her


302
WALL-PAPERS
skirt catches the corner of the plank and pulls
it from the trestles. Mr. Eliot jumps up
too. The plank falls on the floor with a good
deal of noise.
MR. E. What is the matter with you this afternoon,
Cynthia ?
CYNTHIA. I might ask that of you, I think. Pop-
pies!
[Mr. Eliot stares at her as if he really thinks
she has taken leave of her senses.
CYNTHIA. Have you quite forgotten that a year
ago you were nearly...engaged...to a Poppy?
MR. E. (firmly). I had quite forgotten it at the
moment. I generally do when I am with you, and
it was never the near thing you make out.
CYNTHIA. But you want to surround me with
flowers that will constantly recall her.
MR. E. They won't do anything of the sort. Be-
sides, she's married.
CYNTHIA. What has that to do with it?
Mr. E. Really, Cynthia, if you can't trust me not
to philander after married women —
CYNTHIA. (teasingly). Yes...if... what then?
Mr. E. Oh! never mind. Come, choose this wall-
paper.
CYNTHIA. Aunt Sabrina says a woman ought to
die rather than marry a man who does not swear
she is his first and only love. Could you swear that,
Jack, to Aunt Sabrina ?


WALL-PAPERS
305
Mr. E. Very likely...But we're not going to make
the experiment.
Cynthia. We should know each other better if
we waited. When Mr. Allpress proposed to Mabel,
Aunt Sabrina told him to come again in two years.
Mr. E. Yes, and you know what happened.
CYNTHIA. Mabel found out that Mr. Allpress did
not really care for her. Aunt Sabrina says it was a
most lucky escape.
Mr. E. Does Mabel see it in that light?
CYNTHIA. No. She droops, poor dear. I'm afraid
she doesn't quite understand or value her mother.
MR. E. (laughs rather unkindly). Allpress told
me the whole story. He got sick of waiting, or of
Aunt Sabrina's little ways, and married some one else.
I don't blame him much.
CYNTHIA. If you mean that for a threat, Jack —
MR. E. Why, dearest girl, I mean nothing.... But
I shan't keep my temper much longer.
CYNTHIA. I sometimes think Aunt Sabrina is right.
It is a great mistake to marry at all, and to marry
a man who can't even keep his temper might be most
unpleasant. Aunt Sabrina says -
MR. E. Damn Aunt Sabrina!
CYNTHIA. She says that if I broke off my engage-
ment to you she would go back to Little Steeple happy.
(Plays with the ring on the third finger of her left
hand.)
MR. E. Very well, Cynthia. You must decide


WALL-PAPERS
307
DAWKINS. Just as we arranged it, sir. You'll find
it's all right. You can sign it now, if you like, and
this young lady can witness it. Save you the trouble
of posting it. I've got a fountain pen in my
pocket.
MR. E. Oh! have you? I've often thought of
getting one myself. (Takes the paper and unfolds it,
and pretends to read it.)
DAWKINS (handing him the pen). 'Ere you
are, sir. Just there, if you please; and the young
lydy's nyme beneath yours. You see it's all right,
sir. We've put in that there clause“ in case of
fire.”
MR. E. Very well, Mr. Dawkins, I'll just glance
through it. By the way, I'm afraid there's something
wrong with the hot-water cistern on the top landing.
I wish you'd have a look at it.
DAWKINS. There's nothing wrong with no cisterns
in this 'ouse, sir. But I'll have a look. (Goes.)
Mr. E. Well, Cynthia ? Am I to sign it?
CYNTHIA. Are you obliged to, Jack?
MR. E. (to himself). Jack, indeed...and her usual
voice. Then it's all right after all. (Aloud.) It
comes to that. I've agreed to take it, and half the
decorations are done. Well, you know.
CYNTHIA. You can't live in it by yourself.
MR. E. Certainly not.
CYNTHIA. What a pity you have no sisters !
MR. E. (looks at her, takes a sudden resolution, and


