NOVELS BY GRAIJT ALLEN. 
 
 J Crown 8vo, cloth Rxtra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 PHI LIST I A. 
 
 ' A book of remarkable strength.'— Whitehall Review. 
 
 ' " Philktia " is a novel of considerable promise. The author may be congratulated on 
 giving procrf" of many of the qualities that make the successful novelist. He writes Ijrightly and 
 well. Readers of ■" PhilLstia " will not regret the time they devote to its perusal.' — Scotsman. 
 
 ' A very clever, well written novel, full of freshness and originality.' — S r. James's (Iazette. 
 
 ' .A book displaying considerable cleverness. . .'Very readable and clever." — Academy. 
 
 ' " Philistia ' is distinctly clever, and much may be learned from its perusal.' — Mokmni; 
 Post. 
 
 ' This .«tory tiarks the advent of a new writer of remarkable ability. . . . A work which has a 
 deeper and more enduring value than any novel which has issued from the prcjs for a long time. 
 — Bk.\uford Observer. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 STRANGE STORIES. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY GEORGE DU MAURIER. 
 
 'The stories ar« exceedingly interesting, and several of them have a humorous tendency. 
 Although in the preface Mr. Allen professes that he is a "scientific journeyman " rather than a 
 writer of fiction, he has given us what many successful novelists have failed to do— a verj- read- 
 able volume of short stories." — Literary World. 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen has fully established his claim to be heard henceforth as a storj--tel!er.' — 
 Academy. 
 
 ' No one will le able to say that the stories are dull. The lighter stories can be read with 
 pleasure by everybody, and the book can be dipped into anywhere without disappointment. One 
 and all the stories are told with a delightful ease and with an abundance of lively humour.'— 
 
 ATHEN.tlM, 
 
 ' Almost all the stories are good, coming nearer to the weird power of Poe than any that we 
 rememl»er to ha\-e seen.' — P.\ll Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Perhaps the best fiction of the year is " Strange Stories.'' Mr. Grant Allen certainly took 
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 Comhill, Relgraria, and Longman's, under the signature of J. Arbuthnot Wilson. He was 
 known to us all as one of the most able of the rising men of the evolution school, his contributions 
 to rnodem science being of considerable value. Few suspected him of such levity as telling light 
 stories. The volume is distinctly good.'— Coi nty Gentle.man. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. 
 
 BABYLON. 
 
 WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY P. MACNAB. 
 
 ' The book just'fies itself amply. It is fresh, entertaining, and pleasant from beginning to 
 end. The antlrar has kept in check his peculiar power of weird and fantastic realism, hut he has 
 proved himself equally at home in the observation of common-place character, and the reproduc- 
 tion of everjiday life.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 'This clever novel, which is full of graphic descriptions of men and things Altogether 
 
 " Babylon '" is an excellent story, showing original and well-expressed thought. Mr. Macnab's 
 illustrations are both Inright and graphic' — Morning Post. 
 
 'Very bright and ver>- amusing That it stands far above the average of contemporarj* 
 
 fiction goes n-ithout saying.' — Spectator. 
 
 ' Gracefully written : certainly a very readable book.' — Times. 
 
 ' Such reputation as the author has already won will without doubt be established by this 
 new novel .... The interest never declines, and we always feel that the author has passed his 
 'prentice stage, and that his work is that of a master of the craft. . . .The book has throughout 
 the enjoyable quality which belongs to interesting imaginative material and capable literary 
 workmanship.'— Academy, 
 
 LONDON : CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
u 
 
FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE 
 
 ^ I'rtlc of |;obc itiib Saniunitc 
 
 BY 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'liAUYLON,' 'PHIUSTIA,' ' STRANGE STORIES,' 
 
 ETC. 
 
 %ontrou 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1886 
 
 [ The right o/iramlation is reserved] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. ENTER MAIMIE 
 ir. FIHST LOVE - . . 
 
 III. EXPLOSIVES - : . 
 
 IV. COUNSELS OP STATE 
 V, THE SYSTEM 
 
 VI. THE RESULT OF THE SVSTEM 
 VII. POLITICS IN ACTION 
 
 vin. HIGH SEAS - . . . 
 
 IX. ADRIAN CONFESSES 
 X. TUE SCENE SHIFTS 
 XI. THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL - 
 XII. DYNAMITE OR LOVE ? 
 
 XIII. INNOCENCE - . . . 
 
 XIV. OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE 
 XV. ON WITH THE NEW 
 
 XVI. A BRITISH MATRON 
 XVII. MRS. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD 
 XVin. A SPOT OF BLOOD - 
 
 TArjE 
 
 - 1 
 
 - 12 
 
 - 2.3 
 
 - 28 
 
 - 33 
 
 - 38 
 
 - 45 
 
 - 48 
 
 - 56 
 
 - GO 
 
 - GQ 
 
 - 80 
 
 - 85 
 
 - 89 
 
 - 98 
 
 - 104 
 
 - 107 
 
 - 121 
 
 XIX. LADY WRAXALL AT HOME - - . . 23Q 
 
 XX. VERA TROTSKY UTILISES HER KNOWLEDr;E - 132 
 
 XXI. OLD FRIENDS MEET - tor. 
 
 „ " - lob 
 
 XXII. SCIENCE TRIUMPHS - 1 , . 
 
 ^, ■ - - 144 
 
 XXIII. APPLIED SCIENCE - . . . .-^ 
 
 XXIV. SYDNEY GOES . . . ,'' 
 
 - xUU 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CIIAITER PAOE 
 
 XXV. ANOTHER BLOOD-PPOT .... Ifif, 
 
 XXVI. MUUDEK? -....- 17;-> 
 
 XXVII. OR SUICIDE? ..... ISO 
 
 XXVIII. FIRE !-...-. 1H7 
 
 XXIX. THE ORDEAL ..... I'll 
 
 XXX. THE OTHER SIDE ..... 11)(] 
 
 XXXI. SUSPENSE ...... 20G 
 
 XXXII. ALIAS BENVOWSKI - - . . . 213 
 
 XXXIH. EVENLY MATCHED- .... 225 
 
 XXXIV. A NEW MAN ..... 233 
 
 XXXV. THE WORLD SITS IN .7UDC;MENT - - . 240 
 
 XXXVI. DANGER LOOMS ..... 244 
 
 XXXVII. THE STORM GATHERS .... 24'.) 
 
 XXXVI n. THE storm breaks .... 204 
 
 XXXIX. HETTY THINKS FOR HERSELF - - 2(>5 
 
 XL. HETTY ACTS . - - - - 271 
 
 XLL THE TIME ARRIVES .... 280 
 
 XLII. RESURRECTION ..... 291 
 
 XLIII. WHITHER? . - . - . 2'J<J 
 
 XLIV. MAIMIE SAVED ..... 302 
 
I 
 
 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ENTKR MAIMIE. 
 
 JocELYX Cn'RiANi lay sunning liimself iJI}^ on his back 
 on the shelving shingle beach at King's Silbury. It was 
 a beautiful cloudless August day, and Jocelyn Cipriani 
 did not belie his Italian ancestry in liis basking love of 
 bright sunshine or of the placid idleness so dear to the 
 souls of Southern Europeans. 
 
 ' What a glorious morning, Hetty !' he said, with an 
 ipward glance at his pretty little Avife, sitting close beside 
 him with her library novel. 'And what creatures you 
 women really are, too ! Fancy your holding up a parasol 
 to shade you on a day like to-day, now ! Why, it seems 
 to me, the whole point of the seaside in summer is just 
 this — that it's the only place in England where the sun 
 ever manages to shine for three whole hours unin- 
 terruptedly together.' 
 
 And he went on flinging pebbles into the unruflled sea 
 just beyond the steep bank of shingle where the tide 
 halted, without even so much as lifting his head to see 
 where they fell with ever-widening circles on the calm 
 surface of the glistening water. 
 
 Hetty looked up from her book for a minute at the 
 glassy bay and the long sweep of circling hills beyond it, 
 and then murmured, with a half-sigh of regret, as she 
 scanned the pretty picture hastily with her eyes : 
 
 • I often wish, do you know, Jocelyn, that you painted 
 
 1 
 
2 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 landscape instead of figure ! How nice it would be for you, 
 now, to be always working at a place like this, instead of in 
 your own great heavy studio in nasty, dirty, smoky old 
 London.' 
 
 Jocelyn tw:''?d himself a fresh cigarette in his white 
 fingers with quick inherited Southern dexterity. 
 
 * No, no, Hetty,' he answered, stroking his pointed brown 
 Vandyke beard ; ' landscape is not the line for the man who 
 would make his name famous on the first roll of art, I tell 
 you, little woman. Landscape is all well enough in its way, 
 to be sure, for the small men of the second order — for 
 Wilkins, and Smart, and MacTavish, and O'Grady ; but 
 the human figure, the human face divine, the human 
 emotions and passions and aspirations, those are the stock-in- 
 trade and the raw material of the great geniuses who move 
 the centuries ; in every art — in every art, Hetty. If a 
 man M'ere to watch the birds, and the flowers, and the trees, 
 and the rivers, all his life long, do you think he'd make as 
 grcHo a writer in the end as Shakespeare, or Goethe, or 
 -^schylus, or Cervantes % Not a bit of it ; he never could do 
 it. Man is the head and crown of all things ; and the 
 artist in whatever material, who wishes to reach the 
 summit of his art, must take man for the foundation and 
 the basis of his special handicraft.' 
 
 And he blew out two or three short white pufts from his 
 tiny cigarette with the easy air of a person very well satis- 
 fied with himself, his wife, the rest of the human race, the 
 constitution of things, and the universe generally. 
 
 There was a short silence for a {q\n minutes, during which 
 Jocelyn continued to smoke meditatively and throw pebbles 
 at intervals with a splash into the sea, while Hetty went on 
 uninterruptedly with the perusal of her old and much- 
 thumbed novel. By-and-by Jocelyn roused himself with 
 sudden energy, and cried out eagerly : 
 
 ' There she is ! There she is again, Hetty ! Now this 
 time I'm quite determined you shall really see her.' 
 
 '"\Vho1' Hetty asked, looking up from her book for a 
 second with languid interest. 
 
 ' Who? Why, licr^ Jocelyn answered, regardless of prim 
 grammatical niceties. ' The pretty girl, you know, Hetty — 
 
ENTER MAIM IE. 3 
 
 tliat is to say, the rather pretty girl, who would be really 
 ])retty it" she weren't quite so fresh and plump and rosy. 
 She lacks the fashionable pre-liaffaclite morbidity. Burne 
 Jones would consider her disgustingly healthy. The wise 
 man, you see, little woman, never calls any other girl pretty 
 to his own wife without at least adding some saving clause 
 in the shape of a but or a (pialification. He abstains from 
 unmixed and unqualified api)roval of alien loveliness,' 
 
 ' Then you can't be a wise man, I'm sure, Jocelyn, for you're 
 always raving to me about the extraordinary beauty of this 
 wonderful girl of yours. Let me see her. Which is she ? 
 Oh, th:,t one over there in the print dress with the roses on 
 it ! Well, yes, if you insist upon it, she's certainly pretty — 
 very pretty, I must admit, Jocelyn.' 
 
 ' Would be,' Jocelyn corrected gravely, ' were it not for 
 those inevitable redundancies or deficiencies which are 
 always to be observed in all other women, save and except 
 you only, Hetty.' 
 
 And he pinched the lobe of her ear teasingly between 
 his delicate thumb and finger. 
 
 ' I wish I could get to know that girl, somehow,' the 
 painter went on reflectively, after a moment's pause. 
 
 * Why V the pretty little wife asked, with a careless glance 
 across at the bright young figure he had pointed out to 
 her. 
 
 ' Why, I should immensely like her to sit to me, Hetty, 
 for a picture I've had more or less in my mind ever since I 
 came here : a picture that's been growing up bodily before 
 me, and that she's just the exact model, of all girls in the 
 world, to realize its perfection. It's Guido falling in love 
 with 13eatrice Cenci as she lies in prison. That girl's got 
 the very face for a Beatrice. I'd give fifty pounds to get 
 her to sit for it to me, I tell you.' 
 
 * Brobably the fifty pounds would be quite superfluous,' 
 Hetty answered, smiling. * As a rule, young girls in a 
 country place are only too glad to let anyone paint them. 
 They take it as a graceful compliment to their personal 
 appearance. I remember when 1 first knew you myself, 
 Jocelyn, I should have been awfully flattered if you'd 
 offered to paint me.' 
 
 1—2 
 
4 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ' You're not so much flattered by it nowadays, Hetty. 
 You've got too used to ringing the changes on Juliet> Olivia, 
 and the Koman Empresses. And, besides, it's such a bore, 
 I know, sitting stuck up there stiff, as the wife of Caractacus, 
 in the dull old studio. But this is going to be such a 
 splendid picture, I tell you, little woman — a perfect master- 
 piece, an afilatus, an inspiration, a thing to make Comyns 
 Carr's mouth water. See here ; it's to be just like this, 
 look you. Guido there, grave and solemn, with a beautiful 
 countenance : Sydney Chevenix shall sit for Guido. There's 
 a face for you — Sydney Chevenix's — just imagine him 
 with a tinge of first love upon those clear-cut features ; we 
 must manage to make him fall in love off-hand with some- 
 body or other just on purpose. He sits so ' — pencil and 
 paper out at once, artist fashion, and a few stray lines made 
 to do duty sketchily for a rough idea of the imaginary 
 picture — * brush in hand like this, and such a splendid 
 expression of dawning love suggested in the verj' pose of 
 his neck and shoulders. Then Beatrice — here she is, you 
 see, innocent, smiling, unconscious, gudeless, never even 
 aware in her spotless soul of her coming execution; too 
 childlike to realize it ; an infantile Beatrice, all in gold 
 and yellow — you catch the composition ! Isn't that grand 
 now ?' 
 
 And as he spoke, he sketched in lightly the face and 
 figure of his ideal Beatrice from the girl who stood, parasol 
 in hand, unconscious of his notice, waitmg carelessly by a 
 wooden bench on the little rustic parade behind them. 
 
 A beautiful creature she was, undeniably — small or of 
 medium height, but full and mature in bust and figure, 
 though still very childish of face and expression ; a ripe 
 girl of twenty, with such exquisitely dainty and delicate 
 softness of baby-like outline that only an artist of rare 
 power could ever have hit off aright the melting contours 
 of her innocent little mouth and features. She was 
 decidedly plump, yet not too plump ; and the scarcely 
 visible dini})les upon her cheeks and chin, which deepened 
 when she smiled, redeemed the plumpness from the very 
 faintest suspicion of coarseness or excess. Her complexion 
 wao perfect, a pearly pinky-white, like the inside of a shcU, 
 
 ^ 
 
EJfTER MAIMIE. 5 
 
 on the ground-work (if her face, relieved by just as much 
 bhish-rose as waf- giitB becoming in the centre of either 
 cheek and on the diil'i m«l lips that nestled between them. 
 By no means a piMrcial or ethereal creature certainly, but a 
 winning, sweet, tl<3Hi«md-blood woman, so beautiful that 
 Hetty herself — siKsu^ptible, like an artist's wife, to the 
 charms of beauty — fitlL in love with her almost immediately 
 on first sight, usiinikas her husband had done before her. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she fiditj. nagarding the unconscious girl with 
 intense interest, *;yuumnst really get to know her somehow 
 or other. I should like you to paint her. You're quite 
 right — she'd make uliively picture ; and, besides, I want ^o 
 make her acquaiutuuifroiL my own account. She's just tho 
 sort of girl I should Uiwi- to be friendly with. We haven't 
 got enough young ^iri: friends now ; they all go off and 
 marry the wrong antii, somehow, the silly creatures ! I 
 wish they'd only Xxw^vt die good sense always to let me 
 clioose their husbantk- &r them.' 
 
 'Judging l)y your awir distinguished success in that de- 
 partment,' Jocelyn T«jiie<l, with a slight twinkle in his eye, 
 ' I should say they cniida'fc possibly put the selection into 
 better hands than ^uut?-,. Hetty. However, we shall get to 
 know the pretty ^irl iiii good time ; and I shall paint her, 
 and you shall make firmnLs with her, and we shall both join 
 wits to select a suituiik- husband for her. So, having settled 
 that important ]a)iin m our own entire satisfaction, let's 
 proceed to discover jjraetically who she is and where she 
 comes from.' 
 
 As the painter fipiSa;. an old fisherman, with his hands 
 in his pockets, passetl in. front of the girl, and, with a re- 
 spectful nod of fritintlw recognition, asked in a loud, sea- 
 fiiring voice : 
 
 * Want a boat th» moniing, miss ? Lovely day for a 
 row. Glad to take you out for a bit on the water, if so be 
 you'd be so kind a.s lolitn me. Beautiful weather ! beautiful 
 weather !' 
 
 The pretty girl nocltkL hack to him, and answered, with 
 a peculiarly sunny Huiik':: 
 
 ' Thank, you, Kam;: iii* awfully kind of you. I should 
 like it immensely, '£ fl aould spare the time ; but I don't 
 
6 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 want to go out sailing this morning, thanks. The fact is, 
 I'm waiting for somebody.' 
 
 The old sailor touched his hat with respectful kindliness, 
 and strolled along the beach in a careless fashion, saying as 
 he went : 
 
 ' No offence meant, miss ; thought you might a' liked it. 
 God bless her dear pretty little face ! She's a good un, she 
 is. Everybody do love her.' 
 
 ' Who is the young lady ?' Hetty ventured to ask curiously, 
 as the man passed just in front of her. 
 
 The sailor looked sideways somewhat grumpily, and 
 answered, -without turning his head : 
 
 ' Why, bless you, that's Miss Maimie, that young lady is. 
 Everybody at Silbury do know Miss Maimie. God bless 
 her pretty little face !' 
 
 ' Surnames don't pass current in these parts, it seems,' 
 Jocelyn Cipriani said, smiling. ' You're no nearer what 
 you want to get at now than you ever were, I fancy, 
 Hetty.' 
 
 At that exact moment, a handsome man of thirty-five or 
 thereabouts, in a light tweed suit, and a straw hat with a 
 college ribbon on it, strolled up carelessly from the hotel on 
 the Parade towards the pretty girl, and began to talk to her 
 in a listless fashion for a few minutes. As he approached, 
 the pretty girl's face coloured up at once, till it looked more 
 exquisitely beautiful than ever, with a certain unmistak- 
 able glow of feminine satisfaction ; and her parasol ceased 
 immediately from describing its vague circles on the dusty 
 ground in a way that told Jocelyn Cipriani's practised eye, 
 without possibility of error, the person she was waiting 
 for had really arrived. 
 
 * Why, ]\Ir. Pym knows her !' Hetty cried in surprise, as 
 the man in the tweed suit lifted his hat gracefully to the 
 pretty stranger. 
 
 ' Mr. Pym knows her,' Jocelyn Cipriani repeated care- 
 lessly ; ' and what's more, Hetty, the pretty girl's in love 
 with Pym, too.' 
 
 ' How do you know ?' Hetty asked quickly. 
 
 * Oh, you don't take a painter in about these small 
 matters, I can tell you, little woman. It's my trade, you 
 
ENTER MAIMIE. 7 
 
 know ; my shop, my business. If I wasn't always watching 
 and noting these minute shades of passing expression in 
 men and women, I could never paint the sort of things I 
 do now, Hetty. The pretty girl's in love with Pym, I'll 
 bet you a sovereign,' 
 
 •Well, that's a good thing, anyhow, I'm sure, Jocelyn ; for 
 now we shall probably get to know her.' 
 
 'That's a good thing as far as it goes, no doubt, for us, 
 Hetty ; but ' 
 
 ' But what r 
 
 • Well, I don't know whether it's quite such a good thing 
 for the pretty girl, you see, somehow.' 
 
 ' Why, Jocelyn, surely Mr. Pyni's a very nice man, and a 
 fellow and tutor of an Oxford college. I should think he 
 was an excellent match for almost anybody — below the rank 
 of a baronet's daughter.' 
 
 * An excellent match, indeed — within the limits you men- 
 tion — if only she can catch him. But they do say, Hetty — 
 well, I forget the long and the short of it in all the details ; 
 but I remember, when Pym and I were at Oriel together, 
 there was some story or other about a barmaid ; and tlioiigh 
 for the life of me I can't recollect it now, I've an impres- 
 sion — a vague impression, the merest impression — I may be 
 mistaken — I speak, like the French newspapers, under all 
 reserves — that Pym didn't come altogether well out of it 
 with flying colours. Indeed, I won't swear that he ever 
 even got out of it at all in any way worth speaking of 
 The pretty girl had better take care. Flirting is a game 
 where the man stakes nothing, and the woman everj'thing. 
 If the pretty girl's wise, she'll be very cautious how she 
 flirts with such a man as Adrian Pym without full inquiry.' 
 
 ' Pretty girls never are wise,' Hetty answered, pulling 
 lazily at the flower of a horned sea-poppy ; * and if they 
 were, you know, you men wouldn't like them half as well 
 as you do at present, Jocelyn. Intellect in a woman is 
 absolutely fatal. But here's Mr. Pym coming over to us, 
 I declare ; now we shall learn all about who the pretty girl 
 
 IS.' 
 
 The man in the tweed suit strolled across the road 
 towards them in the regular Oxford lounging manner. 
 
8 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 ' Good-morning, Cipriani,' he said, as he raised his straw 
 hat with careless gracefulness to Hetty. ' Lovely day, isn't 
 it, Mrs. Cipriani? Jocelyn was making a sketch just now, 
 I think, wasn't he ? Not going to take to landscape at 
 your time of life, are you, Cipriani V 
 
 ' No,' the painter answered, 'not if I can help it ; though 
 Hetty here has just heen telling me I ought to go in for 
 it ; and I am well known to be the most obedient and sub- 
 missive of husbands. But it wasn't landscape I was twid- 
 dling my pencil at ; I was putting your pretty little friend 
 there into an imaginary picture — my Academy picture for 
 next year, in fact — and I thought she'd make a charming 
 Beatrice. There's the sketch, if you care to look a*-, it ; a 
 mere outline — three strokes of a pencil; yet I daresay 
 you'd recognise her, even if you don't recognise the re nark- 
 able merit of a very neat and dexterous study.' 
 
 Adrian Pyra took the little scrap of paper from the 
 painter's hand with an awkward and constrained air, as if 
 he didn't quite like the particular turn the conversation had 
 taken. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, with some slight hesitation, ' it is 
 like her ; undoubtedly like her. You've hit her off very 
 well at first sight, my dear fellow.' 
 
 ' How very beautiful she is, Mr. Pym !' Hetty cried en- 
 thusiastically. ' I've quite fallen in love with her the moment 
 I've seen her. As to Jocelyn, he's watched her up and 
 down several times before, here ; and he always calls her 
 categorically " the pretty girl," just as if there Avere no 
 other pretty girls anywhere else in all creation.' 
 
 ' Which is an obvious fallacy,' Jocelyn interrupted gravely, 
 •with a mock bow towards his pretty little wife's neat small 
 fisjure. 
 
 ' Well, she is pretty, certainly,' Adrian Pym assented, 
 with that grudging acquiescence under which a man in love 
 always vainly tries to hide the marks of his profoundest 
 admiration ; ' she is pretty, Mrs. Cipriani, and I'm not at 
 all astonished that Jocelyn and you should have been so 
 much struck by her. She's the prettiest girl in all Silbury.' 
 
 * We're not the only ones to be struck, Adrian,' the 
 painter said significantly. ' But you needn't blush about 
 
ENTER MAHTIE. 9 
 
 it. Bigger places than Silbury might well be proud of her. 
 You've hit upon a very good thing, and deserve to Ije con- 
 gratulated upon your good fortune. Tell us who she is, 
 and all about her. I want to get her for myself, you know 
 — professionally, I mean — no idea of turning Mahomraedan, 
 my dear Hetty — to sit for me, that is to say, in my new 
 picture that I'm now painting — internally, in imagination.' 
 
 ' Well,' Adrian Pym answered slowl}--, with some reluct- 
 ance, 'her name's Maimie, and she's a sort of second cousin 
 or so of one of my pupils. I've ])rought a reading-party 
 down here, you know, for several years running now, and 
 Maimie and I are old chums by this time ; quite a long- 
 standing friendship, in fact, Mrs. Cipriani.' 
 
 ' But hasn't she got any other name besides Maimie ?' 
 Hetty inquired, with a smile of quiet amusement. * People 
 don't generally go about the world nowadays like Abraham 
 and Isaac and Jacob, and so on, with only one name tacked 
 on to their personality, and that one a pet name into the 
 bargain.' 
 
 Tlie Oxford tutor blushed almost imperceptibly. 
 
 ' It isn't a pet name, indeed,' he said, with apologetic 
 promptness. 'She's got no other, except her surname. 
 She was christened Maimie, I believe — ^Maimie only. No- 
 body ever calls her anything but Maimie ; she's Miss Maimie 
 alone, even to the fisher-people. Or, rather, she wasn't ever 
 christened at all, if it comes to that : for her father's eccen- 
 tric — very eccentric ; an old naval officer with ideas of his 
 own, compounded, I believe, from Tom Paine and the 
 Admiralty Sailing Directions ; and he would never allow 
 her to undergo any form of religious ceremony, except re- 
 l)eating some prayer he composed himself to the Spirit of 
 lieason or some similar abstraction. He has a rabid 
 objection to the clergy — the black brigade and the devil- 
 dodgers, he calls them ; and the sight of a white tie looming 
 in the distance drives him positively frantic for ten minutes. 
 He's quite a character, the old captain is.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' Jocelyn answered mercilessly ; ' but, for a 
 teacher of logic, Pym, you betray a most reprehensible in- 
 ability to stick close to the point at issue. You will 
 perhaps remember that we asked you for particulars — not 
 
lo FOR MAI MIES SAKE, 
 
 about Maimie's papa or Maimie's mamma, or Maimie's uncles 
 and aunts and cousins, but about the actual and individual 
 Maimie herself hi propri<^i j^«r.so/<r^ You admit incidentally 
 that the young lady is seized of a surname — I hope I speak 
 with legal accuracy : what is it V 
 
 * Oil, her surname V Adrian Pym replied, with some show 
 of awkward confusion. ' Her surname 1 Maimie's sur- 
 name ] Well, her surname, I believe, Jocelyn — her sur- 
 name's Llewellyn.' 
 
 ' Oh, you believe so, Mr. Pym V Hetty echoed maliciously. 
 Adrian Pym looked positively embarrassed. 
 
 * Yes, I believe so,' he answered, seating himself cross- 
 legged on the shingle beside them. * In fact, I know it. 
 I've known Maimie now for several years — ever since she 
 was only as high as that, Mrs. Cipriani !' 
 
 ' How very nice !' Hetty put in, banteringly. 'It's well 
 to begin an acquaintance with a pretty girl early in life. 
 She learns then betimes not to be afraid of you.' 
 
 The tutor took no notice of her meaning look, but pre- 
 ferred to turn aside with a faint blush to her husband, and 
 said rather shortly : 
 
 ' I can introduce you to her if you'd really like to know 
 her, Cipriani.' 
 
 ' Thanks : do. It would exactly suit me. I must make 
 her come up to London and stop with us, and let me im- 
 mortalize her face in my Academy picture — such a picture, 
 Adrian ! The very finest I've ever painted. I mean to 
 make a perfect masterpiece of it. In after-years, Hetty, 
 when the pretty girl's a wrinkled old woman, people will 
 point her out, like the ]\Iaid of Athens or Goethe's Bettina, 
 and say, " That's the person who sat to Jocelyn Cipriani, 
 the celebrated painter, for his great picture of Beatrice 
 Cenci." ' 
 
 ' You conceited man !' Hetty cried, laughing. 
 
 * Not at all,' Adrian Pym answered, with friendly warmth. 
 ' When an artist has painted the things that Jocelyn has 
 done, it would be sheer affectation, and worse, on his part 
 to pretend he didn't know himself how much the world 
 thinks of them and values them. But why can't you paint 
 Maimie down here, as she is — eh, Cipriani !' 
 
ENTER MAIM IE. ii 
 
 * My dear fellow ! And lose my holiday ! No, no, Pym ; 
 that would never do, I tell you. Your pretty Arcadian 
 must come up to London and be painted in a drear-nighted 
 December by London gas-light, to give the full effect, you 
 know, of Italian sunshine. For Italy, nothing in England, 
 I declare, equal to fog and gaslight. Does she live here ? 
 Is she a native — she and her pagan papa — or are they only 
 visitors 1' 
 
 . * A native,' Adrian Pym answered lightly. ' Never been 
 anywhere in her life, almost, away from Silbury. In fact, 
 she's lived a sort of Paul et Virginie existence, don't you 
 know — with the part of Paul left out, of course.' (Hetty 
 coughed drily.) ' Her father, old Captain Llewellyn, is 
 quite a madman in his own way — a Welsh Druid, I be- 
 lieve, or something of the kind — a disbeliever in everything 
 on earth, except the Triads and the Triumph of Reason ; 
 and he's brought Maimic up in primjeval innocence — an 
 amiable heathen — not even allowing her to read the Bible. 
 He's a dear, wild, well-meaning, insane old man ; and he 
 has his own ideas about education and so forth. He's 
 taught Maimie to shoot and fence, to read and write, 
 and to tell the truth, he says, like the Persians in Herodotus ; 
 and he's not taught her anything else in particular, except to 
 ride barebacked, and play cricket like a boy, and row a boat 
 as well as a sailor.' 
 
 ' But isn't she a dreadful tomboy, with such a queer 
 education V Hetty asked curiously. ' She looks such a 
 gentle, timid, womanly little thing, one would never think 
 she'd been brought up in such a shocking heathenish 
 fashion.' 
 
 ' So she is,' Adrian Pym answered, with unguarded 
 warmth. 'As gentle a little thing as ever was born, I 
 assure you, Mrs. Cipriani. She's too womanly altogether by 
 nature ever to have been much altered even by her father's 
 funny teaching. He has only kept her from learning the 
 conventional nonsense most other women learn, so that she 
 says what she thinks, innocent little soul, and means no harm 
 by it ; but he hasn't succeeded in making her into anything 
 but a real woman, as childish and simple as ever you could 
 find one. She reminds me always of something between 
 
12 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 Galatea and Miranda — a child in innocence, and yet a per- 
 fect woman in maturity of feeling.' 
 Jocelyn Cipriani yawned. 
 
 * How very enthusiastic we're gettimg, Pym,' he answered 
 lazily. ' We must certainly be iutrodooe*! to this child of 
 nature, this prodigy of ingenuousness. "What a perfect 
 lieatrice she ought to make, if only she comes up to the 
 highly coloured description, Hetty \ Bialt when a man has 
 readied i'ym's unfortunate condition, I've often observed 
 that liis opinions at large are apt to be painfully warped 
 and distorted by the emotional lut.- iiuni, which seems, like 
 Iceland spar, to exercise a double refia.ctave raitibow-making 
 influence. 1 understand they call the stalte "falling in love," 
 Adrian.' 
 
 Adrian Pym drew himself up upon tlie sliingle alittle stiffly. 
 
 * The fellow of a college,' he answiereKi,. with some chilli- 
 ness in his tone, 'has no opportunities for indulging himself 
 in such expensive luxuries. It's all very well for artists 
 like you, Cipriani, who can coin money wtth the wave of a 
 paint-brush ; but as for me, you know, my dear fellow, my 
 income depends absolutely and entinelj upon my strict ob- 
 servance of the most monastic celiba-cv.' 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 That same afternoon, shortly after luntcti, Adrian Pym left 
 his noisy party of ten undergraduates, and turned by him- 
 self to climb the heather-clad hill that overhangs the west 
 side of King's Silbury. 
 
 Near the top of the cliff path, in a little combe, where a 
 seat stood back a yard or two from the edge, he came sud- 
 denly upon Maimie Llewellyn. 
 
 It was clear that Maimie was not there by accident. She 
 jumped up as he came, like one who expects another, and 
 took his hand in hers with childish frankness. 
 
 ' So there you are, Adrian,' she said in a soft clear voice, 
 exquisitely pure and musical and delicate. ' I've been 
 
FIRST LOVE. 13 
 
 ■waiting for you here for half an hour. I really thought you 
 
 were never coming.' 
 
 Adrian Pym smiled a quiet smile of half-cynical amuse- 
 ment, not unmixed with the selfish pleasure of conscious 
 appreciation. 
 
 * How delightfully natural young people are !' he said, 
 relaxing her hand that seemed loth to leave his. ' I'm 
 punctual to the minute, Maimic — punctual to the minute ; 
 whence the acute arithmetician might obviously infer that 
 you had come here full half an hour too early. The eager- 
 ness of youth outruns its discretion. Such devotion is be- 
 yond all praise : I feel I have done nothing to deserve it.' 
 
 * Now, don't begin talking that way, Adrian,' Maimie 
 cried, with half a pout, ' or else I shall really go down back 
 into the village and take a walk with one of the under- 
 graduates. You ought to be very much flattered indeed by 
 my coming so early, sir, and not to make fun of me over my 
 head, as you're so fond of doing.' 
 
 ' I am very mach flattered,' Adrian answered more seri- 
 ously, looking with unspoken admiration at the pretty little 
 figure in its neat-fitting, flowered, print dress ; ' and as to 
 making fun of you, Maimie, nothing on earth could possibly 
 be further from my intentions. You know there's nobody 
 whose society gives me half so much pleasure as yours, 
 little baby-face; and I wouldn't even seem to be rude to you 
 for all the universe.' (Maimie's checks flushed up at once 
 with ingenuous pleasure.) ' And do you know, you've made 
 a new conquest to-day, too ] You saw those two artistic- 
 ally dressed people I was talking to on the beach just after 
 I arranged to meet you here this afternoon, didn't you V 
 
 ' What 1 that sweet little woman with the blue-green 
 frock and the lace parasol ? Oh, yes, I've noticed her on 
 the beach for ever so long. She looks a dear : and her 
 husband's so handsome !' 
 
 ' He is,' Adrian Pym answered slowly, ' undeniably 
 handsome ; and he and she want to know you, Maimic. 
 Shall I tell you who it is? It's Jocelyn Cipriani.' 
 
 ' Cipriani !' Maimie repeated in a vague voice. * Cipriani 
 — Cipriani. OIj, then, of course they must be Italians.' 
 
 'My dear child! Italians! sanda simjdicitas .' Well, 
 
i< FOR MAI MIL'S SAKE. 
 
 really, do you mean to tell mo, Maimie, you've never heard 
 of Jocelyn Cipriani, the It. A., and the greatest rising 
 painter at this moment in all England /' 
 
 'No,' Maimie anwered sturdily, *! never heard of him ; 
 and what's more, I'm not ashamed to say so. I dare say there 
 arc plenty of other girls in England — who've been to school, 
 too — and who've never heard of IVlr. Cipriani.' 
 
 'But, my dearest Maimie, you really are too distressingly 
 ignorant. Remember, now, the other day, you told me you 
 didn't know anything about King Solomon.' 
 
 'You didn't say " King Solomon,"' ]\[aimie replied, smil- 
 ing. ' You said "Solomon," all short, just so, and I said I 
 thought he must be a Jew old-clothes man ; and you 
 laughed at me and made horrid fun of me, like a wretch 
 that you are, because I didn't know about him. I've half 
 a mind to give up coming out to meet you altogether, if you 
 always go on trying to set me examination papers in liistory 
 and geography. 1 hate being examined ; and you've got so 
 accustomed to it up at Oxford, you know, that you curry it 
 away with you even into the country.' 
 
 Adrian winced. The unsophisticated Sijbury girl had 
 hit the Oxford tutor unconsciously on the most vulnerable 
 point in his entire economy. There's nothing your uni- 
 versity don hates so much as the imputation of pedantry or 
 priggishness. 
 
 ' You're too cruel, Maimie,' he said, showing his two even 
 rows of white teeth in a forced smile ; * and you fence like 
 a practised hand, too, meeting thrust with counter-thrust, 
 and not like a mere woman. ^Vell, this is all the return I 
 get, it seems, for trying to tell you how you've enslaved (as 
 usual) two more susceptible human hearts. They came, 
 saw, and were promptly conquered. Jocelyn Cipriani, you 
 know, or rather you don't know, is the most marvellous 
 younger English painter now living. He's the leader of 
 the new idealistic school, and he paints something like a 
 Japanese, something like a madman, and something like an 
 angel. Nobody ever painted like him before except the 
 early Italian masters, who imitated him badly beforehand 
 without half his idealism. At this moment Jocelyn 
 Cipriani is the most admired and best abused and most 
 
FIRST LOVE. IS 
 
 liotly dcbatotl artist in all London, The world divides 
 itself, in fact, into C'iprianistes and anti-Cii)riani«tes. And 
 Jocelyn Cipriani has fallen at first sight in love with 
 you.' 
 
 ' How very nice of him !' Maimie answered unaffectedly. 
 * I like that. But he's got a pretty little wife of his own 
 already, you said, didn't you ]' 
 
 ' He has,' Adrian Pym asserted M'ith a nod. ' And when 
 I said he'd fallen in love with you, I merely intended to 
 suggest in the most proper fashion that he'd done so pro- 
 fessionally, and not personally. He wants to get to know 
 you, 1 mean, so as to paint you in his great Italian picture 
 of which he's now working up the composition.' 
 
 'That's very nice, too,' Maimie answered, as they walked 
 along towards the bosky heather patches away from the 
 path ; ' but not quite so nice, of course, as if he'd fallen in 
 love with me the other way — the real way, you know, 
 Adrian,' 
 
 * ^^ ''y> you insatiable, extraordinary, unblushing little 
 woman !' Adrian Pym cried, seizing her hand and pressing 
 it spasmodically with a hard squeeze ; ' haven't you got me 
 to fall in love with you, and isn't that quite enough at a 
 time for any one well-conducted young person X 
 
 'No,' Maimie rephed quite demurely. 'I like everybody 
 nice, of course, to love me. I think it's nicest to be loved 
 by everybody. I've always been accustomed, you know, all 
 my life long to papa, and the fishermen, and the women in 
 the village, and the school-children, and the Oxford men, 
 and everybody loving me.' 
 
 ' But, my dear child, you know there's a difference ! Was 
 there ever anybody so absolutely innocent and simple- 
 minded as you are, Maimie ? You talk of the fisherm.en, 
 and the women, and the children, and the Oxford men all 
 in one breath, as if it was exactly the same thing which of 
 them all happened to love you.' 
 
 ' Oh no !' Maimie cried warmly ; ' I don t mean that, you 
 know, I like some of them, of course, much better than 
 the others. I like being loved by the Oxfoid men most ; 
 and best of all I love being loved by you, Adrian.' 
 
 And she took his hand tenderly in hcr.«j with a simplicity 
 
1 6 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 of demeanour that robbed the act at once of all apparent 
 imputation of forwardness. 
 
 Adrian let himself be fondled passivel}' for a moment in 
 a half-shame faced, undecided fashion, and then threw him- 
 self down on a little oasis of short grass among the purple 
 heather, where the tall gorse and overarching brambles 
 that spread about comi)letely hid them from all passing 
 observers. Maimie seated herself ({uietly beside him, and 
 began to pull to pieces with idle fingers the petals of a wild 
 Scotch rose that flowered unseen among the ring of brush- 
 wood. 
 
 'So this Mr. Cipriani wants to paint my picture some 
 day, does he ?' she asked again, after a minute's silence, 
 turning her big brown eyes straight upon Adrian. * That's 
 very nice of him, really, isn't it ? I should love to be 
 painted. It would be so delightful to have everybody coming 
 to admire one's portrait. You must introduce me to him, 
 Adrian.' 
 
 ' I will,' Adrian answered, lying flat upon the grass, and 
 leaning on his elbows, with his face pushed close up beside 
 Maimie's, ' He says he'll immortalize your great big eyes 
 in his greatest i)icturc.' 
 
 ' What a horrid conceited man he must be if he said that 
 seriously ! But oh, isn't he awfully handsome, Adrian ! 
 Such lovely brown eyes of his own, and such a beautiful 
 artistic looking beard ! I was watching both of them all 
 the time while I was waiting on the Parade for a word with 
 you this morning.' 
 
 * You seem to be quite smitten with him,' Adrian 
 retorted, half pettishly. 
 
 ' Of course I am,' Maimie replied, with perfect sincerity. 
 *I always am smitten by those lovely artistic pointed 
 beards, you know. Why don't you wear a pointed beard 
 like his yourself, Adrian, instead of a skimpy bit of a 
 moustache like that only V 
 
 Adrian twirled the point of that justly criticized article 
 between his finger and thumb with tender solicitude. * iV(/«. 
 omnia %)0&&iu]im omnes, Maimie,' he answered, smiling 
 benignl3^ ' That's Latin, you know, and I say it on purpose 
 because I'm sure you won't understand it. It always tan- 
 
FIRST LOVE. 17 
 
 talizes girls to talk Latin to them, and I like tantalizing 
 you, you wicked little thing, for you look so bewitching 
 always when you're trying your hardest to find out any- 
 thing. On the whol'^, my child, I think you, taking you 
 all round, one way with another, about the very nicest girl 
 I've ever come across in all my experience.' 
 
 * So you've often told me before,' Maimie said, smiling 
 her sunny childlike smile at him; 'but, like the farmer 
 with the claret, we never seem to get any forrader, 
 Adrian.' 
 
 The Oxford tutor gave an embarrassed smile, and play(!d 
 nervously with the Koman coin that dangled from his 
 watch-chain. 
 
 'You're painfully young, Maimie,' he said presently. 
 'Painfully young and delightfully unsophisticated. And 
 yet your very innocence sometimes leads you much where 
 the most advanced forwardness would lead any other and 
 more exi)erienced woman. I'm almost old enough to be 
 your father. I'm fifteen years older than you are, Maimie. 
 You ought to have taken up instead with one of the under- 
 graduates.' 
 
 ' I hate undergraduates,' Maimie cried out vehemently. 
 ' At least— that is to say, I don't hate them ; I like them very 
 well in their proper place and in their own way — when 
 there's nobody else to talk to nnd to flirt with, you know, 
 dear; but they're not fit to hold a candle to you, Adrian. 
 Great giggling, blushing, hesitating, overgrown schoolboys — 
 that's wliat 1 call them ; frightened at every second word 
 they say to one, and always afraid they're putting their foot 
 in it. I like middle-aged men best ; middle-aged men 
 know their own minds, and aren't perpetually afraid of 
 their lives they're going to say something that will shock 
 or offend you. . . . And I like ijou best of all, Adrian.' 
 
 ' And I've already told you, Maimie, that I reciprocate 
 the feeling with compound interest. There, just one kiss, 
 little one, there's nobody coming. Now . . . so. . . . Yes, that's 
 right. Thank you, darling. Maimie, Maimie, you're really 
 too delicious ! No more — no more at present. We mustn't 
 discount the whole balance. That's enough at a time ; 
 stand away, Maimie.' 
 
 2 
 
i8 FOR MAIMJE'S SAKE. 
 
 Maimie threw herself back upon the gross with uncon- 
 scious grace, and shut her eyes dreamily for a minute. 
 
 * This is lovely — lovely, isn't it, Adrian f she said in a 
 gloating far-away fashion. ' I love coming out and sitting 
 here on the cliff alone with you. I think it's the very 
 loveliest thing I ever did in all my lifetime.' 
 
 ' Happy girl !' Adrian said, somewhat bitterly. ' What 
 endless degrees and vistas of pleasure you have yet before 
 you ! You've only just for the first time crossed the outer- 
 most threshold, and you have still many, many stages to 
 pass before you first begin to find out how very hollow it 
 all is at bottom. Keep your illusions, !Maimie — keep 
 your illusions ! Why, you even succeed in bringing back 
 some of mine to me. We are still fools at thirty-five ! We 
 still believe that happiness is possible — in the future — in the 
 future. Undeterred by fifteen years of ripe experience and 
 continuous disappointment, we still expect we may love a 
 woman and be happy with her for ever. This conclusively 
 proves, you see, what egregious idiots we are in spite of 
 everything. Quod end demonstrandum.^ 
 
 ' If you're going to begin talking that sort of nonsense 
 again,' Maimie said decisively, 'I shall get up this very 
 minute, without waiting to say good-bye to you, and go 
 back to Silbury to the undergraduates. Undergraduates 
 have at least one good point : they never talk either Latin 
 grammar or stupid cynicism to one.' 
 
 Adrian opened his eyes quite suddenly, as if recalled to 
 himself by her words, and said, in a new and very different 
 tone : 
 
 ' Cipriani would like you to go to London some day, and 
 let him paint you.' 
 
 ' To London !' Maimie cried, clasping Ler hands in 
 ecstasy. ' That would be too delightful ! That would bo 
 just heavenly ! How very nice of him ! I should love to 
 go there. But papa — papa would never let me ! And that 
 dear, pretty little Mrs. Cipriani, too ! She's just a darling. 
 Oh, I should immensely love to go and stop a month with 
 Mrs. Cipriani !' 
 
 ' I've no doubt,' Adrian said quietly, ' Captain Llewellyn's 
 objections could be easily set aside. We could tell him, for 
 
HiRST LOVE. 
 
 19 
 
 example, that Giprimii End" a special and peculiar aversion 
 to all devil-dodgerB, ant was general secretary of a chari- 
 table society for the lital] abolition of parish churches.' 
 
 * How does he com^ tan have such a name as Cipriani ]' 
 Maimie inquired cjuiiiMk. 
 
 'Because, like all -tJkercjst of us,' Adrian answered, with 
 an imperceptible curl itf Ilia lip, 'he inherited his surname 
 from his father's famih:.' 
 
 ' But who was hie iidiiiE, you horrid creature % and how 
 ever did his father comt tii be called so]' 
 
 ' By a similar procbsfic inheritance from his grandfather 
 and his remoter ])ro«tumiC3-, I should be inclined to conjec- 
 ture.' 
 
 'Adrian, Adrian, you nasty, rade, sneering man ! I don't 
 like you a bit ! I iialt* yau ! I detest you ! You know 
 very well what I meaul tn a»k ! How do they come to be 
 Italians in England "? B'tiople with names like Cipriani 
 aren't to be found ev€i^-<iiiy of the week knocking up and 
 down all over the face 'iff tii& country everywhere.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' -Mrian interrupted gravely ; ' you 
 forget the organ-grin dta^r 
 
 ' Good-bye, Mr. Pym. ^faimie said, rising as if in anger. 
 ' I hope to meet you upiiL next year at Oxford.' 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie !' ilfr tutor cried, pulling her hastily 
 down again, and seizing dift opportunity to kiss her soundly 
 two or three times ovar in. tlie process ; * you mustn't go 
 away yet ! I'm enjoyini: myself so immensely ; and so are 
 you too, you bad little cdiing; though you won't admit it. 
 Don't waste your time.; nnist people waste theirs as pro- 
 fusely as if they had haB^tiozen lives to live together. I 
 love teasing you, and yiir. Uwe being teased ; and so why 
 shouldn't we both get om Sill fim out of it % Life is surely 
 not so rich in enjoymeittt diuC we can afford to throw away 
 any single source of owe. JMt down again, there's a dear 
 little woman, and you wiuill hear whatever you want to hear 
 about the Ciprianis, or uwfiftdy else on earth you choose to 
 ask about. You sweet 'itt-le Maimie ! You dear little 
 Maimie ! You shall not "Ih Hothered and worried and made 
 wicked fun of ! You ou^tc ra be treated like a perfect little 
 empress !' 
 
 9—9 
 
20 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 Mairaie let him kiss her sedately, her cheek flushing as 
 he did so with a girl's first love ; and then seated herself 
 with a good grace once more where he placed her lightly 
 down beside him among the heather. 
 
 ' Well, now,' she said, holding up the little fan that hung 
 at her side to hide her blushes ; * tell me all about these 
 Cipriani people, will you X 
 
 ' Well,' Adrian answered, making a determined effort not 
 to be too teasing, * Jocelyn Cipriani is a collateral descendant 
 of Sir Joshua's ally, and a son of old Kuffaele Cipriani's. 
 You know : old Raffaele Cipriani of the National Gallery.' 
 
 ' Never heard of him in all my life before,' Maimie 
 answered mischievously. She loved to display the pro- 
 fundity of her ignorance to the Oxford tutor. 
 
 ' Possibly not,' Adrian went on, with a satirical smile. 
 * There are many people in Loudon society whose fame has 
 never yet penetrated as far as Silbury. However, old 
 Cipriani was one of that particular form of irreclaimable 
 brigand they used to call an Italian patriot. Nowadays 
 the species is out of fashion, and people call them com- 
 munists, and dynamiters, and other hard names ; but in 
 those days they were the height of the vogue, and people 
 used to call them Italian patriots. Old Cipriani raised 
 some sort of rebellion or other against his lawful sovereign 
 — King Bomba, I suppose, or some equally atrocious old 
 tax-squeezing figure-head — and got caught in the very act, 
 of course without having effected anything. In those days 
 dynamite wasn't yet invented, and even infernal machines 
 were still in their infancy ; and the intelligent patriot never 
 did effect anything. So Cipriani i^he, languished long in a 
 damp, unhealthy, and doubtless rheumatic Italian dungeon ; 
 until at last his friends supplied him with a golden key 
 wherewithal to corrupt the rudimentary morals of his stern 
 gaoler. The gaoler promptly succumbed to Mammon ; and 
 the end of it was, Cipriani -phe ran away, stole a horse (of 
 course, in the cause of freedom), rode across country over 
 several incredible passes, swam a mysterious number of 
 roaring torrents, all swollen (as usual) by the recent rains, 
 and finally got shot in the side by a minion of despotism 
 just as he was crossing the frontier river on the back of his 
 
FIRST LOVE. '21 
 
 faithful stolen pony. In spite of this small accident, how- 
 ever, he continued his journey, bullet and all, without 
 interruption ; was profusely welcomed by an English ad- 
 ministration, then congenially engaged in sujjpressing 
 freedom of speech in Ireland — and therefore, of course, 
 wildly enthusiastic over Italian unity ; and, having brought 
 a letter of introduction from Mazzini, or some other 
 fashionable firebrand, was promptly pitchforked into a good 
 post at the National Gallery — on the ground, apparently, 
 that he was by birth an Italian, and therefore quite as 
 likely as anybody else to know something or other about 
 the old masters. On the same princii)le, as you may have 
 acutely observed, Italy being the land of song, a small 
 Italian boy is invariably selected for the high and congenial 
 musical taste of grinding a barrel-organ.' 
 
 ' I see,' Mairaie put in, with a soft little laugh, ' And 
 your Mr. Cipriani is a son of the patriot V 
 
 * Exactly ; my Mr. Cipriani, as you are good enough to 
 call him, is a son of the patriot. Brought up under the 
 very eyes of St. Sebastians and Madonnas, he drank in 
 pre-Kaphaelitism with his mother's milk, and began to draw 
 St. John the Baptist in the Wilderness before he had learnt 
 to read his Bible. But I forgot ; you are not yourself 
 acquainted with St. John the Baptist. Never mind ; you 
 must take it entirely on trust from me that he was a gentle- 
 man who despised the superfluities of tailors, and was 
 addicted to a somewhat exclusive diet of locusts and wild 
 honey. But as Jocelyn was something more than a mere 
 painter, he went to Oxford, read hard, took a first, went in 
 seriously for Greek antiquities, and had the inestimable 
 privilege of making my acquaintance while we M'ere both 
 undergraduates together. Finally, being really by nature 
 a great artist, he has risen early to be an K.A,, and is now 
 the most promising painter of the younger generation in all 
 England. If only you will let him paint you for his Bea- 
 trice, Maimie, he will be the greatest painter in all Europe.' 
 
 Maimie acknowledged the implied compliment with a 
 coquettish little nod of her shapely head. 
 
 ' And Mrs. Cipriani,' she said, smiling ; ' who was she f 
 
 'Mrs. Cipriani,' Adrian Pym answered, with a careless 
 
22 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 wave of his hand, ' was a very remote cousin of my own, 
 and therefore, as you will at once infer, highly connected ; 
 but so exceedingly remote, in fact, that we never knew 
 anything of one another till she married Jocelyn. How- 
 ever, another cousin of hers, Sydney Chevenix, is a very 
 well-known person indeed ; a man of science, and a dis- 
 tinguished Fellow of the Royal Society. He's a nephew of 
 the old general, Sir Clavering Chevenix, of Chark Court, 
 who left hira nearly all his money. And, now I come to 
 think of it, Maimie, it occurs to me it would be a very good 
 thing indeed for you, Avhen you go up to town for Jocelyn 
 to paint you, if you could get introduced to Sydney Che- 
 venix. Sydney Chevenix is a very decent, handsome young 
 man. Sydney Chevenix is a distinguished authority on 
 nitro-glycerine and all other explosive resources of civiliza- 
 tion. Sydney Chevenix is still a bachelor. And Sydney 
 Clievenix is the possessor of a very tidy, snug little fortune 
 of something like two or three thousand a year, on coming 
 into which he gave up his aboriginal trade of a country 
 doctor. On two or three thousand a year, you know, a 
 young married couple just beginning life can manage to 
 make themselves exceedingly comfortable.' 
 ' Well, Adrian ]' Maimie said coldlj'. 
 
 * AVell, Maimie,' the tutor replied, fidgeting about un- 
 easily before her searching glance, ' you might do a worse 
 thing for yourself, I can tell you, than pick up with Sydney 
 Chevenix.' 
 
 ' Adrian !' 
 
 ' Why, ]\Iaimie, what's the matter with you ? Don't get 
 up and look so angry with me.' 
 
 * Adrian, you know as well as I do I don't want to marry 
 Sydney Chevenix, if that's the man's name, or anybody 
 else you choose to pick out for me. You know very well 
 what I mean to do. I mean to marry — whom I please, 
 Adrian.' 
 
 Adrian shuffled awkwardly on the ground. There 
 was a slight pause ; and then he began afresh upon a new 
 subject. 
 
 ' The horse is a noble animal,' he said, ' Maimie ; and very 
 useful to man, both in war and agriculture.' 
 
EXPLOSIVES. 23 
 
 Maimie laughed in spite of herself, but turned away half 
 angrily. 
 
 ' You don't love me,' she cried, ' Adrian ! I always knew 
 you didn't love me !' 
 
 Adrian caught her fervently in his arms. 
 
 • Maimie ! Maimie ! My own darling precious little 
 Maimie !' he cried eagerly. * I love you ! I love you ! You 
 know I love you ! A thousand times better than all else 
 on earth I love you, Maimie !' 
 
 Maimie nestled close into his side, and sobbed away her 
 fear upon his broad shoulder, as a frightened child sobs and 
 nestles in its mother's bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EXPLOSIVES. 
 
 If there be any truth in old superstitions, Sydney Che- 
 venix's ears ought to have tingled freely that August 
 afternoon in his hot laboratory at Beaumont Terrac', 
 Kegent's Park, N.W. For at the exact moment when 
 Adrian Pvm was discoursing to Maimie of two or three 
 thousand a year and a distinguished authority on nitro- 
 glycerine, Hetty Cipriani was saying ingenuously to her 
 lazy husband : 
 
 'If only we could get some nice girl like that, now, to 
 make herself agreeable to Sydney Chevenix.' 
 
 And Jocelyn Cipriani answered from the beach : 
 
 ' My dear child, Sydney Chevenix will never marry. He's 
 wedded to his dynamite, and knows no other love beside. 
 Leave him alone to blow himself up amicably at his leisure 
 in his own laboratory. After all, Hetty, you're the most 
 complimentary wife I ever met with, for you seem to be so 
 perfectly enchanted with your own success in your choice of 
 a man, that you're for ever trying to find suitable husbands 
 for every other girl you come across anywhere.' 
 
 But at that precise moment of time, Sydney Chevenix, 
 F.R.S., the rising chemist and distinguished authority on 
 nitro-glycerine, was standing, with ears untouched by ting- 
 ling, mixing a new projected explosive with his Polish 
 assistant, Stanislas Benyowski. 
 
?4 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 * Have you ever seen it tried before, Benyowski?' Sydney 
 Chevenix asked anxiously, as they kneaded up their soft 
 grey paste with prodigious caution in a little l^rown experi- 
 mental mortar. ' Do you know exactly what sort of 
 explosive force it exerts, and how it's directed ?' 
 
 'I have,' Benyowski answered, in English almost as 
 perfect as Sydney's own. * I saw it used once : it was at 
 St. Petersburg. . . . The charge exploded with very little 
 detonation, comparatively. ... I believe, indeed, with 
 careful experimentation, it might be made almost, if not 
 quite, completely noiseless. ... It blew up vertically, ex- 
 erting hardly any lateral pressure. ... It blew up the 
 
 well, the objects above it, straight into the air; and 
 when I last saw it, it had knocked — h'm — the objects in 
 question — slap against the ceiling. But I didn't wait to see 
 much of the explosion. The circumstances were unfavour- 
 able to scientific observation.' And Stanislas Benyowski 
 smiled grimly, and stroked his beardless lantern jaws with 
 his long thin fingers in a very self-satisfied and contem- 
 plative fashion. 
 
 * It was at St. Petersburg, you say ?' Sydney Chevenix 
 repeated, with a searching glance. 
 