308
WALL-PAPERS
affixes his signature to the deed. Then he hands
the pen to CYNTHIA). Write your name there, Cyn-
thia.
CYNTHIA (writing). But now the house is yours,
and you must live in it.
MR. E. Or sub-let it.
CYNTHIA. It isn't every one's house. It just suited
us, but —
MR. E. Then come and live in it.
CYNTHIA. Oh, Jack! I want to.
MR. E. Have scarlet wall-papers and orange
carpets...
CYNTHIA. I don't mind what we have if only I
can be here — with you. I'm so glad you asked me
— and we'll go to Ullswater and not to Paris.
Mr. E. We might manage both.
CYNTHIA. I don't care about Paris; but Aunt
Sabrina said that if we went to a quiet place you'd
hate me in a week.
Mr. E. My dear girl, I'll buy you what you please,
and go where you please, and say what you please.
But -
CYNTHIA (meekly). Yes, Jack.
MR. E. Don't quote Aunt Sabrina. She nearly
parted us this afternoon. Sh! take care — here's this
old god out of the machine who joined us together
again. If it hadn't been for his agreement — Well,
Mr. Dawkins ?
DAWKINS (scornfully). What did you think was


MRS. SPETTIGUE
311
On hearing this Mrs. Spettigue went to the best
shop in Ashfield, the nearest big town, and bought a
handsome bonnet made of black sequins and trimmed
with upstanding feathers. She had not been to Ash-
field for a long while, because two years ago there
had been a very serious and disgraceful bank crash
there, and Mr. Spettigue had lost a hundred pounds
by it. He had no children and was well off, so he
did not feel the loss much; but Mrs. Spettigue took
it very hard, and said that a town in which such people
as the Eliots could prosper was not the town for the
wife of the Vicar of Potley; and she consistently
carried her custom to Elmford as long as it was
convenient to do so. But the Ashfield milliners were
superior to the Elmford milliners, and when it came
to a bonnet that might make an impression on the
Bishop of Rye, Mrs. Spettigue said Christians must
not be vindictive, and took a train to Ashfield the
same afternoon. For if the Bishop liked the bonnet
and Mr. Spettigue he might be persuaded to offer
Mr. Spettigue the adjacent living of Nuthall which
had just fallen vacant. The drawing-room at Nuthall
was twice the size of the drawing-room at Potley,
and the drive had a self-respecting sweep, and the
squire, who lived close by, had married the second
cousin of a duke, a lady devoted, like Mrs. Spettigue
herself, to good works and the improvement of other
people. Mrs. Spettigue thought that life at Nuthall
would suit her exactly. Before she started for Swit-


MRS. SPETTIGUE
313
and Mrs. Spettigue found that a determined woman
might govern it as easily as she governed her hus-
band's parish. She led the conversation, and organ-
ised expeditions, and checked the advances of foreign-
ers, and took care that people were treated according
to their deserts. At Potley accidental advantages, like
brains or wit or beauty, did not count, and Mrs.
Spettigue made more of Sir Lucas Bunn, the notorious
and successful company promoter, who had lately
bought Ashfield Towers and furnished it from kitchen
to garret, than she did of Mr. Aspland, a mere well-
known war correspondent. In London Mr. Aspland
was welcome in houses that refused to receive Sir
Lucas Bunn; but London is not Potley, and its hall-
mark was always carefully ignored by Mrs. Spettigue.
“He may be the best war correspondent in Europe,”
she said to Sir Lucas, “but I am told that his uncle
has a chemist's shop. In Potley we judge people
by their station in life. Any other test I consider
irreligious.”
Of course Mrs. Spettigue had found out when the
Bishop was expected, and which rooms he and his
chaplain would occupy, and where his meals would
be served; and as the time of his visit drew near
she became rather restless, and with regard to the
guests at her table more inclined than ever to winnow
the chaff from the grain. In the dining-room she
always sat at the head of the long centre table, and
the English guests she countenanced gathered near


MRS. SPETTIGUE
315
them if they would help with a concert she wished
to organise in order to pay for the publication in
Dutch and English of two tracts against strong drink
and tobacco, written by her husband, for equal dis-
tribution in South Africa amongst our godless and
profligate soldiery and our fellow-Christians the Boers.
Mrs. Spettigue never tried to find out whether the
people she harangued were likely to agree with her;
indeed, she had never asked herself whether there
was any one in the world worth considering who
did not.
But next day the young people found their places
set at a side table opposite a German professor and
his wife. They made no objection at the time, for
their new neighbours were more amiable and enter-
taining and better bred than Mrs. Spettigue. But
afterwards it occurred to them that they were the only
English people in the hotel who sat beside foreign-
ers, and by the time they had been in the hotel a
week they were both alive to the unpleasant fact that
their country folk made every effort to avoid them.
As they were on their wedding journey and were in
love with each other they were, of course, not anxious
for society; but even honey-mooners do not wish to
be shunned as if they were infectious or criminal.
“Sir Lucas Bunn turned his back on me to-day,"
said the husband; "at home I should turn my back
on Sir Lucas Bunn.”
“I was sorry I did not come with you this morning,”