 * At St. Petersburg. Yes, at St. Petersburg, patron. In 
 fact, in the offices of the Third Section. Some Nihilists, I 
 suppose,' and Stanilas Benyowski smiled even more grimly 
 and strangely than before — 'some Nihilists were attempting to 
 remove unobtrusively the Chief of the Investigation Bureau 
 in the Police Department. I happened to be present — ■ 
 quite accidentally, of course — on the morning of the experi- 
 ment. ... It was a beautiful operation, and it succeeded 
 admirably. The Chief of the Investigation I>ureau sat 
 perched like a martinet that he was on a high seat at the 
 end of the office : a Nihilist (never detected) placed a small 
 quantity of the explosive, with detonator and hammer 
 attached, underneath the stool on which ho was seated : it 
 exploded beautifully, and the Chief of the Investigation 
 Bureau executed an upward movement of extraordinary 
 rapidity towards the offices of the Superintendent of the 
 Third Section, just overhead. For myself, though present 
 only in the quality of spectator (I need hardly say), I 
 
EXPLOSIVES. 2$ 
 
 judged it prudent not to await the moment of his sub- 
 sidence. In fact, I withdrew myself, liurriedly but un- 
 obtrusively.' And again Stanislas Benyowski's mouth 
 twitched all over with suppressed humour at the delightful 
 recollection of that eminently successful professional 
 exploit. 
 
 'And you say it acted vertically only?' Sydney Chevenix 
 went on, with scientific coolness, paying not the slightest 
 heed or attention to the political and personal implication 3 
 of Benyowski's very incriminating narrative. 'It lifted the 
 object straight into the air, without at all displacing the 
 surrounding bodies f 
 
 ' The high desk stool, and the Chief of the Investigation 
 Bureau on top of it, rose right up in a bee-line for the middle 
 of the ceiling, exactly as if they had been shot out of a 
 good-sized mortar ; but the desk itself and the clerk beside 
 him were never even so much as shaken — as far as an im- 
 partial spectator could perceive in the flurry of the moment.' 
 
 Sydney Chevenix paused for a minute, and went on reso- 
 lutely pestling his explosive mixture with the utmost caution. 
 Then he said in the appreciative voice of a warm enthusiast: 
 
 ' That was a very neat and suggestive experiment indeed, 
 Benyowski. It's a great advantage to me to have got hold 
 of a man like yourself, who has really had some practical 
 experience in the manufacture of these things by scientific 
 methods. Your Jena training has been quite invaluable to 
 me. If only I could get at Nobiling, now, we might manage 
 to do great things between us in the way of explosives. 
 There's a man for you — Nobiling ! What a wonderfully 
 inventive genius he has in the chemistry of the nitrogen com- 
 pounds ! I wish he didn't go and fritter away all his splen- 
 did scientific abilities on these wild and absurd revolutionary 
 schemes of his. If the man would only be content to settle 
 down and work regularly in a good laboratory at this sort 
 of thing, he'd soon beat us all hollow as an original investi- 
 gator at the science of the subject !' 
 
 Benyowski's lip curled, half in disdain, as he answered 
 drily : 
 
 ' You forget that while you men of science regard all 
 this as an end in itself, to us men of politics it is not an 
 
26 FOR MAIMIEPS SAKE. 
 
 end, but a means only. The true end U the final regenera- 
 tion of human society.' 
 The Englishman laughed. 
 
 * My dear fellow,' he said gcK>d-hamoaredly, laying his 
 hand with a friendly emjthasis uj^on Benyowski's shoulder, 
 ' between you and me, all that is the merest moonshine. A 
 good easy explosive for blasting ro'ck with — a new power to 
 cheapen the construction of railw.w tannels, of canals, of 
 docks, of harbours — a material thaS will enable us to do 
 away at once with the Alps and the Pyrenees, with Panama 
 and Caucasus, with the Himalayas and the Hindu Kush — 
 that would be a thousand times more practically valuable to 
 the world in the end than all your beaatilhl Utopian plans 
 for the ultimate regeneration of human society by blowing 
 up the Czar or the Chief of the ThvtA Section. Of course, 
 it doesn't matter in the least to me wkut you choose to do 
 ■with your own explosives, as soon as you've made them. 
 Pm a man of science, as you say — not a man of politics — 
 and I don't know or care twopence about the rights and 
 wrongs of Poland or of Russia. I know you're an excellent 
 person to work with, and a g(XMl, trastworthy, valuable 
 assistant. But don't go blowing np any more Russians, my 
 dear fellow, I beg of you. It doesn't pay, in the long-run, 
 and it isn't really worth it. . . . And so you think the stuff, if 
 properly purified, might at last be made absolutely noise- 
 less V 
 
 * I do,' Benyowski answered with a nod. * The vertical 
 displacement might be so restrict-ed by mutual interference 
 of sound-waves, that no jar at all sfeould be communicated 
 in any way to the surrounding atmospbere. We've only got 
 to perfect the invention — its jar is far less, as it is, than 
 that of any other known explosire. and even that is no 
 doubt entirely due to the demonstrable impurities present 
 in the material — in order to succeed in getting the great 
 desideratum of the present day — a perfectly noiseless 
 detonating compound.' 
 
 ' That would be splendid,' Sydney Chevenix cried, rubbing 
 his hands briskly with all an inventor's contagious enthu- 
 siasm. ' Just picture to yourself the use of such an explo- 
 sive in war, for example ! You're fighting a lot of un- 
 
EXPLOSIVES. 27 
 
 civilized enemies, and you send out your sharivshooters 
 under cover somewliere, and they pick oft' the enemy, one 
 by one, noiselessly, silently, unseen, unsuspected ; and the 
 unsophisticated savages don't even know they're being shot, 
 or where the firing comes from, but merely find their men 
 dropi)ing down all around them like magic by the dozen, as 
 if an invisible fire from heaven had suddenly smitten them, 
 and cut them off, like Ahaziah's captains, without hope of 
 respite. There's an engine of civilization for you !' 
 
 ' And it's use in practical politics,' Stanislas Benyowski 
 muttered doggedly. ' You're fighting a lot of enemies of 
 the human kind — emperors and bureaucrats and suchlike 
 vermin — and you stick a little bit of the new explosive 
 under the chief criminal's bed, and it goes ofi" pop in the 
 middle of the night, noiselessly, silently, unheard, un- 
 noticed, and nobody ever even so much as suspects the 
 miscreant's dead, till some flunkey or other goes in in the 
 morning and finds the creature's remains lying in little frag- 
 ments scattered all about promiscuously over the bed and 
 carpet — here a leg, and there an arm, and yonder a rib or 
 two ! Ha ! ha ! that would be just magnificent, wouldn't 
 it? That would, indeed, be developing the resources of 
 civilization !' 
 
 And Stanislas Benyowski laughed silently the suppressed 
 laugh of a professional plotter. 
 
 Sydney Clievenix looked hard at his assistant and smiled 
 curiously. He was a tall, lithe, close-shaven man, the 
 lantern-jawed Pole, with an odd dried-up look for his age ; 
 of Sydney Chevenix's own height and build, but thinjier 
 and more sinuous ; of an adamantine firmness about his 
 close-shaven chin and thin lips that spoke him at once a 
 man of iron will and immovable determination. As a rule, 
 the Pole was remarkably taciturn, morose, and self-centred. 
 Sydney Chevenix had never before, indeed, heard him 
 speak so frankly, or allude so unequivocally to his primitive 
 trade of Russian revolutionist. The Englishman knew him 
 only as an able expert in explosives, and engaged him as 
 such without note or comment, asking no questions for con- 
 science' sake, save purely scientific ones. Both men were 
 over thirty, and both had the same clear-cut cast of 
 
28 FOR MAIM IE' S SAKE. 
 
 philosoj)liical face, unencumbered by beard, moustache, or 
 whiskers ; l)ut Sydney Chevenix was strikingly handsome 
 and engaging in feature ; while Lenyowski's countenance 
 had a grim hardness of outline and expression that sorted 
 well with the stern mould of his revolutionary nature. 
 
 * Each to his o-.vn mind, Bcnyowski,' the Englishman 
 said, turning cheerily to work. 'But we must pull together 
 anyhow at this new stuff, whatever use we may choose to 
 make of it in the end, each after his own fashion. It'll be 
 a splendid thing, if only we can develop it. I shall work 
 day and night at the investigation myself till I've got it 
 perfect.' 
 
 Benyowski smiled again. 
 
 * And when it's perfect,' he added quietly, half below his 
 breath, ' there will be new furniture and occupants required 
 at the Winter Palace.' 
 
 * He's an excellent assistant,' Sydney Chevenix thought 
 to himself silently ; * but I should certainly like him better 
 in his private capacity if he wasn't quite so pugnaciously 
 redolent of this blood-and-thundrous continental Nihilism.' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COUNCILS OF STATE. 
 
 As evening drew on, Stanislas Benyowski took down his hat 
 from the peg in the corner and prepared to walk moodily 
 out of Sydney Chevenix's neat little laboratory. He had 
 relapsed long since into his usual grim morose silence, and 
 Sydney had been far too busy with his own work to talk 
 much further to his strange assistant ; so the Pole, as he 
 opened the door to go, merely inquired formally, in a 
 mechanical way — 
 
 * Anything more to do this evening, patron V 
 
 * No,' Sydney Chevenix answered ; * nothing more of any 
 sort. Good-evening, Benyowski.' 
 
 ' Good-evening, patron.' 
 
 And Stanislas Benyowski, hat in hand, walking stealthily 
 and noiselessly, after the wont of conspirators, melted away 
 
COUNCILS OF STATE. 29 
 
 from liis employer's sight up the laboratory stairs into the 
 shades of evening. 
 
 IJiit an hour later, after his mutton-chop and glass of 
 lUvarian beer hastily swallowed at a little Italian coflee- 
 shop in the recesses of Marylebone, he issued forth and 
 became visible once more in the darkness of the gas-lamps 
 on his road to a tall narrow tenement in a back street 
 among the slums of Suho. 
 
 lie mounted the long tortuous stairs of the lodging-house 
 like one well accustomed to them, and knocked at the 
 door of an attic chamber, which was cautiously opened and 
 held half ajar by a dirty ill-shaven refugee liussian. The 
 door-keeper scanned him attentively for a second, and then 
 exclaimed in his own tongue : 
 
 * It is well. Benyowski ! Come in, brother. They are all 
 here but you ; the meeting awaits you.' 
 
 Benyowski entered and glanced around him by the dim 
 light of the paraflin-lamp on the table at the dozen or 
 lifteen assembled Nihilists. A very villainous lot they 
 looked, most of them ; though two or three had the young 
 and handsome faces of student enthusiasts ; and among 
 them, at the head of the long table, sat a couple of women, 
 both of them beautiful, with a frank, open, fearless sort of 
 beauty, such as one associates in one's mental pictures with 
 the memory of Charlotte Corday or of the Maid of Orleans. 
 Benyowski nodded familiarly to all, and then took his seat 
 near the head of the council board, in the second place of 
 honour at the long table, side by side with the elder of the 
 two women. 
 
 ' What is the business before the meeting, to-night V one 
 of the ill-shaven men at the bottom of the board asked 
 gruffly. ' Why has an extraordinary conclave been called 
 this evening before the regular day of assembly on Wednes- 
 day next f 
 
 The youngest and handsomest of the two girls, who 
 evidently acted in the place of secretary, drew forth a little 
 book of cyphered minutes, and began to read in a sub- 
 dued voice, but with a certain studied air of official 
 impressiveness : 
 
 ' Republic of all the Russias, Anarchical and Indissoluble. 
 
30 FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 In the Name of the Will of the People. Amen. Meeting 
 of the Provisional Council of the English Section, 18th of 
 August, New Style. Business under consideration — 
 impeachment of I\Iichael Stefanovitch Koraissaroff, late 
 treasurer,' 
 
 They did not speak or act like conspirators ; they did not 
 ■\vhisper, or look around them suspiciously, or garble their 
 language. Why sliould they ] In their own eyes they 
 were not conspirators, or criminals, or murderers, but the 
 just embodiment of the entire anarchical Russian common- 
 wealth. 
 
 ' What is the accusation against Brother Michael Stefano- 
 vitch ?' the ill-shaven man at the bottom once more inquired. 
 
 ' He is suspected of betraying the secrets of the Council 
 to Alexander Alexandrovitch,' the secretary answered, 
 pressing her hand carelessly across the straying fringe that 
 fell down too low upon her fair white foreiiead. 
 
 ' Who delates, Vera Trotsky 1' Stanislas Benyowski asked 
 calmly. 
 
 'No. 12-U,' the secretary replied, glancing down with an 
 offliand look at her 2)apers. 
 
 There was a short but animated discussion as to the 
 inferential proofs of Michael Komissaroff's suspected 
 treachery — very slight ones, it must be candidly confessed, 
 and for some twenty minutes the question of guilt or inno- 
 cence was hotly debated by all the party, save only Stanis- 
 las Benyowski ; he looked on carelessly with the weary air 
 of a man who knows that all these things matter in the end 
 less than nothing. It was a noisy debate, all dim surmise 
 and misty suspicion, after the hazy wont of conspirators in 
 general. Then at last the secretary, arranging her brooch 
 and collar automatically with her small white twitching 
 hands, as if to make herself neat and tidy for so important 
 a function, put the question to the vote with due solemnity, 
 after hearing all arguments : 
 
 * Is it the will of the Council that justice be executed on 
 the person of Michael Stefanovitch Komissaroff, traitor to 
 the Kepublic, Anarchical and Indissoluble, and to the 
 united Will of the Russian People % Those who are in 
 favour of the motion, hold up their right hand in token of 
 approval.' 
 
CO UNCILS OF S TA TE. 3 1 
 
 Every right hand around the whole table was held up 
 unanimously as a vote of condemnation. 
 
 ' Ter contra,' the secretary said again, looking round the 
 room with an amused smile of official scrupulosity. 
 
 Nobody responded. 
 
 ' The sentence is carried,' Vera Trotsky said calmly, 
 making a little note of the deadly decision in her wee 
 minute-book. ' Stanislas Benyowski, prepare the decree, to 
 carry out the Will of the Sovereign People.' 
 
 Stanislas Benyowski leant over the table, pencil in hand, 
 for a few minutes, and then read aloud in a clear voice the 
 draught form of official* decree he had prepared for the 
 occasion, 
 
 ' Kepublic of all the Russians, etc., etc. Meeting of the 
 Provisionrd Council of the English Section, 18th of August, 
 New Style. The Council, 
 
 ' Seeing that Michael Stefanovitch Komissaroff, formerly 
 treasurer, has been found guilty on suspicion, by delation of 
 No. 1244, as set forth in letter in cypher from Nijni Nov- 
 gorod, dated July 14, O. S., of treachery against the Kepublic 
 and the Will of the People, 
 
 * Decrees 
 
 'That the said Michael Stefanovitch Komissaroff", formerly 
 treasurer, be removed by such means as may jn'ove most 
 convenient, the execution of this decree being left to the 
 person chosen by lot to give effect to the commands of the 
 Council. 
 
 ' By order : 
 * The Acting Intendant, 
 
 • Stanislas Benyowski : 3247.' 
 
 'Is the decree accepted?' the secretary asked, looking 
 around the table once more, in the midst of still and death- 
 like silence. 
 
 All hands went up immediately. 
 
 'The Council accepts the decree,' Vera Trotsky said, 
 turning round with a bow to Benyowski. 
 
 Benyowski bowed slightly in return, in a vrearied fashion. 
 
 'Draw lots,' the indefatigable secretary went on, putting 
 
32 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 a number of small pieces of paper, one onlj inscribed, into 
 a hat in the middle of the table. 
 
 They all drew in solemn silence. 
 
 As each man unfolded his scrap of paper with trembling 
 fingers, they turned to see who had drawn the one lot 
 bearing the accustomed legend, ' Death to the traitor.' 
 
 Stanislas Benyowski held it up, unmoved, listless as ever, 
 between his thumb and finger. 
 
 'The Unconscious has selected me for the task of venge- 
 ance,' he said quietly. 'Komissarotf shall l)e removed at 
 the earliest opportunity. I will report jirogress to the next 
 meeting.' 
 
 ' Has anybody any other business to bring forward ?' the 
 secretary asked, as unconcernedly as though they had just 
 decided some petty question of everyday routine. * No \ 
 Nothing ? Then the meeting stands adjourned oflScially till 
 the usual hour next Wednesday.' 
 
 And all at once, everybody dropped forthwith the solemn 
 air of a political conclave ; pipes and cigarettes were pro- 
 duced on every hand. The two ladies accepted, with smiles 
 and nods, two dainty little rolls cf scented Latakia from 
 Benyowski's case, which they proceeded to light without 
 the faintest compunction ; and the meeting resolved itself 
 straightway into a social conversation club of easy-going 
 Nihilists^ with no more outward appearance of bloodthirsty 
 underlying political designs than one would see on any day 
 of the week in any honest Frenchified Soho cafe. 
 
 * Read it ?' Mdlle. Vera Trotsky remarked cheerfully, in 
 reply to a question from Stanislas Benycvski. *0h yes; 
 I've read it, and rather liked it. I rea*l them all as they 
 come out. ]5ut I don't care much for Turgiienieff now ; 
 I've got beyond him. I swear by Zola and the new 
 naturalism.' 
 
irmK SYSTEM. 33 
 
 <(ffijLPTER V. 
 
 jVIaimie was deliylrtefl aniL charmed with Hetty Cipriani, 
 like a child with a auwtiny, as soon as Adrian Pym had 
 concluded their iutrnduitiDn to one another. Mrs. Cipriani 
 was the sweetest litik"tv<»mun Mairaie had ever seen in all 
 her life : she was a jraifetit; darling — a real pet— a dear old 
 creature — a deiightiu% (dever, sympathetic companion ; 
 and Maimie chatted .uvoy to her freely after two days' 
 acquaintance, with all dia fiimiliarity of a lifelong friend, 
 about the fishermen, aiiiidie (jiiildren, and the Silbury boys, 
 and the Oxford men, niiG especially and particularly about 
 Adrian Pym, whom ^& mundly described as just a dear, 
 and such a regular jolk ,|ood fellow, 
 
 ' Then you're very inul: of him, Mairaie V Hetty Cipriani 
 said archly — nobody ^vir dreamt from the first moment 
 they saw her of calling: Miiimie by any name so stiff and 
 formal as 'Miss LlewdlMn' — 'then you're very fond of 
 him, and think him thiiiihtfiil ] What a pity fellows of 
 Oxford colleges are mil ;uh»we<l to get married !' 
 
 Maimie blushed just w Wiry little (she was far too natural 
 to blush profusely at auiil ;i. .simple reference to an obvious 
 possibility), and answertd; liglitly : 
 
 * Oh ! well, you knov:. if it comes to that, Mrs. Cipriani, 
 ho isn't going to bf a Itiliiwr always. He's called to the Bar, 
 I think you call it — va any rate, he's a barrister — and he 
 means some day to ^v wq to London and to build up a 
 practice for himself in dia Temple. You know he teaches 
 law alread}'', and know*- la-mucli about it — oh, quite as much 
 about it as a regului' liivwr.' 
 
 'That's well,' Heti^^ mswered, smiling. 'But, Maimie, 
 you really mustn't oill mH Mra. Cipriani. It sounds so 
 dreadfully stiff and icnniiiiv as if I were a perfect ogre, and 
 you were dreadfulh' oiniil of me. Besides, I like to feel 
 myself still as youiip ut win are. Call me Hetty. It's so 
 much nicer to be friend'^ ditiether.' 
 
 ' I should like to bt iiiv' i sister with you, Hetty,' Maimie 
 replied simply. 'Iktl Mi Cipriani? I could never call 
 
 3 
 
34 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 liiin " Jocelyn," I'm sure, though I always call IMr. Pym 
 Adiian.' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed and answered for his wife : 
 
 'The cases are not exactly parallel, Maimie,' he saidgood- 
 hnmouredly. 'Pym stands to you in a somewhat more 
 delicate relation, I fancy, though I wish you would call me 
 Jocelyn, really. It isn't every day in these latter times that 
 I get any pretty girls beside my wife to honour me by dis- 
 pensing with the use of my surname.' 
 
 But Maimie shook her head to that ; and so it was Hetty 
 and Maimie alone between the two women from that day 
 forth, for Maimie seemed to fall readily into the habib with 
 all the pretty, childlike simplicity of her innocent, unsophisti- 
 cated, country-bred nature.' 
 
 A few days after their first meeting, Jocelyn and Hetty 
 were sitting in their lodgings, when they heard a loud voice 
 upon the stairs, with Maimie's soft and clear little tones 
 acting silver treble to the bass of a great sailor throat which 
 thundered out deep music beside her. 
 
 ' So these are your foreigner friends, Maimie,' the re- 
 doubtable Captain cried out loudly, as he pervaded the one 
 wee sitting-room with his colossal presence. ' These are 
 your new London friends, arc they, with the Frencliified 
 name and the trade of painter 1 Good-morning, sir ; good- 
 morning, Mrs. Somebody. I can't screw my honest English 
 tongue around your outlandish crack-jaw foreigner lingo, 
 I'm sorry to tell you ; but I'm glad to meet you all the 
 same — I'm glad to meet you ; and Maimie tells me you've 
 been very kind to her.' 
 
 ' "We have been delighted, I'm sure, to make Miss Llewel- 
 lyn's acquaintance,' Jocelyn answered, with ordinary formal 
 politeness. 
 
 The Captain opened his eyes in amazement. 
 
 ' Miss Llewellyn ]' he repeated blankly. ' Miss Llewellyn 1 
 Who the dickens said anything about Miss Llewellyn ? 
 AYhy, God bless my soul ! there must be a precious mistake 
 somewhere. My sister Lizzie's been dead this ten years. 
 Oh, ah ! I see j you mean Maimie ! God bless my soul 1 
 ^Vhy, yes, yes, you mean Maimie, Nobody ever calls her 
 Miss Llewellyn, bless you ! Oh, ah ! Maimie's glad to see 
 
THE SYSTEM. 35 
 
 strangers at any time ; and she's quite lost her heart, I 
 believe, to Mrs. Somebody.' 
 
 ' AVe hope,' Hetty said, ' you'll let Maimic come up some 
 day and stop with us in London, ]\Iy husband's very 
 anxious to put her in a picture, and he'd like immensely to 
 have some sittings from her.' 
 
 The old Captain looked askance at Hetty, as if he sniffed 
 mischief at once in the uncanny proposal. 
 
 ' You won't go putting ideas into her head ]' he said sus- 
 piciously. 'Not go teaching her a pack of trumpery super- 
 stitious devil-dodging nonsense, I mean, will you 1 Maimie's 
 a girl that I've brought up myself under my own eye very 
 particularly ; never allowed any sentimental trash to come 
 anywhere near her. And what's the consequence ? She's a 
 sensible girl, JNIaimie is ; aren't you, Maimie ? She steers a 
 boat or pulls a sheet as well as any sailor ', don't you, 
 Maimie ? She can hit a target on the gold at forty yards; 
 can't you, Maimie V 
 
 * I can, papa,' Maimie answered, with a bewitching smile, 
 which seemed to guarantee at once that all her father's 
 strenuous efforts to turn her (against nature) into a perfect 
 tomboy liad been happily frustrated by underlying softness 
 of disposition. 
 
 ' But I won't let her go to London,' the old man went on 
 very decidedly. ' I won't let her go to London, ]\Irs. Some- 
 body. It won't do to let her get her head completely 
 turned by a pack of foreigner people painting her and 
 ilattering her and telling lies to her. She's a pretty girl, 
 and a nice girl ; but she mustn't be allowed on any account 
 to think so. It doesn't do to put these notions into chil- 
 dren's heads; it unsettles them — it unsettles them. No, Mr. 
 Somebody ; ii's very natural you should want to exercise 
 your trade of painter — you're a sort of Admiral of the 
 Fleet at it, Maimie tells me — but I can't have you 
 painting Maimie. ^Maimie, my child, I can't have him going 
 painting you and turning your head for you. You're a 
 country-bred girl, you are, with no nonsense in you ; and 
 I won't have them putting any rubbish into you. Have 
 you got any nonsense about you, Maimie — got any 
 nonsense ]' 
 
 3—2 
 
36 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ' Xo, papa,' Maimie answered, laughing -, ' I certainly 
 haven't.' 
 
 ' Xo, Mrs. Somebody,' the old Captain assented, with a 
 sagacious nod ; ' she certainly hasn't. She's been brought 
 up clean away from all nonsense, all hypocrisy, all humbug 
 of every kind ; and you won't find a better girl going any- 
 where than our ]\laimie. Slie's been brought up obedient 
 to reason, and to reason only. I've treated her systema- 
 tically with pure reason. I'm an old sailor, and on board 
 ship we used all to have a great deal too much authority 
 and too little reason. I hate authority — I detest authority; 
 I'm all for reason, ^lainiie, my dear, I'm opposed to 
 authority, am I not, and all for reason f 
 
 ' You are, papa,' Maimie answered promptly, with a 
 tolerant nod. ' I always agree with everything papa says, 
 you know, Hetty, because it pleases him ; and I can always 
 do just as I like myself all the same, because, whatever I 
 say, it doesn't matter.' 
 
 Hetty noted with some amusement that they both always 
 spoke before one another, completely ignoring each other's 
 presence — a peculiarity due, no doubt, to the obvious fact 
 that they lived perpetually at cross-purposes, without at all 
 conflicting with one another's proceedings. 
 
 ' But you'll surely allow Maimie to come up to town and 
 stop with me. Captain Llewellyn ?' Hetty said coaxingly. 
 ' She's never been in London, and she ought to go there. 
 She's dying to go — aren't you, Maimie V 
 
 Maimie clasped her hands together, and turned her eyes 
 up to the ceiling as she answered rapturously : 
 
 * Oh yes ; it would be just heavenly !' 
 
 'Just what?' the Captain cried, in a sharp tone of 
 astonished exclamation. 
 
 ' Just heavenly !' Maimie repeated, unconscious' of her 
 crime. 
 
 ' There's no such thing,' the Captain burst out, reddening 
 in the face. ' There's no such place. There's no such land 
 at all on the Admiralty chart. There's no such world ; 
 there's no such existence anywhere as heaven. And even 
 if there were, it wouldn't in the least resemble London. On 
 the contrary, Mr. Shelley, who's a good authority, says the 
 
THE SYSTEM. 37 
 
 other place, Mrs, Somebody, is a deal more like it. " Hell," 
 he says, " is a city much like London." A sound, sensible, 
 reasonable writer, for a poet, Shelley. Xo nonsense about 
 him ; or, at any rate, very little. But to think, Maimie, 
 I should hear my own daughter, after all the care I've taken 
 with her bringing-up, using to my face such a word as 
 " heavenly " ! It's too disheartening. I believe, upon my 
 soul, you've been going to church without my knowledge, 
 you deceitful girl, you !' 
 
 ' I haven't indeed, papa,' Maimie answered, indignantly 
 repudiating the baseless accusation ; * I've only picked the 
 word up in the course of talking. I didn't know it was a 
 wrong word to use, or I wouldn't have used it, indeed, 
 Hetty. But I think, you know, it would be just lovely.' 
 
 ' You'll let her come, won't you, Captain Llewellyn V 
 Jocelyn asked, as persuasively as possible. 
 
 * No, I won't,' the old sailor replied, with gruff stolidity. 
 * I've got to watch over her myself, you see, sir, and I can't 
 afford to let her go up to London. Here she never sees 
 any men or anybody, except young Pym, from Oxford, and 
 those nice, well-behaved, quiet young pupils of his — boys, 
 boys, boys, all the lot of them. 1 won't have notions put 
 into her head. She's a country girl down here ; if you go 
 and take her up to London you'll turn her head, and make 
 a fine lady at once of her. Maimie, my dear, you shall not 
 go to London, and you shall not be made into a fine lady.' 
 
 'Very well, papa,' Maimie answered, unclasping her 
 hands, but looking very little disappointed indeed, all things 
 considered. ' Of course, Hett)', he'll let me go sooner or 
 later. I shall make him do whatever I want him. I shall 
 twist him round my little finger. He's a dear old fellow in 
 some ways, although he's so grumpy. I always got my 
 own way in the end with him and with everybody. I shall 
 go to London by-and-by, and ISIr. Cipriani shall paint me, 
 and it 11 be just heavenly — I mean delightful. We shall 
 have no end of fun in London together !' 
 
38 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE RESULT OF THE SYSTE^r. 
 
 A FEW evenings later, as the sun was setting, Adrian Pym 
 lay once more among the puri)le heather upon the West Cliff, 
 and Maimie sat threading daisies together, like the child 
 that she was, on the grass beside him. 
 
 'And so you're going away from Silbury next week, 
 Adrian,' she said plaintively, turning her big brown eyes 
 full upon him ; ' and then the great, nast}^, long, dull winter 
 will be coming on ; and the season will be over, and all the 
 fun ; and you'll be gone, and all the Oxford men ; and there'll 
 be nothing left on earth for me to do but to sit and mope 
 and talk to the fishermen — and count the days till summer 
 comes again !' 
 