316
MRS. SPETTIGUE
said his wife." "I went into the woods at the back
of the hotel and sat down on a bench near Mrs.
Spettigue and Miss Nixey. Directly I did so Mrs.
Spettigue tossed her head and said, “We didn't bar-
gain for this,' and they got up and walked away.
Then I met Poppy Beyer, and asked her to play
croquet, but she refused — rather uncivilly I thought
— and five minutes later I saw her playing with that
pasty-faced schoolmaster and his wife. It really isn't
fancy as you said at first, Jack. They stare at us,
and they whisper about us, and they leave us out.
There must be some mistake, and we ought to set it
right. Of course it is absurd and unimportant, but
at the moment it is disagreeable. Here comes poor
little Mr. Spettigue, and there is Mr. Nixey just
behind him. Can't you get hold of one or the other?”
"I don't see how I can,” said Jack doubtfully.
Nevertheless, as Mr. Spettigue toddled their way,
Jack got up, and his wife watched the two men ap-
proach each other. She saw the wizened vicar glance
one way and another, and suddenly swerve, and then
trot forward again to a distant corner of the terrace
where his wife sat with some of her friends. Jack
strolled slowly on, and soon met Mr. Nixey, a good-
humoured self-important person, the mayor of a small
manufacturing town. He looked uncomfortable, but
he plodded on past Jack, and took no notice at all of
the young man's salutation. So Jack returned to his
wife, and the words he used may be easily imagined.


MRS. SPETTIGUE
317
“Mrs. Spettigue is excited about something," said
Jack's wife. “She is scolding her husband, and point-
ing at us. Shall we leave to-night, Jack? It is really
unpleasant here. Shall we come upstairs now?”
“No,” said Jack, “I've just ordered coffee, and
we'll have it here, and we'll keep to our plans, and
these people shall mend their manners or I'll know the
reason why.”
“Mrs. Spettigue is getting up,” said his wife; and
she rose herself and looked alarmed. “She is coming
across the terrace — to us — oh, Jack!”.
“Sit still, Mary,” ordered her husband, half laugh-
ing, half angry.
So Mary sat down again, and the young couple
waited while Mrs. Spettigue marched solemnly across
the broad gravel terrace. When she reached their
table she seated herself between them, but they looked
at the scenery and not at her, and they did not speak.
Their apparent sang-froid annoyed her, and her man-
ner became more aggressive.
“I think your name is Eliot,” she said to Jack.
“ It is,” said he.
“You come from Ashfield in - shire?”
“I do."
“My husband is the Vicar of Potley. We do not
visit with Ashfield people, but we hear a good deal
about them.”
“ Indeed!”
“Need I say more? ” asked Mrs. Spettigue.


318
MRS. SPETTIGUE
“Just as you like,” said Jack; and then the coffee
arrived and made a diversion.
“ It is the sudden arrival of the Bishop that renders
the position so unpleasant,” said Mrs. Spettigue when
the hotel servant had departed.
“Has the Bishop arrived ? ” asked Mrs. Eliot, look-
ing up for the first time.
“He is walking up the hill,” said Mrs. Spettigue.
“ The vicar met him and hurried back to tell me.
He has come a week earlier than we expected. I
hoped that you might go, and that I might not be
forced to perform this distressing duty. But as Pot-
ley is so near Ashfield, and as I know all about you
and feel responsible to the Bishop — surely you see
- the fact is, you ought never to have come to this
hotel. I have felt compelled to warn people, and they
have been grateful.”
“The Bishop —” began Mrs. Eliot, but her hus-
band checked her with a glance and spoke himself.
“You seem to be a silly, officious woman,” he said
to Mrs. Spettigue; and she floundered to her feet,
red in the face, and spluttering with wrath.
"Can you deny that you come straight from
prison?” she exclaimed, “any one can see it by your
hair.” And she turned her back abruptly on the hus-
band and wife, gathered up the little vicar, and hur-
ried on to meet the Bishop who, she reckoned, must
now be near the top of the hill.
Five minutes after she had been presented to him


MRS. SPETTIGUE
319
she was in the midst of her story. The Bishop heard
of the infamous bank smash, and of the vicar's loss,
and of the trial and the conviction, and of Mrs. Spet-
tigue's horror when the felon and his wife arrived at
the hotel, and of Mrs. Spettigue's efforts to get rid
of them.
“But are you quite sure,” said the Bishop. “Eliot
is a common name, and I myself - "
“Quite sure,” interrupted Mrs. Spettigue, treating
the Bishop as she treated her husband, with firmness
and a spice of contempt,“ the man owns to it.”
“ Then there is nothing more to be said,” observed
the Bishop.
“If they have any shame left they will take them-
selves off,” said Mrs. Spettigue, and when she got
back to the terrace she looked anxiously ahead.
“ The impudence," she gasped," they are still sit-
ting there," and with the point of her parasol she
denounced the pair. The Bishop stopped short.
“Do you say that young man told you he was a
released convict?” he asked; and Mrs. Spettigue did
not like his tone at all.
" James Eliot, the son of the fraudulent bankrupt,
his father's accomplice,” she murmured.
“Nonsense,” said the Bishop; “ that young man is
John Eliot, and he is a captain in the — shire Fusi-
liers, quartered for some time now in Ashfield, and
three weeks ago he married my niece; and her brother
is the new rector of Nuthall.”


322 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON
Haverstock had been dangling after Pamela ever since
her first ball, eight months ago. He should dangle
no longer. With the help of the cotillon he could easily
be brought to the point on New Year's Eve.
Mrs. Greenfield was not the woman to urge on a
reluctant suitor. Her daughter possessed both money
and good looks. Mr. Haverstock had paid his court
to Pamela with much persistence, and would, doubt-
less, have declared himself long ago if he had received
the encouragement he deserved. But with vexatious
folly Pamela fluttered from him, spoke of him mock-
ingly, said he was bald, stout, and stupid. As if a
stupid man could make his income! and as if slim
young men were not a step farther every morning
towards the time when they, too, would be bald and
stout! Of course, there was some one with whom
Pamela compared James Haverstock — to his disad-
vantage. When she spoke of young men in the ab-
stract her mother knew that she saw their engaging
qualities in a concrete specimen whose name was
Charles Ludlow, and who had nothing but his good
looks to recommend him. He had painted one suc-
cessful picture, and the art critics sometimes tore him
to pieces and sometimes patted him on the back. One
picture is not much to marry on. Pamela said that his
studio was crowded with masterpieces, all of which
would sell for immense sums when they were finished;
and that his friend on the Mayfair Gossip had prom-
ised to cut him up so savagely that the town would


WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON
325
figure Pamela, as daughter of the house, was con-
stantly asked to take a part. So, when Mr. Haver-
stock carried the ribbons first to her he only imitated
a dozen other men. There was nothing remarkable in
that little attention.
There were one or two figures after this in which
Pamela neglected her chances. Then she sat down
in the centre of the room with a small mirror in her
hand, while Uncle Fritz brought one young man after
another to stand behind her chair. If she did not like
his reflection she wiped it away, and he retired. A
little row of rejected aspirants were waiting aside
already when Mr. Haverstock came forward. Mrs.
Greenfield thought she noted a slight accession of in-
terest on some faces as he bent over the back of
Pamela's chair so that the girl could see his image in
the glass. For the moment Mrs. Greenfield wished
him less portly and plain. But she forgot the wish in
her immediate indignation when she beheld her daugh-
ter's conduct. Pamela wiped him viciously out of the
glass, and then got up to dance with Charles Ludlow,
who strolled forward smilingly and put his arm round
Pamela's waist as if it belonged there. Mrs. Green-
field heard one or two people call them a handsome
couple, and she reflected that it is easy to put a high
value on good looks with regard to a marriage in which
you have no interest. She felt anxious and angry.
She knew Mr. Haverstock to be a vain man, and she
saw that he had turned very glum.