 ' You're too frank and too flattering, really, Maimie,' 
 the Oxford tutor answered, holding her hand in his lazil3^ 
 ' You want to be wooer and wooed at once. Don't you know 
 that you ought to leave the love-making to me, little one, 
 and not to do it all of yourself on your own account ? Man 
 proposes ; woman accepts. Besides, perhaps, for aught you 
 know to the contrary, I may take my reading-party to John 
 o' Groat's or Land's End next July, instead of to Silbury.' 
 
 * Oh, Adrian ! Adrian ! You wicked man ! You don't 
 love me ! Not one bit ; I'm sure you don't love me. 
 Everybody else I ever meet loves me dearly, except only 
 you ; and yet you're just the very one of all others I want 
 the most of all to be desperately loved by.' 
 
 ' The natural perversity of things,' Adrian Pym responded 
 with provoking calmness, yet taking her plump little 
 dimpled hand between both his own, and stroking it long 
 and slow with affectionate persistence. * Eros Duseros — 
 criss-cross love — the Greeks used to call the tendency, 
 Maimie. Whom we love, loves not us ; and who loves us, we 
 somehow love not. . . . Maimie, Maimie, my sweet little 
 Maimie, I only wish to God I didn't love you !' 
 
 The last words came suddenly and unexpectedly with a 
 strange burst from the depths of his bosom, and as he said 
 
THE RESULT OF THE SYSTEM. 39 
 
 them he flung her hand away from him vehemently, as if 
 ashamed and afraid of his own tenderness. 
 
 * You will come to Silbury again next summer, Adrian,' 
 ]\Iaimie whispered softly. 'You won't leave me for t\yo 
 whole years without ever so much as once seeing you, will 
 you ]' 
 
 Adrian Pym faltered and hesitated. 
 ' Why do you press me, IMaimie V he cried at last in a 
 low voice, with suppressed vehemence. * Why do you try 
 * to force my hand ? Why do you torture me and tantalize 
 me for ever % Haven't I told you, over and over again, 
 that I love you, darling — love you dearly, devotedly, 
 madly — love you as I never loved any other woman in all 
 my life before, Maimie ; but that I can never, never, never 
 marry you !' 
 
 * I don't want you to marry me,' Maimie answered low in 
 a soft, quiet, musical whisper. * I want you to come to 
 Silbury often and sit with me here on the West Cliff, and 
 hold my hands, so, in yours, and tell mo you love me better 
 than anybody, and make my heart beat as it's beating now 
 — and — and— and — . . . that's all, Adrian.' 
 
 Adrian Pym rubbed the hollow palms of his clasped 
 hands hard together, and murmured in a voice as of terrible 
 pain : 
 
 * Don't, don't — please don't, Maimie !' 
 
 ' I shall,' Maimie answered. * I shall say it if I choose ; I 
 tell you, Adrian, I love you better than all the rest ; 
 and if I like, I shall tell you to your face I love you — 1 
 love you. Oh, Adrian, darling, it makes my heart thrill 
 
 so.' 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie, Maimie, you will kill me ! You will 
 kill me !' 
 
 'Why, darling — why can't you love me? Do tell me, 
 please, now, why can't you love me 1' 
 
 * I can love you, Maimie. That's just the worst of it. 
 I wish to God I couldn't. I do love you, and I can't help 
 loving you. From the very first moment I ever saw you, 
 when you were only a little girl just turned fifteen, I loved 
 you, Maimie. I loved you— I loved you.' 
 
 ' I know you did, Adrian. I always knew it. So why 
 
40 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 need you make such a terrible myst-e'ry of it ? Why can't 
 you come to Silbury again next summer f 
 
 * Because, Maimie — you v:iU wring it from me — I love you 
 too well ! I mustn't keep up this strain upon your affec- 
 tions any longer, my darling. I musl leave you to love 
 some one else who can really marry von. which I can never 
 do. I — I must go away and leave y<m for ever.' 
 
 Maimie clutched his hands tight in hersy as if to hold him 
 and keep him. 
 
 'Why, darling — why]' she whispered softly. 
 
 The man turned away and clenched his fists till the nails 
 dug deep into the palms within. 
 
 'Because, my darling,' he cried in anguish—* oh, Maimie, 
 Maimie, I can never tell you !' 
 
 * Yes — yes ; tell me, Adrian. I believe I know. I 
 believe I can guess it. Tell me — tell me ^ 
 
 * Maimie, Maimie, I'm married already f 
 
 Maimie turned to him with along deep breath. Her face 
 flushed a beautiful crimson, and her liixs parted as if to 
 speak, but said nothing. The tears rose slowly into her 
 big dark eyes and fell one by one upon Ler soft flushed 
 cheek. Then, breaking away to him in a smlden access of 
 passion, she nestled at once upon Adrian's shoulder with a 
 childlike air of trustful confidence. 
 
 ' My darling !' she cried at last, as the tears rose up 
 hotter and faster ; * my darling ! mv darling ! — is that 
 all ? Then you will come to Silburj-j won't you, next 
 summer]' 
 
 She threw herself back with her breast on his, and her 
 baby-face looking up all entreaty into his cold blue eyes ] 
 and Adrian Pym thought he had never in all his life seen 
 the beautiful girl look lovelier or more innocent than in that 
 supreme moment of complete surrender. He had expected 
 she would have drawn back, as any other girl would have 
 done, in horror and dismay at his crashing announcement ; 
 instead of that, she clung to him harder and more lovingly 
 than ever, as if her arms could never release their tight hold 
 of his neck and shoulders. 
 
THEIRESULT OF THE SVSTEAf. 41 
 
 ' My darling ! my darling f she went on whispering ; * it's 
 nothing — it's nothing ! You will love me still ! You Avill 
 never forsake me !' 
 
 'Maimie,' the tutor cried half sternly, shamed into 
 momentary respect for the conventions of morality hy her 
 childlike self-abandonment, 'you mustn't cling to me so ; it 
 isn't right of you. You ought to be angry — angry and 
 shocked at me. You oughtn't to go on loving me so ; you 
 oughtn't to speak another word to me.' 
 
 ' I dare say I oughtn't,' Maimie answered low, clutching 
 him still harder and pressing again.st hira till he could feel 
 her heart leap in her bosom. ' I dare say I oughtn't. I 
 don't know : 1 don't understand about all these things like 
 other people, you know, darling. I haven't been brought 
 up to understand them. I never had a mother to tell me 
 all about them. I can only do what my instincts tell me. 
 But if you've got a wife already, Adrian, you don't take her 
 about with you noAv anywhere ; so I hope you'll come to 
 tSilbury again, and love me always the same as you've 
 always done.' 
 
 Adrian seized her eagerly in his arms and covered her 
 face with warm long kisses. 
 
 'Maimie, Maimie,' he cried in an outburst of hot irre- 
 pressible passion, 'you're too innocent or too wicked, I'm 
 sure I don't know which ; but you mustn't talk so — you 
 mustn't talk so. I don't know what you'll make me do if 
 you go on talking so any longer.' 
 
 * I can't help it,' Maimie answered, soft and low, clinging 
 to him still like a child to its mother. ' I'm so happy, so 
 happy— so supremely happy ! O Adrian, I'm so glad to 
 know it's only that ! You can love me still, can't you, my 
 darling V 
 
 'But Maimie, Maimie! I mustn't, I mustn't. Apart from 
 every other consideration, it's wrong to you, it's spoiling 
 your life, it's blighting your future, all for my own selfish 
 personal gratification. You mustn't love me any longer, 
 darling. I ought never to have let you begin loving me. But 
 it grew up so slowly, so slowly, between us. You must for- 
 give me. I never knew what we were really driving at till 
 — till it had all gone too far for me to draw back, Maimie.' 
 
42 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 ' Ami you're not going to draw back now, I Iiope, Are 
 you, Adrian V 
 
 ' My child, I must ; there's no liclp for it. This has gone 
 a great deal too far already. I alone am to blame. It's my 
 fault — my fault entirely. Yet how could I help myself? 
 Who on earth can help falling madly in love with you as 
 soon as ever they see you, Maimie]' 
 
 'Adrian, I'm so happy — so perfectly happy ! I never quite 
 felt sure till to-night that you really, really, really loved me. 
 You were so odd at times, and seemed so stand-ofT. You 
 would not tell me why you didn't marry me. I understand 
 it all now. I'm so happy, for you really love mo.' 
 
 Adrian leant back on the grass with her hand in his, and 
 lay silent and doubtful, struggling with himself internally 
 for a few minutes. 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie !' he cried at last, ' I must go away 
 and leave you. I must put an end to all this. I must 
 never, never, come back again to vex you.' 
 
 Maimie did not answer him at all, but merely sat, soothing 
 his hand and stroking his face, and looking as if her hap- 
 piness was absolutely complete. She had dried her eyes 
 altogether now. She had cried only tears of joy in the first 
 sudden access of delight at finding Adrian's terrific secret was, 
 after all, so very unimportant a one ; but the beautiful flush 
 spread over herfacestill,andherlieart was beating fast though 
 evenly. After a long dreamy pause she spoke once more. 
 
 'Tell me how it all happened,' she whispered, 'Adrian.' 
 
 The tutor turned and looked her timidly in the face, as 
 if half afraid to trust himself to look upon her. 
 
 ' It was long ago, Maimie,' he said apologetically. 'I was an 
 undergraduate then— a mere boy — no older than the boys I 
 bring down here for you to flirt with nowadays. I was a fool, 
 as all boys are : it is incidental to the human mind to pass 
 through a stage of temporary idiocy about the age of twenty. 
 You may observe that all the undergraduates I bring down 
 here now are invariably idiots — the whole blushing stammer- 
 ing pack of them.' Maimie nodded a passing acquiescence. 
 * The girl was a barmaid — yes, a mere barmaid at an inn at 
 Hastings. I fell in love with her as I fancied then — I hadn't 
 met you yet, Maimie, and didn't know what falling in love 
 
THE RESULT OF THE SYSTEM, 43 
 
 really means : no man falls in love in earnest till he's past 
 thirty. Before that, we i)hiy "with light loves in tlic portal, 
 and wince, and relent, and refrain : at thirty, a man begins 
 to know he's a man, and begins to know, too, what sort of 
 stuff women are made of. Well, Maimie, not to bore you 
 with the petty details of an unprofitable story, I married the 
 wom;;n — ])Ositively married her, like an ass that I was, ami 
 never told the Oriel people one word about it. For awhih^ 
 I went to live with her in the vacations, and wo got on well 
 enough together, before the inevitable awakening. lUit the 
 awakening came, and we agreed to part. Nobody but my- 
 selfand her knows anything about it. I took my fellowship — ■ 
 which I hold by a straw — and I make her an allowance every 
 month. That's all the foolish, hateful story, Maimie. As 
 law goes, she can taboo me, like the dog in the manger, from 
 all other women whom I could love better. So now you 
 know why I can't marry you, and why I can never, never 
 marry you.' 
 
 ' And do you love her, Adrian V 
 
 ' Love her, Maimie ! Love that woman ! I hate her ! I 
 hate her ! With all the profoundest hate in my whole nature, 
 I utterly hate and detest her ! She has wrecked my life fur 
 me — wrecked it and ruined it; and now — now, worse than 
 all, Maimie, she will prevent me for ever from marrying 
 you, my own darling !' 
 
 * But she can't prevent you from loving me, Adrian !' 
 
 She spoke it with such perfect innocence and simplicity, 
 looking up once more at him with infinite love in her big, 
 beautiful, open eyes, that Adrian Pym, for all his philo- 
 sophy, was fairly staggered and astonished at her calmness. 
 Even from Maimie, child of nature that she was, he didn't 
 expect such absolute unconventionality, as he himself would 
 have preferred to call it. 
 
 ' My darling,' he cried, kissing her forehead tenderly, like 
 a father — he dared not kiss her ripe red lips at such a 
 moment — * you mustn't talk so ; for ray sake, you really 
 mustn't. If you do, I don't know what act of irretrievable 
 folly you may not drive me to. Hate me, Maimie ; hate 
 me, and be angry with me. I have wronged you deeply ; 
 reproach me, reproach me. But don't look at me like that 
 
44 J'''OR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 — don't say you love mo ; be angry with me— be angr)', or 
 else you'll kill me !' 
 
 'Adrian,' Maimic said once more, in a ploadin.i:^ voice, 
 'wliotlier you're married or whether you're not, you'll come 
 again next year to Silbury, won't you, darling/' 
 
 Adrian faltered. 
 
 * I don't know,' he answered evasively. * If I really loved 
 you — if I did what was best for you, JNIaimie — I'd go away 
 and never, never again come near you. But I'm too weak; 
 I haven't strength of mind for it. If only you had sprung 
 away from me when I first told you, and been shocked and 
 horrified, and cried out tliat I was a cruel wretch, and all 
 that sort of thing, I could have gone away easily enough 
 for ever. But wlien you throw yourself like that upon my 
 shoulder, and ask me still to come next year — though you 
 know no good can conceivably arise from it, and that I can 
 never by any possibility marry you — why, llesli and blood 
 can't possibly resist you. I'm a poor, weak, miserable 
 creature, Maimie, and I haven't strength of mind to do what 
 I know I ought to do.' 
 
 ^Maimie grasped his hand tight. 
 
 ' I'm so glad you're a poor weak creature,' she said gaily, 
 * and that you haven't strength of mind enough to do what 
 you ought to do. Then you'll come again next summer to 
 'Silbury ! . . . That's a good boy ! That's a dear ! That's 
 a darling ! . . . Now, you must give me just one more kiss 
 ■ — one more only — and then I must go back down to the 
 village, for papa'll be wondering what on earth's become of 
 me. That'll do, darling. I love you ! I love you ! Good- 
 night, Adrian. I'll say good-night to you now, for the sake 
 of a kiss, because we can't kiss one another down on the 
 Parade, you know ; but you must walk home with me, of 
 course, to our own door, for papa knows it's all right as long 
 as I've only been out with you, darling. He doesn't like 
 me to be out so late with the undergraduates. He says the 
 undergraduates are very well-conducted young fellowt^, only 
 that 1 mustn't walk out with them late in the evenings. 
 But when I'm with you, he knows, of course, that every- 
 thing's all quite right and proper.' 
 
POLITICS IN ACTION, 45 
 
 CIIAPTErt VII. 
 
 roLITICS IN ACTIOX. 
 
 That same afternoon, at Sydnej' Chevcnix's laboratory in 
 London, Stanislas Benyowski, silent and glowering l)y him- 
 self in the corner, seized the opportunity, when Sydney 
 Clievenix was out of the room, to take his cigar-case out of 
 his pocket and select four large cigars with much delibera- 
 tion out of the five that were in it. The fifth he noted 
 carefully with his eyes, observing that it had a small white 
 mark on one of its sides, made by a flaw in the outer leaf, 
 not far from the tai)ering end intended for the mouthj)iece. 
 
 The four selected ones he opened dexterously by means 
 of his pocket-knife, unrolling the outer leaf of the tobacco 
 with the air of an export, and excavating a little hollow in 
 the centre of each, near the lower end, into which he thrust 
 a small grey lump of some tough but flexi'ule dough-like 
 substance. 
 
 ' One of those will do for friend KomissarofT,' he thought 
 to himself gaily. 'And I haven't made such a bad job of 
 it as an amateur would either. The leaf rolls back quite 
 neatly and. naturally. A trifle of wax on tlie inside will 
 soon set it all right again to look at. That's excellently 
 done. It wasn't for nothing that I served my four years in 
 the Imperial Tobacco Factory at Dorpat, in Livonia.' 
 
 And he rei)laced the cigar-case quietly in his pocket 
 before Sydney Chevenix returned to the laboratory. 
 
 'A lucky thing,' he .said meditatively in his own soul, as 
 he went on unmoved with his work at the chemicals, ' that 
 friend KomissarofT happens to be given so much to the 
 river. I'm sure to knock up against him before very long, 
 and this'll settle the matter amicably.' 
 
 When work was finished, Stanislas Benyowski took his 
 hat down from the peg, nodded in a familiar way to his 
 enqiloyer, and turned listlessly out into the streets of 
 London. It was a lovely autumn evening, still early — not 
 more than five o'clock, for he had left off work betimes — 
 and he strolled on with no very definite object towuwards, 
 down Portland Place and into Eegeut Street. 
 
46 FOR MADrTEPS SAKE. 
 
 A policeman nodded to him in a friendly manner as he 
 passed the Circus. Stanislas Benyowski returned the no<.l 
 in a silent, morose, curious fashion — for the constable was 
 a Pole and an ex-Nihilist, employed as a sort of special 
 policeman for the foreign quarter around Soho and Regent 
 JStroet, 
 
 A\'alking down Waterloo Place, he saw a shabbily dressed 
 man a little in front of him, making his way in the direc- 
 tion of Charing Cross foot-bridge. Benyowski started. 
 
 ' This is a strange accident,' he thought to himself 
 silently. ' The Unconscious has delivered him at once into 
 my har 1. Hartmann is right. It sometimes strangely 
 approa«.hes design in the marvellous patness of its oppor- 
 tune coincidences. The old-fashioned mind would have 
 seen in tliis the finger of Providence. AVe see in it rather 
 the working of the Unconscious. Both are inscrutable, 
 divine, mysterious.' 
 
 ' Ho, KomissarofT !' he cried in Russian to the man in 
 front of him ; * it's ages since I've seen you. Where are you 
 off to now, my dear fellow V 
 
 Komissaroff turned and answered in a friendly voice, as 
 he brought down his palm on Benyowski's, outstretched to 
 receive it : 
 
 * I go down to Guildford to row on the river. I am in 
 need of exercise. I and my friends, we keep our boat 
 there.' 
 
 'Good !' Benyowski cried, with evident pleasure. 'The 
 fates are propitious. I will go down with you. Oddly 
 enough, I too have an engagement to-day at Guildford. No, 
 not boating, friend Komissaroff; another little appointment 
 of a more delicate nature. Be not too curious; it is a 
 feminine failing. We will go together to Guildford Station.*' 
 
 They went together, the Russian talking volubly all the 
 way ; and then Benyowski insisted on seeing his friend 
 down to the river-side and into his boat before leaving to 
 fulfil his mysterious engagement. As Komissaroff was on 
 the point of pushing oil from the shore, the Pole drew his 
 cigar-case casually from his pocliet, selected a cigar with a 
 studious care that seemed almost unnecessary, and passed 
 the case on politely to his neighbour, with a nod of invita- 
 
FOLinilxrs IN ACTION. 47 
 
 tion. Komissaroff luife it, oliose a cigar, returned the case 
 with a smile, and 2)iHiletll dtf gaily into the middle of the 
 river. 
 
 The Wej' is a londl^ s^tream up among the willowy 
 reaches away towards <&ridalming. The Pole stood watch- 
 ing him with firim he\w3- till lie was well out of sight 
 behind the bunding l^dli)W?^, and, casting around a furtive 
 look, returned quidchtii tlie station, and jumped into the 
 next train for London. He went through the whole little 
 episode — for it was niniiiiig more to Stanislas Benyowski — 
 with the reckless humuir of a man long accustomed to 
 taking his life in \m liunil&, and but scantily disposed to 
 reckon upon the caiHwijienees. But, before lighting his 
 own cigar, he weightiii m well in his hand, and probed it 
 slightly with the poiul (if hia pocket-knife. 
 
 'Good,' he Baidto:iiiiiHelf, with imperturbable calmness ; 
 ' this is the em])ty ont. KomLssarofF has taken one of the 
 loaded. I shall eer c notice in the papers to-morrow — 
 " Boating Accident on "Jitt River Wey at Guildford." Ha ! 
 ha ! that will settle liin. It's just enough to upset the 
 boat and stun him (juitoLy;. 30 that he'll sink to the bottom 
 and get drowned in jHiiee, without in any way disfiguring 
 him or creating awkwinrl and foolish suspicions. A good 
 stroke of business wtill tlune ! How very lucky that I 
 happened to meet liim diere just this evening ! The Un- 
 conscious is kind. RliC tiiere'a design in it, too ; human 
 design in it. If I liadiiti known Komissaroff was given to 
 boating, I couldn't htnft Itiiil such a trap for him so easily.' 
 
 And he lighted hifc wvo. cigar gaily, with the approving 
 conscience of a man ^iin> knows in his heart he has done 
 his plain and evideul diry not OL.y well, but also cleverly. 
 
 At the next meetin|r af the Provisional Council of the 
 Kussian llepiiblic, Aiuurjiiiual and Indissoluble, Acting In- 
 tendant Brother Htuui*lu» Benyowski, No. 3247, rose to 
 report drily, in the mote Imsiness-like possible manner, that, 
 three evenings previoittiy,. ilichael Stefanovitch Komissaroff, 
 formerly treasurer, iiuii been drowned in the liiver Wey, 
 at Guildford, by the auliten upsetting of a boat in which he 
 was taking his wonifiH <isercise. And when the leader of 
 
48 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 the Council — one Karl Trapmann, a liussianizcd German — 
 inquired casually, * Had you any hand in it ?' Benyowski 
 answered, with a quiet smile : 
 
 ' Enough that the decree is carried out. No need to ask 
 particulars of the means. But I can put as much explo- 
 sive into a cigar, I tell you, friend Trapmann, as will blow a 
 suspected traitor gently out of a boat into the water, and 
 defy those clumsy English policemen ever to detect it. It 
 is bad work to trifle nowadays with the Will of the Teople.' 
 
 CHAPTER VHI. 
 
 HKJH SEAS. 
 
 During the remainder of the Ciprianis' stay at King's 
 Silbury, Maimie and Hetty were much together, and saw a 
 great deal of one another. The amiable heathen, as Adrian 
 Pym had rightly called her, was such a bright, gay, merry 
 little thing that Hetty loved to see her running in every 
 morning, with a nod and a smile for the landlady and her 
 daughter, and a bunch of fresh roses in a little basket from 
 the Captain's cottage-garden for herself and Jocelyn. To 
 be sure, Maimie was at times a trifle sadder than usual that 
 last week (for was not Adrian Pym going so soon to leave 
 Silbury ?), but not much, for Maimie's was not a nature to 
 take readily to sadness, whatever came ; and she consoled 
 herself wiih the thought that Adrian loved her — that was 
 enough, and no need to cry over it. She felt now she 
 understood liim better. He loved her really, in spite of 
 that strange occasional moodiness of his. And, besides, they 
 shared a secret now between them ; and, young as Maimie 
 was, she knew already by intuition there is nothing on earth 
 to bind two people close together like common possession of 
 an incriminating secret. 
 
 But the time wore away, and the day came which was to 
 be Adrian's last but one in Silbury. 
 
 That afternoon the sea was running high and breezy, and 
 the breakers were tumbling in — not boisterously, but finely 
 — on the beach in front of Jocelyn Cipriani's summer 
 
HIGH SEAS. 49 
 
 lodgings. Jocelyn himself, seated in the bow-window that 
 faced the Parade, was looking out with immense interest 
 upon the huge white cataracts a? they followed one another 
 in rapid succession upon the jutting ledges of tlie beach 
 opposite. It was a grand sight, and a very beautiful one. 
 Jocelyn Cipriani gloated over it Avith a painter's apprecia- 
 tion. Presently a small, dark cloud rose with ominous 
 rapidity upon the pale horizon, and sudden little whiffs of 
 gusty wind came swirling past, driving the autumn dust in 
 eddying circles upon the narrow, gravelled roadway straight 
 in front of him. 
 
 'Wind's freshening,' Jocelyn called out cheerily through 
 the open window to the taut coastguardsman, as he passed 
 with his glass under his arm before the little lodging-house. 
 
 * Ay, ay, sir,' the man replied, with a friendly salute, 
 peering anxiously out to sea to south-westward ; ' a nasty 
 squall driving up the Channel. We shall have a capful o' 
 wind, I take it, afore nightfall.' 
 
 Jocelyn sat there, lazy still, watching the breakers 
 tumbling upon the shore, and presently took down his 
 field-glasses from the mantelpiece, and proceeded to scan 
 the hard line of the grey horizon. 
 
 * Is that a sail out there, Hetty V he asked, pointing with 
 his forefinger to a mere speck away out upon the Channel. 
 * If so, she's got no right to be out in such weather as this, I 
 warrant, for she's a mere skiff, a little cock-boat, a nothing 
 of a craft for such a stormy evening.* 
 
 'It is a sail,' Hetty answered decisively, marking it with 
 care : 'a small boat with a very big sail on, and she seems 
 to be knocking about dreadfully on the top of the waves, too, 
 as well as I can see with the glass, Jocelyn.' 
 
 Even as they spoke, a fresh gust came suddenly round 
 the cliffs from westward, and drove the dust and leaves 
 before it in a tiny whirlwind with unexpected vehemence. 
 It was one of those ugly rapid bursts of wind that often 
 sweep in hilly country down a funnel-shaped valley on to 
 the open sea in treacherous weather. 
 
 ' Nasty squall, sir,' a lishernian cried from the beach to 
 Jocelyn. SSecras to be a sail,* that there, out yonder to 
 windward.' 
 
 4 
 
50 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 'Yes,' Jocelyn answered unconcernedl3^ 'I dare say we 
 shall hear of an accident, too, hefore morning. Duke marl 
 magno^ said old Lucretius. TJie cruel old brute ; for all his 
 philosophy, he would have positively enjoyed it !' 
 
 A few minutes later, a second fisherman came up from 
 the beach and addressed the first one with eager anxiety ; 
 and before long, a hasty little group had gathered buzzing 
 about them, discussing with evident Avarmth some unknown 
 question in which they all appeared to be profoundly inter- 
 ested. 
 
 'What's the matter?' Jocelyn cried, putting his head 
 carelessly outside the lodging-house window. ' Something 
 up? Going to get out the life-boat? Ship off the coast 
 there in distress somewhere V 
 
 One of the fishermen looked up to him with bronzed face 
 turned pale as a woman's, and answered quickly : 
 
 ' We ain't got no life-boat, more's the pity. I wish to 
 God we'd only got one ! Miss Maimie's out there.' 
 
 'Miss Maimie !' Jocelyn cried with sudden soberness. 
 ' You don't mean to say she's off in that boat yonder]' 
 
 ' Ay,' the man answered. ' Miss Maimie ! It's ]\Iiss 
 Maimie, God help her ! She an' the Cap'n went out 
 tliere sailing in the Cap'n's boat afore this 'ere squall that's 
 coming drove over ; and the coastguard can see they're in 
 distress, and we're going to put off a boat to help 'em. God 
 save the young lady, and send her safe to land, says all of 
 us.' 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani jumped up at once hurriedly from his 
 chair. 
 
 ' Hetty, Hetty !' he cried in eager haste, ' I must go too ; 
 I must go and help these men to save her.' 
 
 'But Jocelyn, my darling ! the sea's so high. You don't 
 understand boats — not in the sea, at least. You'd better 
 leave it to the fishermen, hadn't you V 
 
 * Pooh, i)Ooh, Hetty !' the painter said laughingly, pinching 
 her cheek to reassure her from her terror ; * the sea's nothing, 
 absolutely nothing ; and as to rowing, remember I rowed 
 five in my college eight when I was at Oxford. I can pull 
 in the sea as Avell as on a river. What are my arms for 1 
 We can't go and leave the rescue of poor Maimie all to 
 
HIGH SIC AS. 51 
 
 these rough ignorant fishermen fellows. If they're prepared 
 to risk their lives for her, surely, Hetty, l*ym and I should 
 be.' 
 
 As he spoke, Adrian Pym came running down, hatless 
 and pale, from the little hotel, and joined the band of talkers 
 on the beach. They were pulling down a boat to the 
 shelving shore now. 
 
 * I must go, Hetty,' Jocelyn cried hurriedly. ' If I don't 
 go at once, they'll be off without me. Good-bye, darling ; 
 1 mustn't wait a moment. For poor little Maimie's sake, 
 Hetty ; for poor little Maimie. AVe must try to save her.' 
 
 'Poor little soul !' Hetty thought to herself with clasped 
 hands as he went. ' If she were to be drowned, though I've 
 only known her for ten days, I should cry my eyes out. But 
 I do wish Jocelyn hadn't gone, for all that. If he were to be 
 drowned, that would be twenty times more terrible than 
 anything.' 
 
 Meanwhile, Jocelyn had rushed down quickly to the 
 beach, and with his easy air of authority and command had 
 taken a seat and a stout oar in the little strong-built fishing- 
 boat. 
 
 * You'll come too, Pym V he cried, turning to Adrian -, 
 and Adrian, throwing off his fiannel coat, and baring his 
 great muscular arms to the elbow, jumped into the boat 
 without a single word, and took a seat and an oar in front 
 of him. 
 
 'Now then, you others, be quick, all of you!' Jocelyn 
 shouted with the voice of a born commander. * Fall into 
 your places ! That's right ! Push her off, you there ! and 
 row for your lives, men, as hard as you can row her.' 
 