326 WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON
But the worst was still to come, and for this bad
business Mrs. Greenfield never forgave her brother
Fritz. How could he presume to introduce a figure
that she had not sanctioned ? one that she considered
vulgar, and, at any rate, unsuitable in an English
drawing-room. If only she could have stopped
him! But, although she was tall enough to see every-
thing that went on, she really stood behind a
close little crowd. She could not push her way
through or attract Fritz's attention without dis-
turbing people and making more of a fuss than she
liked.
Fritz had thrust a little basket into Pamela's hands,
and told her in a loud voice that she must present it
to one of the two gentlemen he would straightway
bring to her. With the other she would dance. The
Germans looked on and smiled. Some of the English
people were evidently puzzled and, seeing this, that
blundering, foolish Fritz must needs explain to them
that the German idiom" to give a basket,” means, in
ordinary language, to dismiss a suitor. He then smiled
amiably at his sister, readjusted his pince-nez, and
summoned Mr. Haverstock and secondly Charles Lud-
low. Mrs. Greenfield could hardly believe that he
made his choice by accident.
The two men were certainly a great contrast to
each other, and no one was much surprised when
Pamela, with a self-possessed little curtsey, offered
the basket to Mr. Haverstock. But a good many


WITH HELP OF THE COTILLON
327
people would have felt rather sorry for him if he had
not been unwise enough to show temper. He almost
snarled at Pamela; he threw the basket back to Fritz
instead of dancing round with it as by rights he should
have done, and he strutted back to his place muttering
that he had played the fool enough for one night.
Perhaps he had. At any rate, it is not unnatural that
a portly, middle-aged man should object to waltz with
a basket for a partner. Mr. Haverstock left the house
a little later in a furious temper, and with the lowest
opinion of foreign pastimes.
There were several new figures after this, all of
which gave Charles and Pamela their opportunities.
By the time the last round came, every one in the
room knew which coat would sport Pamela's favour,
and which hand would accept Charles Ludlow's bunch
of flowers. At the finish, when each couple had taken
their turn in this popular figure, there was one favour
left, and one bunch of flowers. The guests looked at
Pamela. Pamela looked at Uncle Fritz. Then, as he
signed to the musicians to strike up again, she tripped
to the denuded sofa-cushion, possessed herself of the
solitary favour, and pinned it on Charles Ludlow's
coat. He presented her with the flowers. They
whispered, nodded to each other smilingly, and danced
down the room to Mrs. Greenfield. Other couples
had arisen and were joining in the final waltz. Amid
the hubbub the two young people could speak to the
mistress of the house unheard.





; THE FIERY DAWN
By M. E. COLERIDGE
AUTHOR OF "THE KING WITH TWO FACES," "NON SEQUITUR," ETC.
Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.50
• Here is an able and cleverly written romance of modern French life during
a stirring and troublous period."-OUTLOOK, N. Y.
“A historical tale which is dramatic and interesting enough to keep the lov-
ers of such narrative happy for a time. It is full of action and mystery, alive
with adventurous deeds and their fascination. It has romance, pathos and the
vivid coloring of Dumas."-COURIER-JOURNAL, Louisville, Ky.
"There are many historical romances written to-day, and few that have any
genuine originality. ... The Fiery Dawn' is an exception to this more
or less general rule, for it has some originality, some poetry and several charm-
ing characters ... it has freshness, poetry, and in touches, the genuine
spirit of romance."-COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, N. Y.
THE GOLD-STEALERS
A STORY OF WADDY
By EDWARD DYSON
AUTHOR OF “BELOW AND ON TOP," ETC.
With 8 Full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.50
" Boys who are fond of tales of adventure will lose no time in reading.The
Gold-Stealers.'"-TRANSCRIPT, Boston, MASS.
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full of stirring incidents in the 'gold fields' of Australia."
-CHRONICLE-TELEGRAPH, PITTSBURGH, PA.
“A very bright and entertaining story of life among the miners at Waddy,
Australia."-St. Louis GLOBE-DEMOCRAT.
"A thrilling tale of adventure in the Australian mining fields. There is a
pretty love element in the romance, also a touch of characteristic boy life, and
the atmosphere is breezy and exhilarating. The story is generously illustrated."
-St. Louis REPUBLICAN.
"The characters of the rough mining lads are well drawn, and there is much
of a light, amusing character in the incidents of the story. A little love-story
between one of the lads and a daughter of a miner is woven into the texture of
the tale. Altogether it is a well-constructed and well-written story."
-BROOKLYN EAGLE.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.


THE WHIRLIGIG
By MAYNE LINDSAY
AUTHOR OF "THE VALLEY OF SAPPHIRES"
With 8 full-page Illustrations by Maurice Grieffenhagen
Crown 8vo, $1.25
“Crisp and clever diction, thrilling yet always possible situations, with
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romance."-LLOYDS' News.
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sion of events. The story is well told and holds the interest. ... The story
while discoursing of dangerous things does it lightly and with a skillful hand."
-COURIER-JOURNAL, LOUISVILLE, Ky.
“Makes stirring reading ... the action takes place within three days,
and the reader is carried along breathlessly from one chapter to another."
-CHICAGO TRIBUNE.
" And surely it is a Whirligig' which Mayne Lindsay has devised, abun-
dant in well-preserved mystery, with the proper amount of sword-play and the due
complement of broken heads, and full of exciting yet possible situations. Mr.
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ter drawing."-DETROIT FREE Press.
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here provided for the hero."-CHICAGO EVENING Post.
"A sparkling, very prettily turned little romance, whimsical and pictur-
esque."—New YORK TIMES.
“Among stories of adventure it would be hard to match · The Whirligig.'
... It starts in a quiet, if unconventional, way, but once fairly launched on
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the very end. It is a story to thrill the pulses and keep one on the edge of
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" There is no dozing or drowsing to be done over this novel. It is a swiftly
moving tale of breathless excitement. It is drawn according to a familiar pat-
tern; but it has merits of its own that will compel the attention and absorbed
interest of every reader who once takes it up. The writer is new, but should
soon become well known and popular, if he can do this sort of thing again."
-PHILADELPHIA TIMES.
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CHARLOTTE
By MRS. L. B. WALFORD
Crown 8vo, 382 pages, $1.50
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“ The scene vacillates pleasantly between London at its season's height,
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interplay of light and shadow and commingling of comedy and tragedy.
From an artistic standpoint the book is a clever creation, vivid and real.”
--Chicago Post.
“ This is a study of a young lady who is not at all good, but who, as not
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• . an extremely readable novel."-COURIER, LEBANON, PA.
THE HINDERERS
By EDNA LYALL
Crown 8vo, 81.00
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---ARMY AND NAVY REGISTER, WASHINGTON, D. C.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & co., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.


IN SPITE OF ALL
By EDNA LYALL
AUTHOR OF “DONOVAN," “ DOREEN," "HOPE, THE HERMIT," ETC., ETC.
Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.50
" The days when England was rent with civil war, when Puritan and Cava.
lier fought for Parliament and King; when Cromwell's Roundheads struggled
heroically against the lawless Charles and finally won—this is the period chosen
for this splendid story ... while of necessity there is abundance of war, the
story is, above all, one of love-tried and triumphant ... Finely written,
full of striking pictures of men and events.
The book is full of people with whom each of us is familiar through reading
history, and every one of them is drawn with rare fidelity to truth. The tale
should have a hearty welcome from all classes of readers."
-NASHVILLE AMERICAN.
“The romance ... the familiar one of a Royalist maiden and a Puritan
lover who espoused the cause of the people ... is of deep interest and the
story thrills with the excitement of conflicts and adventures, mingled with the
gentle influences of love.
The book is pleasing in all respects, and the story is exceedingly well told.
holding interest to the end."-EVERY EVENING, WILMINGTON, DEL.
“ This story of 532 pages is one which will win its thousands of readers, as a
story of love and trial, war and separation, must when handled with the skill
which this author's training has given her."-MAIL AND EXPRESS, N. Y.
" It has much historic interest ... A pretty romance holds the reader's
interest all through the book. The hero is a Puritan, while the girl he loves,
Hilary, as sweet and wilful and true a maid as could have been found in those
stormy times, is a bishop's niece and therefore a Royalist in all her sympathies.
There are strong dramatic scenes in the book-the battlefield and the political
intrigue of court life are portrayed and also the religious strife existing at the
time. The bigotry of the Church and the fanaticism of many of the Puritans is
well portrayed. The book, like all that this author has written, is interesting
and wholesome."-REPUBLICAN, DENVER, COL.
“The story is clean, pure and wholesome, has plenty of adventure and a
goodly amount of love-making, and is written in an easy, pleasant strain that
makes it an entertaining book."-BALTIMORE AMERICAN.
" Is well worth the reading."-CHURCHMAN, N. Y.
" The high moral tone of the book and its historical accuracy will commend
it to the better class of novel readers."-CONGREGATIONALIST, Boston.
“The latest book by Edna Lyall may safely be said to be one of the best of
recent historical novels."-BOSTON TRANSCRIPT.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK


HOPE THE HERMIT
A ROMANCE OF BORROWDALE.
By EDNA LYALL,
AUTHOR OF "DOREEN," " WAYFARING MEN," ETC.
Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50.
* When Edna Lyall wrote this book she stepped into the front rank of living novelists.
It exemplifies the finest type of historical romance, which is, of course, the highest form of
fictious literature. The scene of the story is one of the loveliest which could have been
chosen, the lake region of England. ... Her story is full of life and incident, and at
the same time conveys lessons of high morality. ... Altogether this is one of the
healthiest, purest, best, and most powerful romances in the whole range of English
literature."-LIVING CHURCH, CHICAGO.
“Miss Bayly ... by careful examination of her authorities has been able to con.
struct an uncommonly good romance of the days when brother's hand was against brother.
It is distinctly good work-a stirring story and in every way creditable to the author."
- PUBLIC OPINION, NEW YORK.
"The characters are well drawn, never mere puppets. There is a coherent, well-
thought-out, and carefully developed plot, and the style is clear and straightforward. The
story is wholesome and interesting, and much better worth reading than a good many of
the so-called 'stories of adventure.' "-BEACON, BOSTON.
“There are few novelists of the present day whose writings are better known and liked
than those of Edna Lyall. They are always clean, pure and wholesome, and delightful read-
ing. The latest, Hope the Hermit,' deals with her favorite period, the seventeenth century.
We have the revolution, the accession of William and Mary, and the Jacobite plots, and
among the real characters introduced are Archbishop Tillotson, Lady Temple and George
Fox, the Quaker. ... The story ends as all love stories should, to be perfectly satisfactory
to the average novel reader, and 'Hope the Hermit' will find many readers, who are fond
of a good story well told.'-ADVERTISER, PORTLAND, ME.
“She is quite at home with her theme. ... It is a fine historical novel, admirably
written, and one of her best books."'-LITERARY WORLD, BOSTON,
" ... is one of those delightful stories that have made the author very popular
and that one can take up with the absolute certainty of finding nothing unclean or repel-
lent. It is a clear, strong, well-designed, refreshing story, based upon scenes and events
in the days of William and Mary of England-days when a man could hardly trust his own
brother, and when sons were on one side in a rebellion, and the father on the other....
Many of the situations are very exciting, the characters are admirably drawn, and the whole
telling of the story is entertaining, grateful and artistic. We regard it as quite as good as
'Donovan,' and the other popular stories by the same author."-BUFFALO COMMERCIAL.
"Miss Bayly has kept her pages clean and white. The book is preeminently suitable
to the shelves of a circulating library, as well as to the reading-table under the family lamp.
It not only entertains, but gives historical data in a pleasantly impressive manner
we have, notwithstanding a few extravagances, a very fascinating story, enlivened by the
admitted license of the writer of romance."-HOME JOURNAL, NEW YORK.
"This latest work of Miss Bayly has all the qualities which have won her popularity in
the past. The book should have a considerable vogue, appealing, as it does, not only to
those who like quick action, plenty of adventure, and much picturesqueness, but also to
those who have a cultivated literary palate."--DISPATCH, RICHMOND, VA.
“ .... is one of the best specimens of Edna Lyall's talent for telling a good story
in engaging style. ... The reader's attention is held throughout."
-PRESS, PHILADELPHIA.
“There is much in this book to commend it. It is original and has great activity,
. Miss Lyall possesses literary talent, and her style is clear, and, to one unfamiliar
with her writings, this latest production will be a delightful treat. The reader will put it
down delighted with the story, refreshed by the study of the merits and faults of its charac-
ters, and cogitating upon the great events which, during the making of English history.
followed quickly one upon another toward the close of the seventeenth century."
-PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK


THE DUKE
A NOVEL
By J. STORER CLOUSTON
AUTHOR OF "THE LUNATIC AT LARGE"
Crown 8vo, $1.25
"A book that is brimful of the richest quality of pure Celtic humor. The fic-
titious duke gets into any number of scrapes, all of them laughable, but the real
duke finds himself embarrassed by the immediate consequences, and is forced at
last to reclaim his title from the Irish adventurer. ... The book, after keep-
ing one convulsed for two hours with mingled smiles and broad laughter, ends
happily and up to the standard of exacting convention.
- JOURNAL, Detroit, Mich.
" It is cleverly told and far better worth attention than nine out of ten of the
serious efforts to portray human life and character."
-JOURNAL, PROVIDENCE, R. I.
" It is a well-written tale and absorbingly interesting."
PICAYUNE, New Orleans, LA.
“One of the most attractive books of the season. The characters are well
drawn, and there is a kind of deuce-take-it in the telling of the story that con-
duces much to the excellence of the story."-COURIER, BOSTON, MASS.
"The situation is intensely comic ... the upshot of the Duke of Gran-
don's experiment is not only genuinely droll, but has the sentimental interest
which we suppose is indispensable in the average novel. The book might make
a laughable play."-NEW YORK TRIBUNE.
“Mr. Clouston certainly has written along original lines in his newest book.
... Mr. Clouston's story is interesting. It is told in a direct, forcible man-
ner. The manners and cus
customs of the English people of the time are pictured
as they really were. His principal characters are real flesh and blood creatures,
with all the envy, hatred and hero-worship that go to make the average human
being."-NEW YORK PRESS.
“ The story is most ingenious, well told, and interesting, and the humor is
not too strained."-NEWS, INDIANAPOLIS, IND.
"A most entertaining story ... the telling of the story is so bright and
original that the interest increases on each page, and the reader is kept in a state
of wonderment as to how it will all end...''There are few novels which
are so entertaining and no one can read it and come to the end without wishing
that Mr. Clouston had made it a little longer."-SAN FRANCISCO BULLETIN,
" It is replete with humor and amusing situations."-CHICAGO Post.
“ The story is admirably told and is full of humor."
-SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.
"A brisk, well told, vivacious story."-BROOKLYN Times.
“ The style is so brisk, the dialogue so crisp, and the incidents so dramatic.
that the book contains a clever and amusing comedy ready for transfer to the
stage. It is an amusing novel, which anyone may read with pleasure."
-CHRONICLE TELEGRAPH, PITTSBURG, PA
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.


FIANDER'S WIDOW
By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL)
AUTHOR OF "THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS," "YEOMAN FLEETWOOD," ETC.
Crown 8vo, ornamental cover, $1.50
" Is an altogether delightful story. ... If more of such novels were
written, pure, wholesome and bracing, redolent of everything that is pleasant
to the senses, the world would be all the better."-BRISTOL MERCURY.
"An idyll of Dorsetshire life, as natural and fresh and wholesome as the old
stone dairy in which some of the scenes take place. ... The book is redo-
lent of the charm of English country life, pure and sweet, as it were, with the
scent of the gorse and the breath of the kine, of all things that are wholesome
and homely and good."-COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, NEW YORK..
"One of the most charming of recently published works of fiction. ...
The plot has an appetizing freshness about it, and more than once the unexpected
happens."-CHICAGO EVENING Post.
" Here is a story of life in rural England well worth reading, because of the
curious social conditions it describes, and yet these, though well set forth, are
only incidental to the main theme, which is a delightful study, involving much
humor and no tragedy, of the belated coming of love to an earnest, warm-
hearted woman. It is brightly, lightly done, and yet holds the attention and
contains sufficient to provoke thought.”- PUBLIC LEDGER, Phila.
“A truly delightful bucolic comedy. The theme might almost be called
farcial, but the treatment is delicate, quaint and graceful. Old Isaac, the rustic
bachelor who narrowly escapes matrimony from a sense of duty, is a Dorset-
shire original and deserves to rank with the best rustics of Hardy, Blackmore,
and Philpotts. The story is prettily told and is wholesomely amusing. Mrs.
Blundell is always careful in her literary workmanship; this tale will add to the
popular appreciation of her work."-OUTLOOK, N. Y.
“ An altogether charming tale. ... There is not a dull page in it, and
there are continuous pages and chapters of the brightest humor."
-LIVING Church, MILWAUKEE.
"A beautiful little story. One is at a loss for an epithet adequate to its
charm, its simplicity, its humor, its truth."-BROOKLYN EAGLE.
“ A bright little pastoral comedy. ... The widow is a rare combination
of business sense and sentiment, a combination which insures her both prosper-
ity and happiness. Reversing the usual order of love and life she postpones
romance until she is able to entertain her Prince Charming in truly royal style.
Thc sly efforts of one Isaac Sharpe to rid himself of the burden of matrimony
are genuinely amusing."-PUBLIC OPINION, N. Y.
LONGMANS, GREEN, & Co., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.