 They headed her Avith difficulty through the fierce 
 breakers on the shallow bar, and got clear off at last with 
 vigorous strokes into the trough of the billows. The men 
 rowed as if for dear life, and Jocelyn put his whole strength 
 into the oar he was wielding. As for Adrian Pym, he 
 pulled away, silent and pale, and never uttered a single 
 syllal)le. 
 
 'Miss Maimie, she didn't ought to have let herself go out 
 in such weather as this,' one of the men said half inaudibly 
 between the crash of the waves ; ' but, there, she's a reg'lai* 
 
 4—2 
 
52 FOR MAIM IE' S SAKE. 
 
 sailor's daughter, the young lady ; she don't so much as 
 know wliat fear is.' 
 
 ' The Caj)'n didn't ought to 'a took her out, either,' said 
 another ; ' but he were always a foolhardy old chap, the 
 Cap'n. The Lord grant Ave may find her alive, though !' 
 
 * Why. Silbury wouldn't be nothing without Miss Maimie,' 
 the first man muttered, as he pulled his stroke through the 
 seething water. ' But, as I says, she don't so much as know 
 what fear is. Though she's such a tender, gentle, smiling 
 little thing as she is, the Cap'n's brought her up to fear 
 notliink. They tells us he fears hisself neither God nor 
 devil, an' he's brought Miss Maimie up quite similar.' 
 
 Even in the midst of that terrible storm, Jocelyn Cipriani 
 couldn't help noticing to himself two things — first, that they 
 all spoke throughout about saving Maimie and not the 
 Captain ; second, that even those grim seafaring men didn't 
 seem at all disposed to visit upon the daughter the sins of 
 the father in the matter of religion. They appeared to think 
 that, theological opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, 
 whatever Miss Maimie said was right, and whatever she did 
 was beyond all possible question. 
 
 Adrian Pym alone worked on silently and eagerly with 
 blanched and quivering lips, looking ahead every now and 
 then in the direction of the tiny white sail on the horizon 
 drifting away for ever in front of them. 
 
 They toiled on, saying little to one another, but leaning 
 hard upon their oars, against the overpowering waves, for 
 twenty minutes more ; and gradually the lowered sail upon 
 the sky-line grew nearer and nearer, though still at a pain- 
 fully dangerous distance. They could see now that the 
 waves were almost too much for the frail little pleasure-boat, 
 ill adapted for so fierce a sea, and that the Captain had hard 
 work to manage the scrap of sail which alone he dared keep 
 up in the face of so sudden and so terrible a tempest. 
 
 'Put your backs into it, all of you !' Jocelyn Cipriani cried 
 out above the roar of the wind, as he looked over his 
 shoulder at the tossing little craft upon the crest of the 
 billows j ' row, row — row for your lives, men ! Another gust 
 like that, and she'll founder as she stands. The sea'il 
 swamp her. She can never live through it.' 
 
HIGH SEAS. 53 
 
 Tliey were a hundred yards off now from the boat, and 
 could see tlie Captain standing up with the sheet in his 
 hand, beckoning tliom eagerly to liurry forward, and Maimie, 
 pale but not tremulous, sitting unmoved in the stern-seat 
 and guiding the tiller-strings with careful hands, like one 
 well accustomed to such pressing dangers. 
 
 ' By Jove, she's a brave girl!' Jocelyu Cipriani cried out 
 to Adrian. ' fShe's keeping her head to the wind like a born 
 sailor. Kow, row — row for your lives, men ! and with God's 
 help we shall still be in time to save them,' 
 
 Strange how evon with the most irreligious of us, in times 
 of great emotional excitement, the old mother-tongue of the 
 emotions rises naturally to our lips and gives strength and 
 vigour to our outbursts of feeling ! 
 
 Next moment a white sheet of spray broke up against the 
 broadside in a curling mass and hid the pleasure-boat entirely 
 from their view for a single second. When it cleared away 
 again tlie scudding water had run on fiercely on its course 
 to leeward, and the one small sail was no longer visible any- 
 where before them. 
 
 ' God help us, she's capsized !' cried one of the sailors, 
 releasing his oar. ' Look at her — look at her ! there she 
 goes, drifting away bottom upwards. They've both gone 
 down — they've both gone down in her ! There's nothing to 
 be done for it now, Mr. Cipriani, but to pick up the bodies.' 
 
 They pressed on wildly with redoubled energy towards 
 the black hull bobbing up and down merrily on the 
 treacherous water straight in front of them ; and Jocelyn 
 looked around with an eager glance on the seething black 
 mass for any sign of a human head standing darkly up 
 among the spray on the surface. 
 
 ' See there — see there !' the sharpest-eyed among the 
 fishermen cried again. * There she goes ! There she goes ! 
 Yon's Miss Maimie ! That's her — that's her clinging to the 
 boat there ! The Lord be praised ! We shall be in time to 
 save her.' 
 
 ' And the Captain ]' Jocelyn asked in a breathless tone, 
 looking anxiously before him. 
 
 'The Captain f shouted back the fisherman above the 
 roar of the waves, with the calmness of his kind. * The 
 
54 FOR MAIMIEPS SAKE. 
 
 Captain feared neither God nor devil, and he's gone now 
 where he'll have to face one or t'other ; and the Lord be 
 merciful to him now he's gone, for a kinder-hearted sailor 
 nor a braver man never sailed the salt water I* 
 
 They drew alongside with care and difficulty,' for the 
 waves ran so high and broke so strong that it was hard 
 indeed to pull near the wreck without dashing up against 
 her side, and so crushing Maimie between the two boats. 
 The beautiful girl clung there still, clatching with her hands 
 the shattered timbers, and watching cool and fearless over 
 the dashing waves the little band of approaching rescuers. 
 
 *■ Catch the oar, Maimie !' Adrian P\Tn called out in 
 trembling accents broken with suspense and terror for her 
 safety. ' Catch the oar, and cling to it for your life, child !' 
 
 Maimie turned skilfull}^ like a girl used to the water, 
 from the iloating hull, and balancing heiself among the high 
 billows with one hand still clasjuug it hard, reached out 
 with the other for the dancing oar-blade Adrian held out to 
 her. 
 
 ' Mind ; mind your head !' Jocelyn cried in terror ; but 
 Maimie let it pass over as she bobbed in true sailor fashion, 
 and caught at the narrower handle dexterously with her 
 left, so that they pulled her alongside without further 
 difficulty. 
 
 The fislicrmen lifted her tenderly into the boat, all wet 
 and dripping ; and one of them plaxred her on the thwart 
 beside him, putting his arm with rough kindliness 
 around the pale and frightened girl. Maimie nestled close 
 against him in her fear, like a chick agdnst its mother, and 
 then asked in a calm and perfectly collected tone : 
 
 * Where's papa, Mr. Cipriani V . 
 
 * We can't see him,' Jocelyn answere-i in as unconcerned 
 a voice as possible. ' We were looking about for him, 
 Maimie.' 
 
 ' He isn't drowned !' Maimie cried oat, terrified. ' Oh, 
 Adrian, Adrian ! Sam ! Georgey ! Don't tell me he's 
 drowned ! Don't say you can't see him " 
 
 ' I see him, miss,' one of the fisliennen answered with 
 unwonted tenderness. * See, see, there he comes up ! hard 
 
HIGH SEAS. 55 
 
 a-port, all of you . . . Hold liim out an oar. Catch it, sir — 
 catch it !' 
 
 But the Captain neither answered nor tried to clutch at 
 it. His white head moved up and down listlessly on the 
 top of the wave, like the bobbing hull of the boat he had 
 been sailing in. 
 
 ' Catch him, Sam — there I' cried one of the fishermen, as 
 they turned the bow towards the insensible body. 
 
 Sam reached out his hand and clutched the corpse by the 
 white hair. They lifted it in, a heavy inert mass, and laid 
 it down at the bottom of tlie boat in the stern by the 
 rudder. 
 
 ' Not dead ! not dead !' Maimie cried, wringing her hands 
 now in genuine alarm and grief and terror. ' Don't say he's 
 dead, Sam ! Oli, Adrian ! oli, (Jeorgey ! oh, Mr. Cipriani ! 
 he's only insensible! Tell me, tell me, he's only insensible!' 
 
 ' Hush, ^Muimie 1' Jocelyn answered soothingly, * We 
 must first get back to the shore in safety. Then we may 
 see what can be done to restore him. Meanwhile, sit still, 
 and keep the boat straight. Wo shall have hard enough 
 work to pull her back again in the teeth of such terrible 
 driving weather.' 
 
 They rowed back silently, without another word, Maimie 
 weeping with cold and terror, and crouching close between 
 the fisherman's knees ; the Captain's body lying wet and 
 white on the bottom at the stern, and the men pulling hard 
 for very life, and too full of their work to find time for 
 talking. At last they reached the shelving shore, and with 
 the aid of a rope flung to them from land managed to drive 
 her safe through the terrific breakers. One minute more, 
 and a crowd of women surrounded Maimie with tears and 
 sympatliy : and the men lifted up the Captain's body and 
 carried it straight to the nearest house, which happened to 
 be Jocelyn Cipriani's lodging. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, the doctor came down from the 
 room where they had laid the corpse, and spoke low to 
 Jocelyn Cipriani. 
 
 ' No hope,' he said, * no hope at all. He's stone-dead. 
 Not a tremor of the heart, not a drop of blood moving. 
 AVe've tried brandy and blankets and artificial respiration, 
 
5^ FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 but it's no good, llo seems to have got so mucli water 
 down into his hings that there's not the faintest chance of 
 reviving him. I've had jMaimie jmt to bod upstairs, and 
 given her a good stiff dose of spirits. With care and atten- 
 tion slie will be none the worse, I liope, for lior wetting. 
 Be very careful of her. All of us at Silbury are so fond 
 and proud of lier.' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ADRIAN CONFESSES. 
 
 Next morning, Adrian Pym came in early to sec Jocelyn 
 and Hetty. 
 
 ' Tiiis is a very bad business, I find, Mrs. Cipriani,' he 
 said with nervous hesitation, 'about poor little Maimie. 
 Her father's dead ; but that's not all. He was positively 
 everybody and everything in the world to her. Slie has no 
 aunts or uncles or other relations living, and she seems to 
 be left entirely alone now, with nobody anywhere to receive 
 her or take care of her. And what's worse, I hear the 
 old gentleman lived entirely on his half-pay, and he leaves 
 nothing behind him in the way of property but the fur- 
 niture in the cottage for poor Maimie.' 
 
 ' Well V Hetty Cipriani inquired quietly. 
 
 'Well, what on earth is to become of the poor child V 
 Adrian asked in a tone of utter despondency. 
 
 ' Why,' Hetty answered in the most business-like possible 
 manner, ' this is not a time to stand on ceremony, is it, Mr. 
 Pym? She'd better stop here with Jocelyn and me till 
 after the funeral, and then come up to town and stay with 
 us in Clevedon Place for the present. And as soon after as 
 you decently can — of course it mustn't be for another 
 month or two — you'd better marry her.' 
 
 'Better what?' Adrian Pym exclaimed, jumping up 
 excitedly. 
 
 'Better marry hor,' Hetty repeated with perfect feminine 
 coolness. ' Yes, Mr. Pym ; I said marry her. It's perfectly 
 clear to me that you like her, and that she likes you, and so 
 why on earth shouldn't you both be married at the earliest 
 
ADRIAN CONFESSES. 57 
 
 opportunity ? Oh no, I'm not at all afraid to say it : 
 married, married, married, married. Last night's accident 
 lias made it imi»erative upon you.' 
 
 Adrian Pym, instead of answering, paced up and down 
 the room moodily with his arms folded, and said nothing 
 for several minutes. Pletty watched him, unable to con- 
 ceive why the suggestion should move him so strangely. 
 Then at last he turned round, like a frightened creature 
 driven to bay, and answered in a cold and decisive voice : 
 
 ' I cannot marry her ; I won't marry her. No, Mrs. 
 Cipriani, 1 can't marry her.' 
 
 * Then I think,' Hetty answered, flushing up angrily, — 
 'you must excuse my saying so — I'm a woman, and I say 
 what I feel — but I think you have treated her very cruelly.' 
 
 Adrian Pym paced up and down the room once more, and 
 drew his hand across his face doubtfully. After two or 
 throe turns, he pi lied himself up right in front of Hetty. 
 
 'Mrs. Cipriani,' he said, 'I did not mean ever to say this 
 to anybody ; but under the present circumstances, I'm com- 
 pelled to trust you and Jocelyn. I say it to you in 
 confidence, and I trust to your honour not to betray me. 
 The circumstances have wrung it from me. There's no 
 avoiding it. If things were as you imagine, your blame 
 would be just. I should have only one course open before 
 me. But things are not as you imagine — I cannot marry 
 ]\Iaimie, because ... I am already married to another 
 woman.' 
 
 Hetty paused a second to take it fully in before she 
 answered. 
 
 'Then I think,' she said at last very seriously, 'I think 
 in that case, even more than before, that you have treated 
 ^Maimie very, very cruelly.' 
 
 As for Jocelyn, he spoke not a word. His philosophy 
 taught him that in such conditions the woman's cause might 
 safely be left in the hands of a woman. 
 
 Adrian Pym, for his part, did not attempt to defend 
 himself. He was too good a lawyer in principle not to 
 know that a hopeless case is best trusted to the mercy of the 
 
 * I have done wrong,' he said, flinging himself on the sofa 
 
58 FOR MAIMIE'S SAR'E. 
 
 in an attitude of despair, ' terribly wronf;. T know it. I 
 acknowledge it. But who could help it, Mrs. Cipriani ? 
 Who on earth could help it? What man that saw her 
 could ever help falling desperately in love with little 
 Maimie V 
 
 ' Where is your wife V Hetty asked sternly. * Why have 
 you left her ? Why do you not acknowledge her ?' 
 
 Adrian I'ym saw with instinctive diplomacy that his 
 best chance of forgiveness lay in blurting out at once in all 
 its ugliness a full and frank confession of his past history. 
 
 ' My wife,' he answered boldly and bitterly, ' is a 
 miserable, abject, drunken creature. She was a barmai«l 
 once, when 1 first met her : I was a mere boy — an Oriel 
 undergraduate — when I was fool enough to marry hei-. It 
 was a boy's freak, a bit of childish folly ; and for fifteen 
 years I have paid for it dearly and atoned for it heavily. 
 She had pink ribbons and pink cheeks when I knew her first, 
 and I fancied I loved her : she has a draggled dress, and a 
 bloated, swollen, drunkard's face now, Mrs. Cipriani, and I 
 know I hate her. For fifteen years that woman has hung 
 like a millstone about my neck, dragging me down per- 
 petually to the uttermost depths of infamy and misery and 
 blank despair. I have lived in constant fear that she would 
 turn up somewhere, and maliciously expose me : I have 
 bought her oft* from visiting me in ni}' rooms at Oxford by 
 eternal black-mail for ever increasing. She's a fiend, a 
 devil, a woman-drunkard — and I don't know anything 
 worse to say of anybody than what these words truly say 
 of her. Tied to that creature irrevocably for life, and 
 hating her for life with a deadly hatred, I came to Silbury 
 with a reading-party five years ago . . . and met Maimie. 
 She was a child of fifteen when I first saw her, and I liked 
 her for her originality, her freshness, her unconventionality, 
 her freedom. It is natural to an educated man, Mrs. 
 Cipriani, to take pleasure in the society of refined women, 
 rather than in the society of a drunken, bloated, slovenly 
 ex-barmaid. Mrs. Pym's comi)any is not congenial to me 
 — even when she's sober. I liked Maimie, and I talked to 
 her often. I came again and again to Silbury; but it Mas 
 never my fault if she began to fall in love with me. I 
 
ADRIAN COXFESSES. 59 
 
 always told her she mustn't love me : I always told her I 
 couldn't marry her. Can you blame me if I came here over 
 and over again, attracted by knowing I could always see 
 her here 1 Isn't it natural that a man of refinement and 
 education, who has once made such a terrible false step in 
 life, should wish at least to pass as much of his time as he 
 is able in the innocent company of pure and beautiful and 
 cultivated women '/' 
 
 'Let him alone, Hetty,' Jocelyn burst in, interposing 
 between them. * He has had his punishment. Like Cain'a, 
 it is greater than he can bear. Upon my soul, I'm sorry 
 for him. A woman can't sympathize with him, I dare say, 
 but a man can; and he's had his punishment, his full punish- 
 ment. Don't be too hard upon him. What we have to do 
 particularly now is to think of the future, and to settle 
 what can be arranged for poor Maimie. If Adrian's married 
 already, even though it be to an abject drunken creature, 
 as he says, it's quite clear in the present state of British law 
 that Maimie can't marry Adrian. For what we've got 
 practically to consider now is, what to do for poor Maimie.' 
 
 'Does Maimie know this, Mr. Pym V Hetty asked coldly. 
 
 ' Maimie does know it,' Adrian Pym answered, perusing 
 the carpet. ' I told her the whole story, as I have just told 
 it to you, about a week ago.' 
 
 * And she said ?' 
 Adrian hesitated. 
 
 'She said she would still like mo to come to Silbury.' 
 
 * Mr. Pym,' Hetty said, ' I won't reproach you. I <lare 
 say you have suffered, and I dare say you have been tempted. 
 Nobody can know except yourself how wrongly you may or 
 may not have acted. But you must never come to Silbury 
 again, and you must never again speak to Maimie. We will 
 take her up with us to London — that I've decided. There I 
 shall find some suitable husband among our own set for her. 
 Ihit this one thing I must insist upon. You have behaved 
 very cruelly, and the only reparation you can make now is 
 to go away at once, and never again see or s])eak to her.* 
 
 ' 1 may stop till after the funeral, and say good-bye to 
 her?' Adrian Pym suggested interrogatively. 
 
 * No,' Hetty answered, with unyielding firnniess, putting 
 
6o FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 her little foot down decisively upon the carpet, ' You must 
 go away without so much as seeing her. I am in place of a 
 mother to her. She's in my charge now, and you must not 
 come near her.' 
 
 Adrian Pyni acquiesced in silence. He knew it was use- 
 less to argue the point with a woman when she assumes 
 the imperative mood. * After all,' he thought to himself 
 bitterly, ' it is better so. No good could ever come of it to 
 either of us. It woul<l be difficult to know how to speak to 
 her in her sorrow. And as soon as ever I get back to Oxford, 
 why, then, of course, I can easily write to her.' 
 
 "When Hetty told the fatherless girl a little later on that 
 Adrian I'ym had left Silbury suddenly, asking Hetty to say 
 good-bye for him to Maimie, Maimie only let a few more tears 
 full from her poor red eyes, and murmured softly : 
 
 ' I wish I could have seen him before he left. I should have 
 liked, Hetty, to say good-bye to him, and to send my love to 
 the dear little undergraduates. . . . But it doesnt matter. I 
 shall see them all again next year. And of course Adrian 
 will write to me from Oxford.'/ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SCKNE SHIFTS. 
 
 Hetty Ciimhani soon found out that Maimie need be in no 
 greatdifficultyas to the question of finding a temporarj'home, 
 for the immediate present at least. The doctor's %vife and 
 the lawyer's wife fought eagerly with one another for tiie 
 ]»leasure of taking her in while things were being settled. 
 'Everybody would always be so glad to have dear 5lairoie to 
 stop in the house,' they said : ' she's so bright and lively 
 and helpful ; there's nobody like her ;' and Jocelyn was of 
 opinion it would bo better to let her stop at King's Silbury 
 for the next six weeks at any rate, till the first flush of her 
 grief had worn of!', and then to take her up to London for 
 a long visit to his own house. ' The change will do lier 
 more good at the end of that time,' he said to Hetty; *and 
 
TH£ .iiZRNE SHIFTS. 6i 
 
 besides, what's tbe use if my trying to paint the girl while 
 her eyes are as red af lilHLTiea with crying] In six weeks 
 the novelty of Loudon ':vilL bring her back to herself again, 
 and you can jn-oset^uif jnur matrimonial designs against 
 poor ChevenixB jmrw.uul happiness, Hetty, to your heart's 
 content. You woman mgard a man with independent 
 means, it seems, ah a «!BC of undesignated endowment for 
 the general benefit d vyiur girl-aeiiuaintances ; and you dis- 
 pose of his hand withnm aonsultation, as tlie king used to 
 dispose of heiressef in ailK midtlle ages, by way of an agree- 
 able present for any wiung person who happens to take 
 your royal fancy, ^^i. anyhow, I hope you'll manage to 
 hnd her a husband, 3 m Aire, little woman, since her face is 
 her fortune, and a vflrv gone one too, I'm afraid, in these 
 degenerate workaduv mncuries,' 
 
 So in due time Muimfrmade her appearance in London, 
 and was regularly iiHruihML ;uj a permanent guest for an in- 
 definite period in (uifi^ die best among Hetty Cipriani's 
 spare bedrooms. Tuf rjnwtion might have greatly troubled 
 some other girls, but lii didn't in the least affect simple little 
 Maimie's health or hajnin^sg. In all such matters she was 
 a perfect child, and il mtver even seemed to occur to her 
 that she had been leii uiprnvided for, and would have to 
 live henceforth, lor iXw i}rBsent at least, upon somebody 
 else's unobtrusive chinrv'. Everybody was very glad to 
 take her in, she knew;: md dear Hetty was a real darling; 
 and the house — oh, tin^ tiuuHe was simply lovely, with its 
 ex(piisite portieres, auti ita draperies and hangings, and its 
 pretty papers, and itpiOtdiintal pottery, and all the hundred 
 and one artistic iiiiitfliicka with which your modern 
 painter loves to sun-oinil himself. Maimie had never seen 
 such a house bcfort iin ail Iut life ; and she charmed 
 Hetty by her unafieiitivU and unfeigned admiration of every 
 room and every olij«iil iiLin. 
 
 On the second mornnii after her visitor's arrival, Hetty 
 happened to notice, v ic; she came down to breakfast, a 
 tiny envelope on Mainuj + [)late, bearing, to her great alarm, 
 the Oxford post-muvk 
 
 * Not from Mr. j\\:n,. C hope, Maimic V she asked in- 
 quiringly. 
 
62 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no, darling : this is from poor little Tom 
 Enderby. He writes to mc often.' 
 
 Hetty smiled. ' And who is poor little Tom Enderby ]' 
 she asked with some amnsement. 
 
 * Oh, just one of the dear little undergraduates, don't you 
 know. There were two of them down th(!re dreadfully 
 gone on mc — T do love them so — Tom Enderby and Chester 
 Bradshaw. They were always taking me out for walks at 
 dear old Silbury, and talking so nicely to me, and saying 
 such kind things, and making me such pretty, expensive 
 presents.' 
 
 'But, my dear Maimie, don't you know you oughtn't to 
 speak that Avay about young men, dearest ? In London 
 })eople wouldn't understand you. / understand you, of 
 course, and I know it's only the innocence of your dear 
 little heart ; but other people, I assure you, would put a very 
 different interpretation on it. I hope, Maimie, Mr. I'ym 
 doesn't write to you now, does he V 
 
 ^Fainiie always told the truth with perfect transparency. 
 * Oh yes, he does,' she answered candidly. 'He wrote to 
 me every second day, almost, at Siibury, and I wrote back 
 to him. I had a letter from him, in fact, the very day I 
 came away to London,' 
 
 ' But, my dear child,' Hetty said with a grave face, * tliis 
 is really very wrong of you. He told us himself he had 
 let you know he was married already — most unhajipily 
 married.' 
 
 ' So he did,' Maimie replied with perfect gravity. * And 
 I was so sorry, you see ; for up to that very moment I always 
 (piite expected, Hetty, he would end by marrying me. It 
 was such a disappointment I quite cried over it. liut now 
 1 suppose 1 shall have to get married instead to little Tom 
 Enderby ; and 1 don't really love poor little Tom one half 
 as much as I love Adrian. It's very jirovoking. I hate his 
 being married : I wish I could marry him.' 
 
 Ht'tty laughed outright even in spite of herself 
 
 ' Oh, Maimie,' she cried, struggling to be severe, * you 
 really mustn't talk that way, you know, darling ! You 
 must look at things more properly and seriously. Mar- 
 riage is a very solemn obligation, and you mustn't talk of it 
 
THE SCENE SHIFTS, 63 
 
 as if it were just nothing. And, above all, you mustn't write 
 to Mr. Pym any longer. It's so awfully wrong of you. You 
 don't know how wicked it is.' 
 
 ' Let her alone, Hetty,' Jocelyn Cipriani put in, looking 
 up with a quiet smile from his morning paper. ' Let one 
 soul upon this poor, sombre, grey, conventionalized world 
 of ours remain free and original and unconventional. 
 Don't try to mould our ■wayward little ^laimie into the 
 same vulgar stereotyped pattern as all the rest of us. Why 
 do we all like her so] Because she's herself, and not some 
 other person. Let her be herself still, and don't foolishly 
 try to patch and alter her. You can't improve upon 
 Nature, I promise you. Here we are, both falling in love 
 with her for her sweet simplicity and her country charm : 
 and what do we begin straightway to do ? — to inoculate her 
 forthwith with the baneful virus of London manners and 
 London respectability. Aren't there enough respectables 
 and to s[)are in the world already, I should like to know, 
 that you want to spoil and deface this one little innocent 
 unsophisticated piece of rustic ingenuousness ] Thank your 
 stars for having made her even as she is, Hetty, and don't 
 go foolishly trying to make her into something different — • 
 something that would suit the vapid, insipid, banal taste of 
 conventional society.' 
 
 Maimie stepped over lightly to the easy-chair where 
 Jocelyn sat, and took his hand in hers with grateful 
 affection. 
 
 ' Isn't he a darling, Hetty 1' she asked, in innocent admi- 
 ration. * Isn't he just delicious, and sweet, and lovely, and 
 charming? He puts everything so nicely and so pleasantly, 
 and makes one feel in such a splendid good humour with 
 one's self somehow. And he never scolds ; he never scolds 
 either. Now, tell me, Hetty, does he ever scold you V 
 
 ' Never,' Hetty answered, moving over to her husband 
 tenderly and printing a wifely kiss on his broad forehead. 
 
 ' I should like to do that too, but I sui)pose I mustn't,' 
 thought Maimie to herself. 
 
 ' He's the best and dearest husband in all Christendom, 
 Maimie. I only wish everybody else had got one just 
 exactly like him.' 
 
64 FOR MAIM if: S SAKE. 
 
 'So do 1/ Maimie answered frankly ; 'exactly like him. 
 He's such a darling. So kind and sympathetic. Except 
 Adrian, I never saw anybody anywhere in the world one- 
 half so nice as Mr. Cipriani.' 
 
 ' These mutual compliments begin to grow embarrassing,' 
 Jocelyn murmured, jumping up from his easy-chair, and 
 taking his seat at the head of the breakfast-table. * Hetty, 
 Avhat's your programme for this morning ] I'm going to let 
 Maimie have one more holiday, to see the sights of this 
 groat metropolis before she takes seriously to the trade of 
 model ; and then to-morrow she must begin work in real 
 earnest, and jtose all morning for the Beatrice in costume 
 for my great picture. — You'd better read up the whole story 
 beforehand, by the way, Maimie ; it makes you throw your- 
 self into the character more fully : you'll iind everything 
 you need know about it in that book on the table there — 
 skim it through this evening, there's a good girl — and also 
 jn Shelley's tragedy ("The Cenci," you know) which you can 
 get on the poets' shelf in the library. What do you thiidc 
 you'd like to do with yourself, now, this morning X 
 
 ' I think, Hetty,' Maimie answered obliquely, ' if it's all 
 the same to you, dear, I should like to go to j\Iadame Tus- 
 saud's, and then to look again in the shop-windows down 
 in Regent Street. They're so awfully lovely, you know, the 
 windows, aren't they ]' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed aloud a merry laugh. 
 
 * My dear child,' he said, *it positively does one good to 
 observe and admire your infantile freshness ! Madame 
 Tussaud's, she says : Madame Tussaud's for choice now ! 
 Talk about the irony of fate ! Has it come to this, then, 
 that the house of Cipriani is to pour forth its womankind 
 in a formeel body to drink in lessons of high art at Madame 
 Tussaud's ? Oh, infinite degradation of the human soul ! 
 David was perfectly right alter all ! The heart, the heart 
 is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.' 
 
 Maimie drew back a little alarmed. She didn't mind 
 shocking Hetty: she always expected that with women as a 
 matter of course; but she hoped she hadn't shocked Jocelyn 
 Cipriani. 
 
 •I — 1 didn't know it was wicked,' she murmured aloud, 
 
THE SCENE SHIFTS. 65 
 
 almost timidly ' I thought everybody went to Madame 
 Tiis.saud's.' 
 
 ' So they do,' Jocelyn replied lightly, * and you can go if 
 you like, Maimie. There you will see a vast number of 
 interesting persons : Napoleon the (Jreat and the late Mr. 
 Peace ; George Washington and the Brighton murderer ; 
 Charlotte Corday, that transcendental and sentimental 
 criminal, sticking a pork-butcher's knife under the fifth rib 
 of the amiable M. Marat in a discreetly covered sitz-bath ; 
 and her Most thacious Majesty, the reigning Queen, in her 
 state robes, surrounded by a touching domestic group of 
 assorted little princes and princesses, all in their best bibs 
 and tucker?.' 
 
 * I shall like that,' Maimie said simply. 
 
 ' I've not the slightest doubt in the world you will,' 
 Jocelyn answered with a smile. 'The unsophisticated 
 human intellect always likes whatever it ought not to like, 
 as duly noted in the Common Prayer Book. Go, then ; go 
 and be demoralized, Maimie. Sate yourself to the full with 
 murderers and Czars and second-hand frippery. And, Hetty, 
 mind you take a cab both ways, there's a dear girl, and have 
 a proper lunch down in Regent Street. No buns and cups 
 of tea at a confectioner's, mind, Maimie : the natural woman 
 is prone to buns and bad confectionery : see that she goes 
 to the Criterion comfortably, and has a nice cutlet and 
 a glass of hock and a little light pastry to finish up with. 
 Maimie '11 like to see the Criterion, too, Hetty : it'll be a new 
 experience for her — and I shall stop at home and work hard 
 at my immortal picture here, for both of you.' 
 
 ' He u a darling !' Maimie cried again. * How awfully 
 kind he is ! Hetty, I do think you're the very luckiest and 
 happiest girl in all England.' 
 
 '1 am indeed,' Hetty answered, smiling. 'You'd say so 
 really, and know it too, if only you knew him as well as I 
 do, Maimie.' 
 
 ' There are iftvir things nicer in life,' Jocelyn remarked 
 philosophically, balancing a piece of devilled sardine on the 
 end of liis fork, ' than to sit at ease in one's own breakfast- 
 room, and be liberally cracked up for an unlimited period 
 by two of the prettiest and most agreeable women '\\\ all 
 
 5 
 
66 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 England. You may go on as long as you like, both of you 
 I'm not modest : I don't mind it, thank you. In fact, to 
 tell you the plain truth, Hetty, I rather enjoy it.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL. 
 
 Maimie certainly made up to perfection as a Beatrice Cenci. 
 Keclining lazily in Jocelyn Cipriani's antique Florentine 
 easy-chair, with her crisp black locks lightly encircled by 
 Guide's traditional white turban, and her fjice naturally as- 
 suming that placid smile of childish innocence which is in- 
 separable from our mental concept of a Beatrice, she looked 
 the character to the very life. Jocelyn was delighted with 
 her. He poised her head gracefully on one side, half look- 
 ing over the shapely glistening shoulder, first a little this 
 way, then a little that way, and stepped back a pace or two 
 each time he moved it to see how far the position suited the 
 exigencies of his contemplated picture. 
 
 * Art is very exacting,' he said gaily, with an encouraging 
 smile. ' If you want your face to be immortal, you know, 
 Maimie, you must submit to a little penalty for immortality. 
 After all, you buy it very cheap. A triHe more up, the 
 chin — so ; exactly. That will do admirably, Maimie.' 
 
 Maimie noticed in her simple infantile way that each time 
 he poised her head afresh a little differently, he put his 
 hands for a second on either plum}) soft cheek with a gentle 
 pressure, and seemed in no hurry to remove them, either, 
 before he had satisfied to the full the exacting requirements 
 of his imperious art. In fact, he seemed to let them linger 
 there almost unnecessarily. Bub Maimie didn't in the least 
 resent this mute tribute to her feminine attractions : it 
 wasn't in Maimie's nature, indeed, to repress homage. She 
 merely smiled more graciously than ever, and looked even 
 more absolutely like an innocent Beatrice than before. 
 
 At last Jocelyn had settled her pose entirely to his own 
 satisfaction. 
 
 • Art is appeased,' he said with a graceful wave of his left 
 hand. ' We may now proceed, Maimie, to the first study. 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL. 67 
 
 I'm going to knock off your head in the rough first, just to 
 catch the general expression of the ]3eatrice. Now, Signorina 
 Cenci, think of somebody very agreeable, and imagine he's 
 saying such pretty things to you. . . . Think, for example, 
 of Adrian Pym.' 
 
 Any other girl would have bluslied and started at the 
 unexpected allusion, but Maimio's colour never altered for 
 a moment : only a brighter liglit gleamed one second in her 
 big brown eyes, and the smile that played imperceptibly about 
 the corners of her tiny mouth deepened a little till it broke 
 openly into a sunny ripple. 
 
 * No, Mr. Cipriani,' she said demurely, 'I won't think of 
 Adrian Pym. I'll think of you. You're a great deal hand- 
 somer, really, you know ; and, besides, you're also a great 
 deal nearer.' 
 
 ' But you like him best,' Jocelyn suggested archly, with a 
 stolen glance at her pretty features. 
 
 * No,' Maimie answered with charming candour. ' I like 
 you best now, of course, because Adrian isn't hero this 
 minute, you see, to make love to me.' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed an unaffected laugh. 
 
 ' Propinquity,' he said, beginning to sketch the outline of 
 her head rapidly on his canvas, * propinquity undoubtedly 
 possesses distinct advantages. The comparative vividness 
 of the actual impression outweighs the comparative faintness 
 of the remembered one. It does considerable honour to your 
 intelligence, however, that at your age, Maimie, you should 
 rightly have apprehended that important pyschological 
 truth. You display wisdom above your years. Let mo 
 see — so. A beautiful curve. By Jove, what a lovely sweep 
 of shoulder ! Excuse me, Signorina Cenci : professional ad- 
 miration only. My trade, my trade. The artistic instinct 
 overcomes the human. I am but a painter.' 
 
 ' You needn't apologize,' Maimie answered, smiling once 
 more a most delicious smile. * I don't object to it. I rather 
 like it, thank you.' 
 
 ' Of course you do,' Jocelyn continued, deftly sweeping 
 his pencil across the field for the contour of her shoulder, 
 ♦ All women like admiration. But it's always well to pre- 
 tend blindness, and apologize to them for too openly ad- 
 
 r, 9 
 
68 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 miring tlicni. It saves their blushes, or, still better, summons 
 them. . . . Tliat is to say in certain instances. Some faces 
 look prettiest blushing : yours, Maimie, looks best, I think, 
 in unrufiled innocence.' 
 
 He went on sketching in the outlines of the head and 
 shoulders for some time longer, and then began catching the 
 expression of the eyes and lips hastih* on the centre of his 
 canvas, with broad splashes of colour. 
 
 ' Foryou, Signorina Cenci,' he explained cnrrently ashe went 
 along, * the great thing to be aimed at is the passing expres- 
 sion. I can paint the Hesh-tones, and all the rest of it easily 
 enough from you as a mere passive model any time after- 
 wards : what is important at the very outset is to catch and 
 fix that indescribable, inimitable baby-smile of yours, which 
 is just about the most charming acd original thing about 
 you. I must catch it at once, or its delicate aroma will 
 escape me unawares. Familiarity would too soon get rid of 
 it. The first impression is the truest in that respect. It is 
 evanescent, and must be fixed and crrstallized forthwitl), 
 or it vanishes incontinently before you can seize it and fasten 
 it on your canvas. Only the freshness of first impression 
 could ever rightly interpret the jterfect kissability of that 
 pursy little mouth of yours.' 
 
 ' What a funny man you are, and trhat fanny things you 
 say !' Maimie answered, her face lighting up visibly with 
 l)leasure, though her colour still remained unheightenctl. 
 • I never heard anybody before talk so queerly as you do — 
 not even Adrian. I feel as if I ought to be dreadfully 
 shocked at you. And yet somehow I'm not at all shocked 
 at you, and I'm not at all shocked at Adrian either. Do 
 all married men habitually make love to all the girls they 
 come across, I wonder ?' 
 
 * That entirely depends,' Jocelyn replied, with a jaunty 
 wave of his patch-covered palette, *on the prior question 
 whether the girls they come across are worth making love 
 to or otherwise. If they are, mj own experience has 
 certainly shown me that the men iuTariably proceed to 
 make love to them. But then, 1 am only one among ten 
 thousand — an insignificant unit of universal humanity. 
 Some other men may possibly be more conventional and 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL. 69 
 
 respectable than I am.' Stroke, stroke — stroke, with a 
 vigorous dab of tlie brush on the canvas. ' I have reason 
 to beHevo that such is really the case.' Stroke again; tiiis 
 time delicately. ' I understand on good authority that 
 many men arc absolute milksops.' 
 
 '1 don't like milksops,' Maimie said quietly, after a short 
 pause. 
 
 * No women do ; but most unfortunately, in nine cases 
 out of ten, they have to put up with them for their whole 
 lifetime. I'm afraid it must be admitted with sorrow that, 
 as an eminent statistician has carefully calculated, about 
 eighty-seven per cent, of male humanity belongs absolutely 
 to the milksoppy section. Don't move your head, signorina. 
 Ivostrain your emotions. The good sitter hears everything 
 with absolute composure. Expressions of dissatisfaction 
 or of approval arc equally disagreeable to the ardent 
 artist. Listen to him strictly as if you were a lay-figun^ 
 and he will endeavour to treat you in the same un- 
 ceremonious fashion.' 
 
 * But I don't like to be treated like a lay-figure,' Maimie 
 answered with spirit. ' I prefer to be recognised as a real 
 live woman.' 
 
 Jocelyn smiled. 
 
 * There is no fear of my being over-slack in that par- 
 ticular form of recognition,' he answered, as he gave a 
 fresh stroke or two to the pursed-up mouth. ' I am humati, 
 Maimie, very human. I can't for the life of me assume the 
 proper professional attitude to a pretty sitter. I am com- 
 pelled by an inner instinct to flirt with her — that is to say, 
 when, like you, she is a reasonable creature and amenable 
 to flirtation.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, Mr. Cipriani, I never heard anybody 
 before say such very audacious things .as you do . . . But 
 I like them, thank you ; you needn't apologize.' 
 
 ' That's because you've never before come among the 
 emancipated,* Jocelyn said, taking stock carefully of the 
 corners of her eyelids. * We here in our set are all 
 emancipated — thoroughly emancipated.' 
 
 ' Emancipated from what ?' Maimie asked curiously. 
 
 'From prejudices; from prejudices of all sorts Social 
 
70 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 prejncHccs, religions prejudices, ctliical prejudices, personal 
 prejudices, and the whole tribe of prejudices generally. 
 We have got over them — the same as if they were measles 
 and whooping-cough.' 
 
 ' I don't think, Mr. Cipriani, I ever had any prejudices to 
 begin with,' Maimie remarked thoughtfully after a short 
 pause. 
 
 ' I don't think you ever had, Maimie. 80 far as I can 
 judge, you must have been born without them. There, you 
 liave the better of us, like Paul with the Roman captain.' 
 
 ' I don't know the story,' Maimie answered with a be- 
 wildered look. * Is it in Shakspeare ? Tell it to me.' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed a musical ringing laugh. 
 
 ' My dear child,' he said, • you are positively too guileless, 
 too unsophisticated for this wicked world of ours. Not 
 know about Paul ! Why, it's in the Bible. Have you 
 never read the Bible 1 No; I thought not. The chief 
 captain said to Paul, " Tell me, are you a Roman 1" or 
 words to that effect — T don't quote literally. Paul said, 
 "To be sure I am." The chief captain remarked with a 
 sigh, " With a great sum obtained I this freedom." And 
 Paul answered promptly, " But I was born free." That's 
 all, Maimie.' 
 
 ' I don't see much point in the story,' Maimie said with 
 a puzzled expression. 
 
 ' Of course you don't, as you've never read the Bible. 
 You ought to read it, though ; it's the great storehouse of 
 literary quotation and allusion. You don't know how much 
 of modern literature and conversation is a sealed book to 
 you if you've never read the Bible. But the point of this 
 particular story lies, you see, as Captain Cuttle remarks, in 
 the application thereof. With a great price — bitter ex- 
 perience — have we, the emancipated, obtained this freedom ; 
 but you, Maimie — you were born free.' And he sighed 
 pensively. 
 
 ' I think that's nicer,' Maimie said, turning her head a 
 little. 
 
 * Hold your head still, you naughty girl, and think about 
 the picture, not about the conversation. . . . No, think 
 about Adrian Pym ... or about me, my child, if you 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL. 71 
 
 prefer me. There ; that's right — a capital look ; not a 
 movement of a muscle for worhls. Perfection ! perfection ! 
 Of course, Maiiuie, it's much nicer. But how many of us 
 have ever the chance of such congenital freedom ] It's like 
 being brought into the world heir to a dukedom. Wo 
 common souls are born with the curse of slavery stamped 
 deep upon us ; and even if we cast off the chains themselves 
 with hard struggles, we always feel in our heart of hearts as 
 though our freedom were somehow in itself a crime and a 
 wickedness. Whereas you, signorina, were born free — free 
 and innocent. Like Eve in the garden, you are . . . natural 
 . . . and not ashamed. You don't think your native feminine 
 instincts are something to be repressed; something to bo 
 penitent for.' 
 
 ' Who was Eve V Maimie asked again with unruflled 
 serenity. 
 
 ' Eve ! Eve !' Jocelyn cried, laughing outright, and waving 
 liis palette frantically. ' Oh, signorina, signorina, you will 
 be the death of mc ! All my pretty JJiblical parallels 
 absolutely thrown away upon the child of nature ! Such 
 ignorance ! Such depravity ! This is too painful. So 
 you've never heard of Adam and Eve ! I'll tell you the 
 story, then.' 
 
 He drew out from a portfolio in the corner of the room 
 an engraving after Hans Makart's * Paradise,' and laid it on 
 an easel, a little on one side of her in the direction that he 
 wished her eyes to go. Then, with his brush hard at work 
 all the time on the vague patch of canvas, where a mouth 
 and a smile and a pair of deep brown eyes were beginning 
 to grow slowly into the form and colour of Maimie the 
 Cenci, he rapidly ran over, in such quick poetical language 
 as first suggested itself to him, a semi-Scriptural, semi- 
 Miltonesque version of the legend of the creation. It was 
 dreamy, pretty, tender, romantic — a dainty bit of colloquial 
 word-painting, fleshed out and rendered thinkable for 
 ^Mairaie's mental vision by the audacious imaginings of the 
 great untrammelled Viennese artist. And the story lost 
 nothing in the telling either ; Jocelyn Cipriani's eloquent 
 eyes, and clear-cut lips, and Vandyke beard, all seemed in- 
 stinct with wonderful animation as he told in hasty artistic 
 
72 FOR MAIM IE S SAKE. 
 
 outline lliat old-world tale of pristine simplicity and virgin 
 innnconco. 
 
 ' It was very pretty, Maimic,' he said with a sigh, as he 
 finished the story ; * but in the end, you see, the seri)ent 
 got the best of it ; and we took to clothes, and civilization, 
 find conventionalities, and learned to be ashamed of our 
 natural forms and our natural impulses. Ah me ! ah me ! 
 what a Micked serpent ! A\'hat a chance for art if we were 
 still in Paradise !' 
 
 * A very pretty story,' Maimie said, with her eyes still 
 fixr<l ])ensively on Eve in the engraving; 'but do you 
 think, Mr. Cij)riani, it's really true?' 
 
 Jocelyn assumed a critical expression. 
 
 ' Truth, Maimie,' he said in his mystifying n^annor, * m;iy 
 be either objective or subjective. Those are two hard words 
 you don't yet understand, and, indeed, I can jtretty eon- 
 fidently predict you will never understan<l them. Your 
 dear little head has no room in it for such philosophical 
 subtleties and rubbish. Kow, the story of Eve is not true, 
 I venture to say, if we regard it objectively. That is to 
 say, there was nev;'r really in actual life any lady of that 
 l)articular name, bounded on the north by (iihon, on the 
 south by I'ison, on the east by Iliddekel, and on the west 
 by Euphrates, or rice versa — I forget the ])articulars. The 
 episode of natural and pictures(iue innocence is true, not 
 of Eve individually, but of })riniitive woman generically. 
 There prol)ably never was an Eve, viewed as a distinct 
 historical character. Her existence has been completely 
 exploded by Darwin, Colenso, Spencer, and others. Uut if 
 we regard the (juestion subjectively, from the point of view 
 of myth and parable, Eve is a genuine and denuinstral)le 
 reality. She stands for the jnire and untampered instincts 
 of natural womanhood — the simple, self-forgetting nuiiden 
 and wife, unspoiled and unspotted by civilization. In that 
 sense, Eve is absolutely real and undeniable :— you are she, 
 Maimie.' 
 
 *I think I understand you, Mr. Cipriani.' 
 
 'I'm glad you do, Maimie, for I'm hanged if I rightly 
 know whether I really understand myself, little woman. 
 Your eyes arc fatally inimical to consecutive thinking. I 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL. 73 
 
 trust, Mrs, Evo, you may never meet with that horrid 
 serpent, to convert you to clothes, conventionality, and con- 
 cealment of feelinj^s. IJiit don't call me " Mr. Cipriani." 
 I call you Mainiie : why can't you now, after so much 
 ac<iuaintancc, call me Jocelyn, tout court /' 
 
 'Oil, Mr. Cipriani ! I shouldn't like to, really. I like you 
 very much, you know, and I think you very pleasant, and 
 all that; but I can't call you by your Christian name. You 
 are so much older than me, you see, to begin with.' 
 
 ' Why llin<^ that ugly discptalification in my teeth, Maimie ? 
 After all, wci're not really so very far apart in ago from one 
 another. You are twenty ; I'm thirty-live. One touch of 
 nature, and, hi, presto ! the tifteen years between us dis- 
 appear as if by magic. Nature resides j)rincipally in the 
 lips. Hold tliem up, so, Maimie, and see mo touch 
 them.' 
 
 ^laimic held up her lips as he directetl her, thinking i'or 
 the moment it was i>art of her self-imposed duty as a model ; 
 but when Jocelyn bent his own face down tentatively to 
 touch them, she drew hers away with a hasty gesture of 
 complete surprise. Yet she drew away, not co(piettishly or 
 witli affected coyness, but out of pure momentary inde- 
 cision. 
 
 ' I didn't know you meant that,' she said, half struggling. 
 'I thought you were posing me for the picture, Mr. 
 Cipriani.' 
 
 Jocelyn threw back his face, and looked at her with 
 quizzical sternness. 
 
 ' I'm not going to kiss you if you hesitate and struggle 
 and jig about like that, you know,' he said severely. 'A 
 suiitched kiss isn't worth the snatching, in my opini(»ii. 
 Only beginners care for such crudities. You get no satis- 
 faction out of it. A man of exi)erience takes his kisses 
 peaceably or not at all. Hold your head still and hold 
 your lips up just as 1 placed them, or I won't kiss you ; 
 and then, of course, you'll be sorry for it afterwards.' 
 
 'Indeed, indeed,' Maimie protested earnestly, like one 
 who defends herself against a wicked accusation, • 1 didn't 
 mean to struggle and jig about, I assure you. I can't think 
 why girls Hglit and hold their hands up, and make such a 
 
74 J^OR MAIM if: S SAKE. 
 
 fuss about being kissed, Mr. C'ipriani. I can't think why 
 thoy don't stand still and take it sedately. It's much nicer, 
 I'm quite certain : I know, because I've tried with Adrian. 
 Only, I didn't understand you were going to kiss me. If I 
 had, I would have held my lips up quite proixrly. Look 
 here, is that right now ?' And she pursed up her two rosy- 
 red lips before him in the most innocently sweet and kiss- 
 able fashion. 
 
 Jocelyn leant over her and pressed his own lips against 
 them hard and fervently. 
 
 The girl threw back her head and looked at him with 
 languishing eyes as he withdrew his face and took up his 
 brush again. 
 
 * You kiss very nicely,' she said simply, with a deep breath. 
 ' Of course I do,' Jocel^n answered carelessly. 'Why 
 
 shouldn't I ? Heaven knows I've had lots of practice. 
 There, stand so, Maimic. That'll do exactly. That's just 
 what I w.anted. I've caught the very ex[)re*sion now : the 
 far-away melting Ccnci look in the eyes and eyelids. For 
 goodness' sake don't alter a tittle of it till I've put it as it 
 stands fairly on the canvas.' 
 
 Maimie started with a burst of recognition. 
 
 * You don't mean to say you've been making love to me/ 
 she cried, 'just to catch the expression you want for your 
 picture ! Why, you wicked, cold-blooded man, how can you 
 ever be so deceitful V 
 
 ' Precisely what I have been doing,* Jocelyn jmswered, 
 continuing with airy grace to sketch her. ' I won't pretend 
 to conceal the fact from you. Transparent truthfulness is 
 one of my most pleasing personal characteristics. You 
 must rcmtsmber that I am before everything an artist, i»nd 
 art demands of one these little temporary subterfuges. You 
 look absolutely charming now, Maimie— absolutely charm- 
 ing !' 
 
 * But I prefer to be made love to on my own acconnt, even 
 by an artist,' Maimie pouted, half amused, and half indig- 
 nant. • I thought you were kissing me because you liked 
 me.' 
 
 * 80 I do. I like you immensely. But sometimes I post- 
 pone my feelings to my art. Now, this time 1 shall kiss you 
 
THE IJ'BWILS: DUTY OF A MODEL. 75 
 
 simply in my capacity .is a man and a brother. So — there 
 — that was even \K!n.(!i v.iHn'b it, ^laimie V 
 Maimie cloHed hu! wts dreamily for a moment. 
 
 'That was bettor, iiia answered slowly. 'Thank you, 
 Mr. Cipriani.' 
 
 'Mr. Cipriani n^rahi!: This is too ridiculous! Why not 
 Jocelyn ? Didn't J •tdJE you that with a single kiss the 
 fifteen years betwetjn is would disappear as if by magic ? 
 And haven't they dHtti)]i«.'tm«i, Maimie I Aren't they clean 
 gone ana vanished ■ iLnik here, little one,' and he placed 
 his arm tenderly romiil ller waist, ' don't you feel now tiiat 
 we're only boy and ptC tiijrether ] A pair of simple, little 
 idyllic lovers, talking lunsense to one another to our hearts' 
 content beside the nurmurinjr brooklet in some shadowy 
 meadow ] Call nie \v. my name, call me so, Maimie,' ho 
 whispered softly now. wirii a tender pressure. ' Tiie fifteen 
 years are gone, you i:niw, and we are boy and girl playing 
 idly in dreamland lugtdier. lant it so V 
 
 'Yes, Jocelyn.' 
 
 She said it slow unE low, with her eyes shut, and her 
 head thrown back in nirrMmy attitude. 
 
 The painter covCTitii linr upturned throat at once with a 
 quick shower of idfiatijj, ;uid caressed her face with his hands 
 tenderly. 
 
 ' That's right, liWih' one,' he said ; ' it isn't everybody 
 that can succeed in miiidng my heart beat nowadays, I 
 can tell you. Then;. ni«n your eyes : that's a lovely smile 
 on your lips — ubHuliniiy li)v*'h'. I wouldn't miss catching 
 that smile for the ffbrmilentship of the Koyal Academy, 
 Signorina Leatrice.' 
 
 He spoke once Tiiiw* in his mocking tone, and began 
 adding a few im])ri»vna Gnuches to the study on the easel. 
 Just at that momtun niia door of the studio opened, and 
 Hetty entered. 
 
 * You're come in tffle- very nick of time, Hetty,' Maimie 
 said qui^e naturulk. ?tdll retaining the exact jjose in 
 Avhich Jocelyn huti rdnit moment placed her. If you 
 hadn't come in jiHtt Than, I'm sure I don't know what 
 might have ha}»]»mnfti You can't think what dreadful 
 things your husbuntU hnen raying to me. If I had any 
 
76 FOR MAIMIF:S SAKE. 
 
 capacity in me for being shockctl, I'm sure he Avonlil liavo 
 sliuckcd iiKi half a dozen times over. But unfortunately 
 I'm afraid 1 was born without any.' 
 
 *()h, he's a dreadful man!' Hetty cried with a laugli, 
 pinching the young girl's plump round cheek a good hard 
 l)inch with sisterly lingers. 'He's always making open love 
 before my very face to somebody or other, Maitnie. J hit I 
 don't mind him, and nobody else minds him either, because 
 he never means it. It's only his way of making himself 
 agreeable.' 
 
 ' Tiien he understands the art very thoroughly,' Maimie 
 replied, holding up her ripe lips for Hetty to kiss exactly as 
 she had just held them up a few minutes before to docelyn : 
 * for he has been making himself most agreeable to me for 
 the last hour or so, and I don't deny that he does it beauti- 
 fully.' 
 
 ' Oh, he's a darling!' Hetty answered enthusiastically, but 
 with perfect simplicity, casting an admiring glance upon 
 her handsome husband. 'He paints beautifully, and he 
 talks beautifully, and he sings beautifully, and lu; dances 
 beautifully, and he tliinks beautifully, every thought that's 
 in him.' 
 
 ' And he makes love beautifully,' Maimie added unsus- 
 piciously. 
 
 * Oh, and writes such lovely love-letters, Maimie,' Hetty 
 went on with wifely ardour. ' I only wish he could once 
 write you a love-letter, so that you might see how sweetly 
 he does it ! I keep them all wra{<ped up in tissue-paper in 
 a box I've got upstairs in my cabinet.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' Jocelyn said, throwing his arm caressingly 
 around his wife's neck with real tenderness, and printing a 
 single soft little kiss on her white forehead, * perhaps some 
 day I shall write her one, Hetty : and by the way, darling, 
 in thnt case it might save time and trouble if you looked 
 out the best and nicest of thosy you've got u[)staiis in your 
 box, and allowed me to copy it cut for Maimie, jvith the 
 necessary changes of name and circumstances. Very little 
 really need bo altered. Hearts and darts and smarts, and 
 all the rest of it, remain })erennially the same under all 
 variations of sender or recipient.' 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL, 77 
 
 'Oh, you naughty, bad old cynic!' Jfetty said with a 
 sunny h^ugh. 'He's really not a (luartcr as wicked as ho 
 makes himself out to be, Alaimie. Yon mustn't l)elieve him 
 when he pretends to wick'idness. He's only a i)ietender : 
 in reality, thongh he likes to pose for the role of the tiist 
 villain, he's the dearest man, and the kindest pet, and tiie 
 best husband in all Kii'dand.' 
 
 * l^>uite true,' Jocelyn answered slowly, strokin^^ his beard 
 with contemplative comj)lacency. ' 1 believe I am the very 
 best husband in all Kiighmtl.' 
 
 * I believe he is,' Muimio answered, looking at him. ' I 
 only wish I could get somebody exactly like him, eyes ^ind 
 mouth and beard and all, without one single ounce of 
 diflerence.' 
 
 * I wish you could, Maimie,' Hetty replied, disengaging 
 herself from her husband's arm that still lingered lovingly 
 about her neck, and stepping over to put her own round 
 Maimie's ncf too unsubstantial little waist. ' Hut you 
 can't, darbr.^. There are no more like him. Nature made 
 him — I can't say the Italian for it, though docclyn can — 
 and then broke the mould, I'm sure, Maimie. I only wish 
 she had maile two, so that you might have had the exact 
 counterpart, darling.' 
 
 ('I tliink I should like this one best,' Maimio murmured 
 j)arenthetically and half inaudibly, in unconscious parody 
 of Milton's Adam.) 
 
 ' You're an admirable woman, Hotty,' her husband .said, 
 looking at her with unconcealed admiration. * 1 do believe 
 you haven't got a particle of jealousy in your whole; eouipo- 
 sitiuD. Jealousy is without any doubt the very worst and 
 wickedest feeling in this whole bad and wicked world of 
 ours. Most women would be jealous of my admiration of 
 Maimie, and of Maimie's unconcealed predilection i'or me. 
 lUit you're not, Hetty. You're just a jewel of a woman. 
 I never met ^anybody so good and .sweet and kind as you 
 are.' 
 
 'Not even me?' Maimie inquired with childish face 
 ui>turned to meet him. 
 
 Jocelyn laughed. 
 
 * Not even you,' he answered musically. * Xo, Maimie, 
 
78 FOR MAIMIF:S SAKE. 
 
 you're a very nice pretty little girl, but you can't quite 
 come up to my Hetty. Nobody on earth can come uj) to 
 my Hetty, I never saw anybody like her. She doesn't 
 know what jealousy is, Maimie.' 
 
 * That's because I'm so perfectly sure you love me de- 
 votedly, Jocelyn, and could never care for any other woman 
 as you care for me, dear.' 
 
 'Quite true, Hetty,' Jocelyn saitl, kissing her tenderly. 
 * Quite true, and very penetrating and psychological and 
 clever of you. See me kiss Maimie, now, and show off 
 your absence of jealousy. There, Maimie ; hold up your 
 lips exactly as you did before that spoil-sport Hetty came 
 in and so rudely interrupted us. Yes, that'll do. Tliank 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jocelyn,' Hetty cried, drawing back in a little 
 womanly horror. * Do you tliink you ought to kiss her ? 
 for her own sake, I mean, of course, not for mine or yours. 
 Don't you think it must be ^bad for her? Filling her 
 head with all sorts of notions that oughtn't to be in it 
 yet, you know, Jocelyn. An unmarried girl, and you a 
 married man, too !' 
 
 tlocelyn made a pass or two with his palette gracefully. 
 
 ' How very provoking of you, wifie,* he said, smiling, 
 'just ai the very moment when I wanted to show off your 
 virtues too ! I can put no new notions into her head, bless 
 you, Hetty darling !' and he drew his pretty little wife 
 caressingly towards him. ' The notions have all been put 
 there already by Adrian Pym and others. T am only 
 sii)ping, like a wayward butterfly, at the blossom the busy 
 bees have touched with their honey-gathering lips long 
 before me. The flower has learnt already to distil nectar : 
 1 will teach it nothing new that can hurt it or wither it : I 
 will only lightly taste its honey and admire its beautiful 
 peach-coloured petals. You needn't be afraid, Hetty : I am 
 a prudent Mentor. I will give her the very best advice that 
 lies in my power.' 
 
 ' And besides, Mrs. Cipriani,' Maimie put in softly, ' you 
 needn't be in the least alarmed on my account. It won'li 
 do me the least harm. I like it, thank you.* 
 
 Jocelyn threw himself back with a face of profound 
 
THE WHOLE DUTY OF A MODEL, 79 
 
 amusement on the studio sofa, and said slowly, as if think- 
 ing aloud : 
 
 'Was ever illuminate in this world more ridiculously 
 situated between two ingenues — but imjcnnes with a dilfer- 
 ence — than I am this present minute ! Both of them are 
 the victims of the sweetest simplicity, and yet the two sim- 
 plicities are not one simplicity, but two simplicities. Tlie 
 first is the simplicity of modern convention ; tlu; second is 
 the simplicity of unsullied nature. The one imagines no 
 evil ; the other imagines it and sees no evil in it. Tis a 
 charming idyl, and I'm loth to break in upon it. lUit, 
 Signorina Beatrice — Miss I'ristine Innocence — don't fur a 
 moment suppose you've finislied your day's work as a 
 painter's model. I mean to do a lot more to this precious 
 study before lunch-time. Hetty darling — Mrs. I'erfrct 
 Charity — for you think no evil — sit down there on the sofa 
 and watch me paint her. You'll see in the end the v(!ry 
 prettiest and sweetest face I ever painted. ]>ut no more 
 foolish interruptions, if you please, Miss Maimie. They 
 interfere with art — that is to say, Avitli business. So under- 
 stand clearly, Signorina Cenci, you're not to have another 
 kiss on any pretence— not even for an expression — till after 
 lunch-time.' 
 
 ' You can't think how queer it is, Hetty,' Maimie mur- 
 mured, as Jocelyn threw back her head into the proper 
 attitude, with many loitering reailjustments. * He kisses 
 me every now and again, on purpose to make me look like 
 Beatrice : and then lie goes off like a wretch of a connnon 
 workman, and says he did it just for nothing but to catch 
 the expression.' 
 
 * Does he V Hetty asked uneasily. ' He's a consummato 
 artist. But do you know, Jocelyn, I don't feel (piite right 
 in my mind about it. I'm not sure that you really ouglit 
 to quite kiss her. But of course, darling, I'm so very stupid, 
 and naturally you know best about it.' 
 
 ' Of course he does, Hetty,' Maimie assented readily. 
 * And I assure you I don't in the least object to it. I never 
 could see what there was to object to in kissing. Can you, 
 Mr. Cipriani V 
 
 ' No more Mr. Cipriani-ing, if you please,' Jocelyn inter- 
 
8o FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 riii)t(Ml from liis easel opposite. * We've agreed that you 
 and 1 are to l)o Maiinie and .locelyn : just as Hetty's Hetty 
 only to you, iMairaie. The fifteen years — seven in Hetty's 
 case — are hereby aboli.siied. Henceforth, the supremo 
 authority decrees', it shall be nothing but ^laimie, Jocelyn, 
 Hetty.' 
 
 * Won't that be nice, Hetty dear ]* Maimie asked, looking 
 at her affectionately. 
 
 * Very nice, darling,' Ilctty replied, rising from the sofa, 
 and ]>rinting a kiss on Maimie's forehead. * We shall adopt 
 you, Mainiie, as one of the family. Let's be brothers ami 
 sisters, ami then it'll be all rigiit, you know, a))out the kiss- 
 ing — won't it, Jocelyn ? You'll kiss her then just like a 
 brother.' 
 
 docelyn nodded. 
 
 * Thank you,' Alaimio answered, ' tliat's very nice of you. 
 Ihit if you please, Hetty, I think 1 like this way best.' 
 
 CHAPTER Xir. 
 
 DYNAMFTK OK 1,<>VK? 
 
 A l''i;w days later, Sydney ("heveni.K camo round to lunch at 
 the Ciprianis'. Hetty had asked the young doctor, of 
 course of malice prepense, on pur])ose to make him fall in 
 love with IMaimie. J}ut, like a prudent woman, she had said 
 nothing to ^laimie about this fell design ; she had merely 
 nuintionifd to her little imdnjic in a casual way that Sydney 
 was a very nice young man, and a cousin of hers, and rich 
 too, and a distinguished Fellow of the Uoyal Society. She 
 didn't know that ^laimie had already heard all about him 
 from Adrian Pym, and received a hint from that dis- 
 interested quarter as to his perfect eligibility. 
 
 Who shall say what it is in any individual case that makes 
 just this particular man fall in love with just this particular 
 woman, or rice versi) ? Philosophers have reasoned, and 
 analyzed, and refined, and disputed about it ; poet? have 
 sung, and romancers have written ; but nobody huss yet 
 done anything solid towards solving that central practiciil 
 
DYNAMITE OR LOVE? 81 
 
 mystery of our insignificant little existence. And surt-ly 
 any man would have said beforehand — with the glib assur- 
 ance begotten of thonghtlessncss and inexperience — that 
 Sydney Chevcnix was the very last person in the whole 
 world to fall in love with Mainiic Llewellyn. The psycho- 
 logist knows otherwise : he knows at least (|uite enough to 
 know that he knows absolutely nothing at all al)out it— that 
 t!»e working of personal preferences between man and woman 
 in the individual case is utterly inscrutable. 
 
 As soon as Sydnc^y came into the room, and was intro- 
 duced to l\laimie, Hetty's sharp womanly eyes, noticed at 
 once that he kept his own two fiimly fixed on the pretty 
 girl throughout the whole of luncheon. Hetty was pleased 
 at this omen of triumph ; for Sytlney Chevcnix usually 
 passed in his own society as a sort of mitigated and colour- 
 less misogynist ; that is to say, he was a Tuan of scientific 
 tastes and of deep feelings, wlio wasn't at all likely to fall 
 in love with every girl he happened to come across, but 
 liaving once found a woman he could love, would have loved 
 lier devotedly, ardently, passionately, with all the restrained 
 and accumulated force of his earnest nature. And Hetty 
 noted with feminine delight that Sydney seemed to bo 
 drinking in every thoughtless word uttered by Maimie as if 
 it were the sentence of a veritable Portia, or the final de- 
 liverance of a Mrs. Somerville. 
 
 As for Maimie, she was brighter and livelier that morn 
 ii7g than ever ; and she played as obviously for Sydney's 
 admiration as for every other man's she ever came across. 
 
 After luncheon, they strolled into the studio, that Sydney 
 might see Maimie's face as Jocelyn had represented it in hia 
 pretty study for the great picture. Sydney admired it 
 very much : it was admirable, admirable — as far as it had 
 gone. 
 
 * But still, you know,' he ventured to suggest, with un- 
 wonted tiuiidity, glancing from the portrait to tlie original 
 nervoubly, ' it doesn't quite do Miss Llewellyn full justice. 
 There's something about her expres.-iou, I fancy, Jocelyn — 
 something a little ethereal, poetical, infantile almost like 
 some of your favourite early Italian Madonnas, 1 nu-an — 
 that you don't seem to me to have tpiite caught so far in the 
 
 G 
 
83 I'OR MAlMirSS SAKE. 
 
 study. Still, it's x\ lovely lucturc— a Wnntifiil picture— one 
 of ycnir very l)fst, I tliiiik, my (l«'ar fellow.' 
 
 Jofclyn (Irow liis easel and ]ial».*tU» over, with a fsvint smile 
 playing around his handsome mouth, and put a fresh piece 
 of canvas upon the stocks hefore him. 
 
 * Stand over yoiuler, you three,' he saul in an authorita- 
 tive tone to Sydney Chevenix and the two women : ' I'm 
 goin<< to make a little hasty sketch of von now, just as you 
 are, Sydney. Don't leave off t^tlking or assume an attitude, 
 or take any notice of me, jdease, in any vay. You'll serve 
 my purpose hetter, the more unconcc-metl you are. .Inst^'o 
 on exactly as if you weren't having yonr portrait painted. 
 There's an expression on your face at this precise moment 
 that 1 want to catch before it j»as?<-> off from it. There — 
 that will do : so : so : go on talking, please : exactly : 
 fxaetl}'.' 
 
 iMaimie smiled as she rcco^nised the meaning of it. A 
 faint ihisli eanie over even Sydney (."hevtnix's clear-cut face. 
 He fancied he know in his own liearl what the expression was 
 that Jocelyn had noticed. He funcii'd he knew, and his 
 heart tlirohhed the faster for it. 
 
 The paintei- went on painting for half an hour, while 
 Sydney and Mainiie, with Helt\ beside them, stood talking 
 about the ordinary nothings of society in the corner of the 
 studio : and then Jocelyn said, with cheerful satisfac- 
 tion : 
 
 'That'll do, thank you. I've got the exact idea I wanted. 
 The sketch will be invaluable to me. It's the very point 
 I was most in doubt about. Hetty, you and Maimie can 
 go and put your hats on. I've orderwithe civrriage for hall- 
 past three, and we'll take a turn in the Park, presently.' 
 
 As soon as the two women were gone from the room, 
 Sydn<y Chevenix came oNv'r at once towards Jocelyn Cipri- 
 ani, with one hand twiddling his watch-chain nervously. 
 
 ' Miss iJewellyn is a very beautiful girl, Jocelyn,' he said 
 simpl}'. 
 
 * You're no Columbus, my dear Svdner. Y'ou're not the 
 first man, by a good many, who Las made that easy discovery,' 
 Jocelyn responded, smiling. 
 
 There was a long pause, and they both looked hard in 
 
D YN AMITE OR LO VE f 83 
 
 one another's faces. At last Sydney broke the silence 
 again : 
 
 ^\a Miss Llewellyn engaged, do you know?' lie anked 
 timidly. 
 
 'iMainiic hasn't fully confided to me all her private love- 
 all'airs,' Jocelyu an3W(>red with a still more amused smile ; 
 • but without being a doctor like you, I think I may venture 
 to say from my own diagnosis of her chief symptoms that 
 I feel sure she isn't.' 
 
 Sydney (.'hcvenix gave a sigh of relief. * I'm glad to hear 
 it,' he replied, with perfect frankness. He was far too 
 honest-hearted ever to attempt concealing his feelings. 
 
 'Look hero, Sydney,' Jocelyn went on, rolling himself a 
 cigarette beside the unfinished study ; 'do you know what's 
 the sul)ject of this picture ]' 
 
 ' Hetty told me just now,' Sydney answered with some 
 little hesitation. — 'Guido falling in love with Beatrice in 
 prison.' 
 
 ' And do you know who's going to sit to me for Guido V 
 
 'No; I haven't really the slightest conception.' J>ut 
 this was a subterfuge. 
 
 ' Then I'll tell you. You are, Sydney. And the reason 
 I wanted to catch your expression just this minute was 
 simply this. I saw my (Juido was falling in love with my 
 Beatrice. Now first love is the very motive and keynote of 
 the picture, so I was naturally anxious to photograph it in a 
 hasty study before the expression melted away, perhaps for 
 ever.' 
 
 They stood still once more and said nothing. Then, just 
 as the t>yo girls came down to rejoin them, Sydney 
 whispered hastily in the painter's ear, ' Say nothing to Miss 
 Llewellyn about it, I beg of you.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' Jocelyn answered ; 'you would naturally 
 prefer to broach the subject on your own account. Alost men 
 do. Ihit do you really suppose, my dear fellow, a woman 
 doesn't notice all these things by instinct immediately ? 
 llefore a woman's eyes, I know by old experience, the heart 
 of man is perfectly translucent.' 
 
 ' Well ■?' Jocelyn said inquiringly to Hetty, as soon as 
 Sydney had loft the house, ' what do you think of it V 
 
 C— 2 
 
84 FOR MAIMIBS SAKE. 
 
 ' Think !' Hetty fesici ; * why, for my part, Jocelyn, I think 
 they're every bit at^ ^'CkwI a.^ married !' 
 
 'That,' Jocelyn replied, *i3 perhaps a fine example of 
 feminine impetuosity ; btit he's certainly very hard hit with 
 her — very hard liit iiftde&i , . . And Maimie ?' 
 
 ' Maimie, my dear, Wfomild fall in love, I'm afraid we must 
 admit, with anybody fM ftarth in the shape of a man who 
 took the trouble to fje decently polite to her for half an 
 hour. And Sydney wart more than polite : he was most 
 marked in hijs atteulkiiM, He never once took his eyes off 
 her all lunch-time/ 
 
 Every day, fiom tliM day forth, a little bouquet of rare 
 hotdiouse fiowerfs h n Afaimie's plate at dinner, 'from 
 
 Mr. Chevenix ;' au'; -t every day Sydney himself was 
 
 round at the Cipiia:.. . n some real or fanciful errand, just 
 to have a few xmii^Xf^ conversation with ]\Iiss Llewellyn, 
 much to the disijust <ii Jrtani.slas Benyowski and the detriment 
 of the scientific inr^uttDgAtion of the nitrogen-compounds. 
 The picture, indeed, h*t bailed with delight as a perfect god- 
 send. Under any (OiftSiiCT circumstances he might have 
 grudged the time L« wofisld have had to give to sitting to 
 Jocelyn as a commoiB mfiA^ -, but as it gave him abundant op- 
 portunities of seeing Maimie, why — for Maimie's sake he 
 didn't grudge it. 
 
 * What do you tLiiLik of him, Maimie V Hetty asked with 
 affected carelessness fmf^i evening, after about a fortnight's 
 assiduous attention m^ J^ydney's parti 
 
 * What do I thijj!k ^o/f liira, Hetty V Maimie answered with 
 a frank smile of clji3"E^h delight. ' I think \\h flowers are 
 really beautiful : a.jj4 hf:% quite handsome himself, too: and 
 he's got such lovely Juaumdii and feet : and after Jocelyn, and 
 Adrian, and little Tma Knderby, and the dear old under- 
 graduates — I really tiuimk I begin to like him almost ab 
 much as anybody IVc mtn. But then, you know", of course, 
 at Silbury, Hett}', I Merer had the cliance of seeing very 
 many peo])le.' 
 
 And at that veiy Moment, Sydney Chevenix was walking 
 home by himself wjtia a fttrange fluttering in his loft breast, 
 saying to h^^^ own ) ■""' x% he went : 
 
 * It may be vciy ^ . ..^^ptuous of me; I don't really know 
 
INNOCENCE. 85 
 
 whether I've got cany right at all to think it or not — dear 
 innocent little soul — but I certainly fancied to myself this 
 afternoon that she seemed as if she was beginning to care a 
 little bit for me. Beginning to care for me ! Maitnie, they 
 call her, — Maimie, Maimie. AVhat a sweet, innocent, apt 
 little name for her that is now — Maimie ! I only wish I 
 could call her so to her face, just once, instead of always 
 having to call her so stiffly, Miss Llewellyn ! INIaimie — 
 Maimie — Maimie — Maimie. There's a sort of dainty music 
 in the very name. If only you were mine — Maimie — 
 Maimie !' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 INNOCENCE. 
 
 For a week or two Jocolyn painted away on alternate days 
 at Maimie and at Sydney, and also flirted desperately in 
 his own way in passing with his pretty sitter. And the 
 longer he painted the deeper the flirtation went, till at last 
 even unsuspicious little Hetty herself began to think the time 
 had come for her to exert for once in her life a moral 
 authority over her too philosophic and platonic husband. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she said with a timid little look of wifely 
 diffidence one morning after breakfast, as they sat alone in 
 the breakfast-room, ' aren't you at all afraid in your own 
 heart that you may perhaps be falling — ^just a wee bit — in 
 love with Maimie V 
 
 ' In love with Maimie !' Jocelyn repeated aloud, looking 
 down into her face in a bewildered fashion. ' In love with 
 Maimie, Hetty ! In love with Maimie !' 
 
 * Yes, darling,' his wife answered, taking his hand tenderly 
 in hers. 'I meant what I said. In love with jMaimie.' 
 
 Jocelyn hesitated and looked at her anxiously for half a 
 second ; then he answered in a dreamy unsuspicious voice : 
 
 * In love with Maimie ? Why, of course I am, Hetty. 
 I'm very much so, indeed. I'm falling head over ears in 
 love with her.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jocelyn !' 
 
 ' It's quite true, Hetty. True, every word of it. I 
 
86 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 thought, darling, you knew I was in love with her. I 
 thought you understood all about it, and approved of it. 
 You don't mind it surely, do you V 
 
 Hetty looked at him with sudden irresolution. There 
 never was anybody so entirely incomprehensible as dear 
 Jocelyn. 
 
 * You're not in earnest,' she said eagerly. ' You don't 
 think you're going to love her better than you love me, do 
 you, darling ]' 
 
 Jocelyn smiled a philosojihic smile of pure tenderness, 
 and drew her to him with a caressing gesture. 
 
 * Hetty,' he cried, pressing her to his side, ' my own 
 darling wife, Hetty — my heart's pet — my pearl of women ! 
 you don't think, whatever happens, I could ever love any- 
 one better than I love you, or half as well either, do you ? 
 You don't think I could ever let anybody put my Hetty's 
 image out of its proper niche in the very core of my heart, 
 do you ? You're not jealous, are you, little woman ? You're 
 not so foolish and wicked, surely, as to go and be jealous of 
 l^oor fatherless, motherless little Maimie V 
 
 ' Not jealous, Jocelyn,' Hetty answered with tears in her 
 eyes, looking up dubiously and wonderingly with a remorse- 
 ful sense of being very wicked. ' Not exactly what you 
 call jealous, you know ; but I don't quite like your positively 
 loving her. I don't want you ever to love her better than 
 you love me, I mean, darling.' 
 
 ' I never will, Hett3^' 
 
 ' Never 1' 
 
 'Never, I promise you.' 
 
 There was a moment's pause ; then Pletty began timidly 
 again : 
 
 * But you do love her, Jocelyn 1 You said you loved 
 her !' 
 
 ' Yes, darling ; dearly, devotedly. I love her certainly. 
 Better than anybody else in the whole world except only 
 you, Hetty.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jocelyn !' 
 
 * You don't like it, Hetty ? You don't want me to love 
 her?' 
 
 ,, ' I — I don't mind your loving her, Jocelyn, of course . . . 
 
INNOCENCE. 87 
 
 if you want to ; but I'm so afraid some day or other you 
 may get to love lier better than you do me, darling.' 
 
 Jocelyn unwound hi.i arm gently from her slender waist 
 and shoulder, and moved back half a pace to regard her with 
 silent admiration, as if she were a model for a weejiing Niobe, 
 
 * I haven't educated you quite as thoroughly as I thought 
 I had, Hetty,' he said musingly. 'The old A<lam comes 
 out in you still, in spite of my t"aining. It's too strong for 
 my philosophy. That being so, I must beat a retreat. 
 Hetty, you're crying, darling. Come here and lay your 
 head upon my shoulder — on the sofa here ; that's right, 
 sweetest. Hetty, don't cry, my darling, my darling ! I 
 shall never make you cry again. I didn't know I was going 
 to make you cry this time. For your sake, sooner than cause 
 you a moment's discomfort, a moment's doubt, a moment's 
 hesitation, I'll give up Maimie for ever and ever. I'll never 
 say another word of love to her at any time in any way.' 
 
 Hetty nestled close upon her husband's shoulder as sho 
 was bid, and lay there for a minute or two sobbing timidly. 
 Then she said : 
 
 * You really mean it, Jocelyn ? You're not pretending, 
 just to appease me]' 
 
 Jocelyn rose and glanced at her with unwonted quiet 
 dignity. 
 
 ' Hetty,' he said, 'my darling, listen to rac. You must 
 trust me. AVhatever I have done, I have never deceived 
 you. Whatever I do, I do openly. I am very, very fond of 
 Maimie. I thought you knew I loved her, and didn't mind 
 it. I thought you so thoroughly understood my transcendent 
 love for you, and had so entirely eradicated from your whole 
 nature that demon of jealousy — the worst legacy of our bar- 
 baric and savage ancestors — that you would wish me of your 
 own accord to love wherever my instincts led me, and to do 
 whatever my heart prompted me. But I see I was mis- 
 taken. I see I was too sanguine. A woman will be a 
 woman still. Inherited nature has been too powerful for 
 me. You are afraid and grieved because I love another 
 girl. That is natural, quite natural ; quite womanly and 
 human ; exactly what we have all always been accustomed 
 to . . but not perhaps quite what I expected from you. Sweet- 
 
88 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 heart, don't for a moment think I'm the h^ast bit vexed at 
 it. You arc my angel, my love, my heart's darling. I 
 wouldn't say a word to grieve you in any way. I love you 
 as I never loved anyone before, and as I never shall love 
 anyone after you. Sooner than cause you again another 
 second of such discomfort as I've caused you to-day, I'll 
 go at onco to ^Maimie and tell her this moment we must 
 break it all off to-day and for ever. I love her, Hetty — I 
 mean, I loved her — very dearly. It will hurt her for me to 
 say we must part ; for she's very fond of me : in her inno- 
 cent, fickle, shallow, little way, she loves mo as much as ever 
 she's able. But I love you so infinitely more than I love 
 her, that sooner than let you for a minute doubt me, I'll 
 make the sacrifice and break it off with her immediately. 
 Kiss me, Hetty. I'm going this minute.' 
 
 ' But, Jocelyn — wait a moment — will she be very sorry V 
 ' She Avill be very sorrj^ Of course she will. Nobody 
 snaps off a love-afiiiir suddenly without crying over it. 
 Friendship you dissolve amicably at a moment's notice ; but 
 love you can only rupture with a terrible wrench that 
 leaves your heart torn and bleeding. Don't you remember 
 those words of Swinburne's : 
 
 " Take hands and part with laughter : 
 Touch lips and part with tears " ? 
 
 Maimie and I have done more than take hands : we have 
 touched lips, and we must pay the necessary penalty of 
 our silly love-making.' 
 
 ' But, Jocelyn, don't go. Wait a while and talk it over. 
 Poor little Maimie ! I don't want to make her miserable. 
 I was only afraid that some day, you know, you might 
 begin to love her better even than you do me, darling.' 
 
 Jocelyn turned and looked at her resolutely. 
 
 ' I will go,' he said with much determination, though his 
 voice faltered. ' Hetty, I love you with all my heart and 
 all my soul and all my nature. The rest is only playing 
 with love on the outer vestibule ; my love for you is con- 
 suming and unquenchable. I shall never let any other 
 woman, however dear to me, stand a moment in the way of 
 your happiness. Kiss me, darling. I'm going to speak to her.* 
 
OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 89 
 
 'Not now, Jocelyn — not now,' Hetty cried, clinging to 
 him passionatcily witli sudden pity for lier halt-unconscious 
 little rival. ' She'll be so sorry, so awfully angry with me. 
 Wait awhile, and let us think it over.' 
 
 Jocelyn Avithdrew her arms once more with gentle force, 
 and lield his face down to hers tenderly. 
 
 * Kiss me, Hetty,' he said again in an authoritative voice. 
 * My mind is made up. You shall have no further can?;; for 
 doubt or fear or pain or jealousy. Kiss me, little wcman. 
 It's all over.' 
 
 Hetty kissed him, trembling and wondering. 
 ' Jocelyn,' she cried, ' I love you — I love you !' 
 
 * Not as well as I love you, darling,' the painter answered 
 with a noiseless sigh, giving her hand a parting pressure, 
 and turning quickly towards the studio door. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 OFF WITH THE OLD LO\'E. 
 
 Maimie was waiting for him in the studio, dressed as 
 usual in her Beatrice costume, and she held up her lips 
 teinptingly as he entered for her accustomed kiss of saluta- 
 tion, liut Jocelyn waved her aside with his hand in an 
 imperious mood, and motioned her into the chair, unkissed, 
 with a grave face of stern virtue. 
 
 ' What's the matter, Jocelyn?' Maimie asked, staring at 
 him blankly with open eyes of childish astonishment. ' You 
 look just for all the world as if you were angry with me. 
 You've been talking to Hetty about rae, I do believe. Why 
 won't you kiss me, please, this morning]' 
 
 Jocelyn answered very gravely : 
 
 ' Because I've just made up my mind never to kiss you 
 again, Maimie. I've just made up my mind, my poor child, 
 that it must be all over between us two henceforth and for 
 ever.' 
 
 Maimie started, and looked up at him in haste with 
 sudden surprise, as if she didn't fully take in at fir£t the 
 entire meaning of his novel resolution. 
 
 'Never kiss rae again, Jocelyn!' she repeated with evident 
 
90 . FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 bewilderment. 'All over between us two henceforth .and 
 for ever !' 
 
 ' Yes,' Jocclyn answered stubbornl3^ ' I've been talking 
 the matter over with Hetty, as you suppose, and from what 
 she says I think it'll be better that we should part at once 
 as soon as I've finished this morning's sitting. The ])ic- 
 ture '11 be done, then, you know, as far as your part in it's 
 concerned : and then I think you'd better leave us, Maimie, 
 and go back to the Johnsons at Silbury for the present. 
 
 ' Leave you !' Maimie cried. ' Leave you, Jocelyn ! Go 
 away to the Johnsons ! And never come back again !* 
 The full meaning of those dreadful words seemed to be 
 breaking in upon her slowly. 
 
 ' Yes,' Jocelyn said with dogged persistence ; ' never 
 come back again. That is to say, you may come again 
 if Hetty asks you, just as an ordinary formal visitor, but 
 never again to be loved and petted as you've been petted 
 this time.' 
 
 IVLaimie pursed her lips up temptingly, and turned her in- 
 nocent face straight towards him. 
 
 * Kiss me, Jocelyn,' she said simply. 
 
 The greatest tactician on earth couldn't have suggested 
 more perfect strategj^ but Jocelyn refused with much spirit 
 to be drawn from his position by the enemy's allurements. 
 He shook his head in grave deprecation. 
 
 ' No, no, Maimie,' he said with some sternness. ' I'm 
 really in earnest. I mean what I say now. That's all over 
 between us for ever. I shall never again kiss those lips, for 
 all their tempting. I have promised Hetty, and I always 
 keep a promise sacred.' 
 
 Maimie's eyes flashed fire for a second. 
 
 * Then Hetty made you promise !' she said with a ma- 
 licious, taunting air. 
 
 Jocelyn corrected her calmly. 
 
 'Hetty didn't make me promise,' he said with slow 
 dignity. ' I promised spontaneously, of my own accord. I 
 saw siie was grieved because I loved you, and I told her I 
 wouldn't love you any longer.' 
 
 ' And you won't, Jocelyn ?' 
 
 * I won't, Maimie ' 
 
OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 91 
 
 *Yoii can't help it, Jocelyn.' And she bridled up. She 
 seemed to call him by his Christian name each time on 
 purpose. 
 
 ' I can, Maimie. I'm not going to love you any longer. 
 You've only seen me like clay in the hands of the potter 
 hitherto, butj when I choose, I can be hard as adamant. 
 Listen a minute, and I'll tell you why I can't love you.' 
 
 Maimie flung herself down with unstudied artistic care- 
 lessness in the studio chair, her beautiful arms disposed in 
 her most taking natural attitude, and leant back to listen 
 with half-pretended childish unconcern to Jocelyn Cipriani's 
 promised explanation. 
 
 Then Jocelyn began, and told her exactly, word for word, 
 what had just passed between himself and Hetty. Ho 
 didn't alter or omit a single incident. He told it all 
 precisely as it happened. 
 
 Maimie listened intently and wonderingly. At the end, 
 she said with a reproachful look : 
 
 * And you meant it, Jocelyn X 
 
 ' Yes,' Jocelyn answered, hardly daring to look her 
 straight in the face, ' I meant it, Maimie. I have begun to 
 love you very dearly; but I love Hetty ten thousand times 
 better, and I can do nothing that would ever cause her one 
 moment's sorrow, for you or for anyone.' 
 
 Maimie paused and thought it all out by herself a little, 
 
 * Hetty doesn't want me to come here again ]' she asked 
 after a minute. 
 
 ' Well, not exactly that, I think. She'll be very glad to 
 see you always, Maimie ; only you and I mustn't f;dl in love 
 with one another any more, you see. It makes H«^tty feel 
 uncomfortable : and that's a thing I can never allow for 
 anything or anybody.' 
 
 ' Jocelyn !' 
 
 ' Well r 
 
 * What a pity you and I couldn't go away together from 
 Hetty, and not let her bother you about me any longer. 
 That would be very nice, wouldn't it ?' 
 
 Jocelyn smiled curiously. 
 
 * Very nice indeed for you, Maimie,' he answered, looking 
 deep into her childish eyes, * but not perhaps quite so nice 
 
92 FOR MAIM IK'S SAKE. 
 
 for poor Hetty. It wouldn't be very pleasant for her, you 
 see, to be abandoned and left })Oor and broken hearted.' 
 
 * Well, but you're a great painter, you know, aren't you ? 
 and you get ever such heaps and heaps of money for just a 
 little bit of a tiny picture. Hetty told me how much you 
 got for that silly little thing of the two fisherwomen. You 
 could easily earn enough for both of us, and you could send 
 Hetty every month as much money as ever she wanted. 
 And you and I could be so very, very happy together. I 
 lovo you every bit as well as Adrian Pyra — and better even.' 
 The last words with a lingering cadence, slow and expres- 
 sive. 
 
 Jocelyn's mouth curled up at the ends with philosophical 
 amusement at her transparent simplicity. Did ever woman 
 so let one look through and through the delicious frank 
 selfishness of her unaffected woman's heart? 
 
 * No doubt,' he said, ' you and I could be very happy 
 indeed together, Maimie, if there were no such person on 
 earth as Hetty, and never had been. But you forget that 
 Hetty possesses objective existence. She is there, an in- 
 controvertible fact, visible and tangible, and you've got to 
 reckon Avith her. Now, naturally, Hetty wouldn't like me 
 to run away with another girl and leave her. I might send 
 her ever and ever so much money, but that wouldn't be the 
 same thing to her as if she had me myself always with her. 
 Consider, for example, your own case. You wouldn't think 
 it a matter of indifference, if I was married to you instead 
 of to her, whether T always stayed at home with you, or 
 went off with somebody else, and sent you a cheque every 
 month regularly to carry on your housekeeping.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' Maimie answered promptly. ' I should 
 much prefer to have you always with me, of course, 
 Jocelyn.' 
 
 * Well, Hetty feels exactly the same in that matter as you 
 do. She wants to have me always with her ; and what's 
 more, she wants to have my undivided affection. Very dis- 
 agreeable for us, Maimie, but very natural and womanly in 
 her for all that. You see, absurd as it seems to any rational 
 creature, it's what women have always been accustomed 
 to.' 
 
OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 93 
 
 ' In England,' Maimie suggested gravely. ' Not every- 
 where.' 
 
 * In England,' Jocelyn repeated with a quiet smile. ' If 
 we were in Turkey or in Salt Lake City, now, why then, 
 things might perhaps be a little different, Maimie.' 
 
 * I wish to goodness we were !' Maimie ejaculated piously. 
 ' I'm not at all like Hetty, Jocelyn. I shouldn't mind how 
 many other girls you loved. I'm not the least bit jealous of 
 her, I assure you.' 
 
 * You forget that Hetty has the prior claim,' Jocelyn 
 put in, smiling still more unmistakably. ' She thinks she 
 ought to be allowed undisputed possession of her own hus- 
 band. And as law and custom go at present in England, 
 we must both admit that she's fiiirly entitled to exchi.sive 
 ownership.' 
 
 * Law, not custom,' Maimie said, turning her big brown 
 eyes full upon him with unspeakable innocence. 
 
 Jocelyn started. 
 
 ' Gracious heavens !' he said, * she's not so guileless as she 
 seems, after all ! Is it worldly wisdom, I wonder, or is it 
 only the supreme guilelessness that no amount of knowledge 
 can possibly alter] You're an enigma after all, Maimie: 
 transparent as you seem, you're nevertheless in the end an 
 enigma.' 
 
 Maimie's answer was the same as before. She pursed up 
 her lips, and said again enticingly : 
 
 ' Kiss me, Jocelyn.' 
 
 But Jocelyn, as he himself had said, was like adamant 
 now. 
 
 ' Xo,' he answered, shaking his head gloomily. * Never 
 again ; never again, Maimie.' 
 
 Then Maimio began to cry. It had come to tears. 
 Jocelyn knew it would come to them, sooner or later. A 
 woman's gamut runs always regularly down the self-same 
 scale. 
 
 * Must I never love you any more, Jocelyn X she asked 
 piteously. 
 
 Jocelyn's natural instinct (not unshared by others of his 
 sex) Avhenever he saw a woman crying was to put his arm 
 gently around her waist, lay her head upon his broad 
 
94 I'VR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 shoulder, and comfort hor with little soothing speeches; but 
 he resisted the virile impulse very manfully. 
 
 * You must never love me any more,' he echoed with un- 
 moved determination, 
 
 ' ]jut I don't like it,' Maimie cried with a petulant dash 
 of her little hand outward. 
 
 Jocelyn tried hard with himself to assume a becomingly 
 brutal demeanour. 
 
 *In that case,' he answered doggedly, 'you will doubtless 
 have the usual alternative of lumping it.' 
 
 ' Jocelyn !' 
 
 »Yes.' 
 
 ' That isn't yourself. You could never do so. That's 
 that horrid Hetty!— I don't mean that. Dear old thing! I 
 love her dearl3^ ]>ut it was she who told you to treat me 
 this way.' 
 
 *No, she didn't. \''ou're (|uitc wrong, Maimie. She 
 bogged me not to. I determined to do it all of my own 
 accord, because I didn't wish Hetty to be put to trouble.' . 
 
 * Then you love her much better than you love me ?' 
 'Ever so much better, Maimie. A thousand times 
 
 better.' 
 
 Maimie went on crying silently for several minutes. 
 Jocelyn pretended to busy himself meanwhile in an in- 
 effectual way among his colours and palettes. At last 
 Maimie spoke again. 
 
 * I don't want you to love me best,' she murmured, with 
 childish petulance. ' I don't mind which of us you love 
 best, not a little mite, I'm sure, Jocelyn ; but I do want you 
 to go on loving me. It's dreadful to think you should leave 
 off loving me.' 
 
 * Nevertheless such must be the case,' Jocelyn answered 
 with afl'ected carelessness. * You'll find plenty of other men 
 ready to love you wherever you happen to go, Maimie.' 
 
 ' I know that,' JMaimie replied, wiping her eyes ; ' but I 
 want everybody everywhere to love me, Jocelyn. And I 
 want them to go on loving me for ever and ever.' 
 
 ' One love drives out another,' Jocelyn said senteutiously 
 
 ' Not with me, though, I'm certain.' 
 
 * Nor with me either,' Jocelyn replied, sighing. 
 
OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 95 
 
 IVraiinio caught at once at the sigli, as the proverbial 
 drowniiii^ man clutclies at a straw. 
 
 ' It lias boon a very delightful little opisoile this, after 
 all,' she said more naturally, smiling again upon him from 
 her scarcely reddened eyes. 
 
 ' Very, indeed,' Jocelyn answered, half relenting. * I 
 shall always look back upon it, Maimie, with intense 
 pleasure. It has given me some of the purest thrills of 
 genuine delight I have ever experienced in the whole course 
 of a not entirely unimpassioned lifetime.' 
 
 ' It has ]' Maimie asked. 
 
 *It has. It will not any longer. No, no, Maimie: don't 
 l)urso up your lips like that, I beg of you. Accejjt the 
 inevitable, like a good girl. It's all over. No more of Eve 
 in Eden for the future. This is the eminently respectabh! 
 nineteenth century, and we must behave ourselves like civi- 
 lized people, cluthetl and law-locked. Never again : never, 
 never. After this morning's sitting, we must meet hence- 
 forth only on neutral ground in Hetty's drawing-room. 
 And, Maimie, you must marry Sydney Chevenix.' 
 
 'Jocelyn, Jocelyn, I'll break it all oif at once, if you 
 wish me to : but oh, before we do, you'll give me ju'it one 
 more kiss, one nice kiss, as you always used to do ! A 
 farewell kiss, to break it all off with ! You won't leave mo 
 here to die of hunger for it ]' 
 
 Jocelyn was surprised at the momentary tone of passion 
 which Maimie threw into her last appeal, for he had hardly 
 suspected her of possessing even so much intensity of 
 feeling or power of acting, he knew not which : but he 
 answered coldly: 
 
 'No, no. If once I break my word, there'll be no 
 drawing a line anywhere. The die is cast, i\[aimie, and we 
 must both abide by it. Not even a farewell kiss to say 
 good-bye with, dear little woman.' 
 
 Maimie Hung herself back in the studio armchair in a 
 despairing attitude, and sobbed away unchecked for some 
 minutes. 
 
 As she lay there sobbing still, and shaking visibly, the 
 portiere moved aside with a quick movement, and Hetty 
 entered. 
 
96 FOR MAIM IE' S SAKE. 
 
 * Oh, Jocelyu !' she cried, turning to her husband half 
 reproachfully. * What on earth have you been doing here, 
 you dreadful creature ] Have you set my dear little 
 Maimie crying with your wicked scoldings V 
 
 Maimic took down her hand from her face with a sudden 
 burst of fresh emotion, and rushing up to Hetty in a 
 fervour of gratitude, flung her arms wildly around her with 
 unfeigned affection. 
 
 * Yoti dear old thing !' she cried eagerly. ' I do love you! 
 I do love you ! Do you know what Jocelyn's been just 
 saying % That he isn't going to love me any longer ! And 
 do you know why he's made me cry this minute? Because 
 he won't even give me one farewell kiss to say good-bye 
 with ! Isn't it unkind of him % — oh, isn't it unkind of him 1 
 Hetty, you dear old darling Hetty, won't you ask him to 
 give me just a farewell kiss to say good-bye with?' 
 
 Hetty's momentary pang of jealousy melted away at once 
 before the sight of Maimie's innocent eyes of weeping 
 entreaty and Jocelyn's comical austere look of unbending 
 virtue. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she said, taking her husband's arm tenderly, 
 and leading Maimie right up in front of him, as if to 
 present her in due form, ' do kiss her ; dear little heart ! 
 Don't you see how dreadfully and cruelly you've frightened 
 her ? I want you to break it off, of course; but I don't want 
 you to go and be a great, surly, cross old bear. Do kiss her 
 just this once, there's a dear husband, because she wants 
 you to.' 
 
 Maimie held up her tempting lips once more at the word, 
 and pursed them into the most enticing shape as usual; but 
 Jocelyn had fully made up his mind, and he wasn't to bo 
 lightly moved by this double entreaty from his settled 
 purpose. 
 
 'No, no,' he said. 'Not even with two women down 
 upon me at once. I shall never kiss her again, Hett3^ 
 AVhat you said just now decided me forth^vith and for ever 
 on that point. I will never do anything as long as I live 
 to give you one passing moment of reasonable pain. So I 
 came straight in, as I said I would, and told Maimie all 
 about it.' 
 
OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 97 
 
 ' But I never said you were to make her cry !' Hetty 
 answered, half frowning. 
 
 ' I told you I must, though,' Jocelyn retorted, mixing his 
 colours. 'As the French proverb justly remarks, without 
 breaking of eggs there is no omelette.' 
 
 ' Oh, Hetty, he's been so cruel to me,' Maimie cried, 
 laying her head on Hetty's shoulder, and sobbing as bit- 
 terly as she could well manage. ' He said he'd never love 
 me any longer, because you were getting a little jealous of 
 me : and I said if you and he and I couldn't arrange to 
 live happily together, all three of us, wouldn't it be better 
 for him to take me away somewhere, and leave you to live 
 here alone quite comfortably : and then Jocelyn said you 
 wouldn't like that, because you'd like to have him always 
 near you, and so we must leave off loving one another 
 altogether : and I said, wouldn't he at least give me a fare- 
 well kiss to say good-bye with : and he wouldn't do even 
 that, the horrid man; and that was what set me off crying 
 and sobbing.' 
 
 Hetty smiled in spite of herself) though she was a little 
 bit shocked) at the perfect naiveU' of this candid confession ; 
 but she stroked Maimie's cheek none the less with her soft 
 white hands, and whispered softly : 
 
 ' I shall make him kiss you yet, Maimie.' 
 
 ' Never !' Jocelyn answered, almost defiantly again. ' I'm 
 very sorry to break off this pleasant friendship, Maimie — 
 no, not that; for a friendship it shall be still: but to break 
 oft" whatever in it was more than friendship. Kiss me, 
 Hetty. That'll do, dear. Now pass on the kiss to Maimie. 
 Good-bye, Maimie. Good-bye in your capacity of a thing 
 lovable. Henceforth you are to be liked only. No, no, 
 little wife : I am adamant, adamant. Don't plead for her, 
 Hetty. You must do one thing or the other. As Maimie 
 says, England or Constantinople. You elect for England. 
 Then stand by your colours. I don't care for myself which 
 you choose ; but as the one clearly means happiness for 
 you, and as the other means distrust and misery, I prefer 
 to go for the one you have chosen. Now I shall go on 
 painting Maimie. You must stop in the studio Hetty, all 
 
 7 
 
98 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 the morning, to fct« ftBut Maimie behaves herself properly. 
 She can't be trui^t^l (oot of your presence.' 
 
 IMaimie flung h*^ arms fiercely round Hetty's neck once 
 more, and kissed h^t over and over again -with passionate 
 kisses. 
 
 'You dear oM iMiiijr/ she cried, 'you've tried your best 
 to make him ki** Diie-, but he's a horrid creature : *1 don't a 
 bit love him. \^m (flarling Hetty, I do love you, I do love 
 you. And noM- 1 ^SDaLI marry Sydney Chevenix !' 
 
 ' But perhaps/ Weilj suggested, ' he won't ask you.' 
 
 ' My dear girV Maimie answered confidently, ' of course 
 he'll ask me, if <t»aily I want him to. He's awfully in love 
 with me as it is, aJfeafly, and he's only waiting for a good 
 ojjportunity.' 
 
 And then she itlifft-w herself back listlessly into the accus- 
 tomed attitude--, aaiic! t'<*came before another minute was over 
 the careless, btanalifulj thoughtless Beatrice of Jocelyn's 
 imagination. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 (*-% WITTE THE NKW. 
 
 About three </.ciwk Sydney Chevenix called. Hetty was 
 in, but she f^eot Masmie down alone to receive him, wonder- 
 ing much in hut ffufu heart at the same time whether she 
 was doing right '^ rot in sending her. AVhat a terrible 
 responsibility a i:,.i.r,..h maker's is, and how lightly the best 
 of women assuiaifce itt I 
 
 Sydney rose, Looldn^ very embarrassed, as Maimie entered 
 the drawing-rorfiijia. He had a proposing air about him, 
 Maimie fancied M (omce^ and he held his hat in a proposing 
 fashion ; but imleaid of coming straight to the jjoint, as 
 Jocelyn would kaiTe- done, or Adrian, or anybody, he went 
 beating about tJue bush with the oddest possible nervous 
 circumlocution, a.? if he was positively afraid of approach- 
 ing the subject aawl saying outright, * Maimie, I love you.' 
 Maimie had m^rftr in her life met anyone so very queer as 
 Sydney Cbev^iaix, He seemed to be so awfully respectful 
 
ON WITH THE NEW. 
 
 99 
 
 and chivalrous, and so dreadfully in love with her, and so 
 kind and admiring ; and yet he never even attempted to 
 kiss her or to take her hand and squeeze it like other 
 people. He called her ' IVIiss Llewellyn ' with a lingering 
 accent, as if she were a confirmed old maid, and spoke to 
 her in a tender softened voice, but with a distant tone of 
 awe and admiration. Maimie rather liked it by way of a 
 change ; it was a novelty to her — a perfect novelty. 
 Sydney treated her just as if he thought her a regular prude, 
 to be sure ; but still there was a certain delicacy and refine- 
 ment in his way of approaching her that flattered Maimie's 
 undeveloped sense of personal importance. It was so very 
 different from Tom Enderby and the dear little under- 
 graduates down at Silbury. 
 
 As for Sydney, he sat there saying to himself : 
 
 ' How am I ever to ask this bright, dainty, beautiful, 
 pure-minded little soul to come and share my dry, dull 
 scientific life with me ? Can I ever hope to make her 
 happy % Is she not too good, too innocent, too pure, too 
 sweet for me ? What presumptuousness on my part to 
 venture on hoping that I can ever win her !' 
 
 So he talked long by roundabout ways about indifferent 
 subjects, and touched upon the Academy, the Park, the 
 season, the theatre, till I\Iaimie almost began to think she 
 must have been mistaken, and that the proposing look she 
 had fancied on his face was really an error of diagnosis. 
 
 At last, however, Sydney touched, in passing, upon 
 poetry. That, Maimie thought, ^vas a promising turn for 
 the conversation to have taken. Jocelyn and Adrian iiad 
 often read her poetry — lovely bits out of Swinburne, and 
 Itossetti, and Gautier, and so forth. Maimie was not 
 insensible to the charms of verse. Like all other people 
 of voluptuous natures, the mere roll and lilt of the metre 
 carried her along with it on a vague flood of unspecialized 
 emotion. The sensuous pleasure of the cunningly linked 
 sound was to her the heart and soul and inner reality of 
 the whole composition. 
 
 ' After all, the loveliest lyric in T^nglish, Miss Llewellyn,' 
 Sydney said with a touch of tremulousness in his voice as 
 
 <— 2 
 
ICO FOR MALMIES SAKE. 
 
 he said it, ' is that piece of Shelley's, " One word is too often 
 profaned." Of course yon know it.' 
 
 *No, I don't,' Mainiie answered with a sweet upward 
 glance of confiding innocence. ' I've read nothing of 
 Shelley's almost, except "Queen Mab," which papa, used to 
 make me learn by heart — for the sake of the theology, he 
 said : 
 
 " There i.s no God : infinity within, 
 Infinity without, belie creation." 
 
 He used to make me repeat that every Sunday — as a creed, 
 he called it. And then the " Cenci," which Jocelyn said I 
 ought to read so as to throw myself better into the part of 
 Beatrice. But I don't much care for the " Cenci," Mr. 
 Cipriani ; it's so very odd, and so hard to understand it. 
 Do you know this other piece you're talking of by heart 1 I 
 should so much like to hear you say it.' 
 
 (* There's nothing like reciting poetry,' she thought 
 parenthetically to herself, ' to draw men on. It's a perfect 
 talisman. I've always noticed that Avhenever a man hegins 
 reading or reciting poetry to you, the very next thing he 
 invariably does is to put his arm around your waist, or catch 
 your hand in his, or try to kiss you, or something or other 
 practical and nice of that sort.') 
 
 ' Dear little innocent unsophisticated soul !' Sydney 
 thought in his own heart ecstatically. ' To the pure all 
 things are pure ! She doesn't even know she oughtn't 
 to tell me she's read the " Cenci " ! I admire her above every- 
 thing for that sweet childish outspoken guilelessness — that 
 charity that thinketh no evil. She shall \>q mine, she shall 
 be — she shall be ! I must win her ! I can't live without 
 her. No other woman was ever made like her ! The 
 angel, the darling, the sweet little innocent unsullied 
 angel !' 
 
 To the pure all things indeed are pure ; and Sydney 
 Chevenix with his ingrained purity read Maimie Llewellyn's 
 character very dilferently from Adrian Pym or Jocelyn 
 Cipriani. 
 
 ' It's very short,' Sydney said, half apologetically, as a 
 mature man always speaks of love verses ; * only two 
 stanzas. I'll tell you them, if you like,' 
 
ON WITH THE NEW. loi 
 
 And he leant over towards her with a timid yet eager 
 earnestness, as he recited in a kiw impressive half-sliamn- 
 faced fashion those well-known lines : 
 
 ' One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it : 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it : 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother : 
 And Pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than That from another. 
 
 ' I can give, not what men call love ; 
 
 But wilt thon accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above, 
 
 And the heavens reject not ? 
 The desire of the moth for the star ; 
 
 Of the night for the morrow ; 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of onr sorrow ?' 
 
 As he repeated the lines, with unexpected profundity of 
 feeling, Maimic's eye looked deep and unabashed straight 
 into his, a ftiint dew dimming tremulously their brilliant 
 light, and a strange tenderness gleaming far down in the 
 abysmal depths of their great black pupils. 
 
 ' That's lovely,' she murmured in a low pensive tone. 
 * Exquisitely lovely. How very proud the girl must have 
 l)een to whom a great poet like Shelley sent such a 
 delicately chivalrous love-letter !' 
 
 Unconsciously to herself, she had half risen to the dignity 
 of the situation, and, as often happens under such circum- 
 stances, spoke above her own normal level. 
 
 ' Miss Llewellyn ! Miss Llewellyn !' Sydney Chevenix 
 exclaimed, leaning nearer and nearer to her, and stammer- 
 ing in liis emotion, ' what would I not give if I were only 
 a great poet, and could have written just such a beautiful 
 poem as that to you . . . Maimie 1' 
 
 Maimie drew back from him with a sudden dismay, as if 
 half astonished, half frightened. 
 
 * Why, Mr. Chevenix,' she said timorously, * I . . I didn't 
 know you had any sorrow.' 
 
 * None,' Sydney cried, venturing to take her hand tenta- 
 
102 FOR MAIM/E'S SAKE. 
 
 lively in his ; and she lot him hokl it — how gracious ! ho \v 
 condescending ! ' None but my isolation . . . And yet that 
 I begin to feel is a heavy one. . . . Maimie, Maimie, from 
 the moment I first saw you, I have always felt what tliose 
 lines express ... an infinite yoarning after you, as towards 
 a thing so far, far — far above me ; a worship of your beauty, 
 your purity, your holiness ; a longing to do my best to 
 make you happy. . . . Will you let me try, Maimie 1 AVill 
 you let me ? Will you let me V 
 
 Maimie answered never a word for good or for evil, but 
 pressed his hand that grasped her own — pressed it faintly 
 with maiden timidity. It was so very funny ! He made 
 such a fuss about it ! 
 
 At the pressure, Sydney's heart came up into his mouth. 
 
 'My darhng,' he crierl, ' my heart's darling ! Oh, thank 
 you ! Thank you ! This is too much kindness of you ! 
 This is too much happiness ! Can you love me, Maimie? 
 Can you love me ? Can you love me ]' 
 
 And then — wondering strangely at his own audacity (but 
 love supplies even a modest man with surprising boldness) 
 he put his arm all trembling around her waist and drew her 
 towards him, and kissed her twice, purely, rai)turously. 
 
 JMaimie, too, was very happy. It's so nice to feel you're 
 actually settled ; that a man you like and really care for 
 has proposed outright for you iu so many words and been 
 fairly accepted. 
 
 So now she ventured to be gracious in return. 
 
 ' Mr. Chevenix,' she murmured low in his ear, ' I am very 
 happy. I do love you. I loved you from the first . . very 
 dearly.' 
 
 And as she said it, she meant it truly. It was so easy 
 for Maimie to fall in love with anybody. 
 
 But Sydney Chevenix, who had never known what it was 
 to love in his life before — Sydney Chevenix was in a seventh 
 heaven of ecstasy and fervour. He could have caught 
 Maimie in his arms almost, and smothered her with kisses 
 in the wildness of his joy, if Hetty had not deemed it 
 prudent just about that time to rustle her dress ostenta- 
 tiously upon the staircase before venturing to open the door 
 of the drawing-room. 
 
av WITH THE NEW. 103 
 
 'AVell, Maimie V Hetty asked, with a meaning look in her 
 matronly eyes, as soon as Sydney, hot and re I-faced, had 
 muttered his farewells and taken his departure. ' I need 
 hardly ask you what about Sydney Chevenixf 
 
 ' Why, he's a dear fellow,' Maimie answered with a 
 twinkling eye and a sisterly kiss. * I declare, Hetty, he 
 grows upon one the more one sees of him. Do you know 
 what he's been doing here this afternoon? You'll never 
 guess. ]leciting poetry, Hetty ! Now, you woukln't have 
 suspected an F.lt.S. and authority on explosives of such a 
 levity as being poetical, and romantic, and aftcctionate, 
 would you?' 
 
 ' And what did he ask you, Maimie V 
 
 Maimie laudied. 
 
 ' He asked me whether I'd let him try to make mo 
 happy.' 
 
 * And you ansAvercd V 
 
 'Nothing, of course. I tliought an answer would be 
 very unimpressive. I just S(|ucezed his hand for him a tiny 
 bit, as much as to say 1 had no objection to his trying it if it 
 pleased him ; and then he set to work at once, kissing me 
 so properly — not a bit like Jocelyn and Adrian : schoolboy 
 kisses, you know, the same as the undergraduates'. And 
 just as the thing was beginning to get really interesting and 
 amusing the door opened — and in you walked, Hetty, to put 
 an end to it all abruptly.' 
 
 ' So then you've accepted him, dear?' 
 
 ' Well, yes, I suppose I've accepted him. Of course I've 
 accepted him. At any rate, I fully expect to get an 
 awfully pretty engagement ring by this evening's post with 
 a real diamond in it. But, oh, Hetty ! you never saw any- 
 body make love in all your life so curiously as Sydney I Ho 
 seems as if he'd never done it to anybody before — as if he 
 didn't know how you ought to do it! And he kisses— well, 
 he kisses one, my dear, just like a woman.' 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie ! I hope you love him. I hope you're 
 not going to marry him now just for the sake of getting a 
 home and an establishment.' 
 
 ' Of course I love him, darling,' Maimie answered, laugh- 
 ing. ' 1 think him a dear, delightful old stupid. If I didn't 
 
I04 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 love liirn, Hetty, well, why on earth slioiiM I want to 
 marry him % I could marry anybody else I wished to have 
 if I liked, couldn't I f 
 
 And Iliitty, reflecting upon her little friend's brief 
 career of universal conquest, overrunning the male world 
 like a girlish Napoleon, confessed to herself with a sigh 
 that after all Maimie was right, and she might take her 
 pick among the marriageable m n, of all ages, ranks, and 
 fortunes in this colourless latter-day realm of England. 
 Why, not even dear Joceyln was able to resist her ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A BRITISH MATRON. 
 
 So in six weeks' time Maimie was married to Sydney 
 Chevenix, stopping with the Ciprianis after all till the day 
 of her wedding, and being given away in ]>roper form by 
 Jocelyn himself, at whose house the breakfast was duly 
 celebrated. Hetty had interceded with her husband to let 
 her remain, and Jocelyn, though he was adamant still to all 
 Maimie's little personal blandishments, gave way reluctantly 
 on this practical point, taking into consideration the very 
 short time that had j^et to elapse before the date of the wed- 
 ding. For Sydney,whenonce the ice had been broken, became 
 forthwith the most ardent and eager as well as tlie most 
 chivalrous of lovers. There was no reason, he said, why 
 they shouldn't be married as soon as ever Maimie's arrange- 
 ments could conveniently be made ; and Maimie herself, 
 with maidenly demureness, gave way at once to his earnest 
 pleading. Lovely as she always was, she never looked 
 lovelier than on her wedding-day ; and Sydney thought, as 
 he gazed at his beautiful dainty little bride in her pretty 
 white satin and long lace veil, he was the happiest man 
 and the luckiest fellow in all England. Adrian Pym, 
 in his rooms at Oxford, thought so too, that dull morning, 
 and envied him sadly. 
 
 And Maimie's first few months of married life were 
 really months of pure and unadulterated happiness. She 
 liked Sydney, dear old Sydney ! From the very first she 
 
A BRITISH MATRON. 105 
 
 gonninely liked him ; in her own way, indeed, she fancied 
 she loved him. Sydney was so kinH, and so generous, and 
 so devoted ; always ready to do anything on earth for her — 
 even to leave his experiments in that horrid old laboratory 
 whenever she asked him ; and he seemed to think so much 
 of her in every way, and to be very proud of her, and to 
 love to show her off to all his frowsy, drowsy old friends 
 and acquaintances. And then there was the house, the life, 
 the society ! Maimie had never seen anything like it. SIiq 
 jumped at once from the half-pay officer's tiny little cottage 
 at King's Silbury to be mistress of a handsome London 
 establishment, with servants of her own, and even a carriage, 
 made much of in the world, and petted and flattered as she 
 had always been, but by a far larger and wider set of 
 admirers. Sydney's position was such a very good one — 
 Fellow of the Koyal Society, and a man of means and a 
 buyer of pictures, and an authority upon explosives ! They 
 knew everybody worth knowing — the artistic set, and the 
 literary set, and the scientific set, and some even of the 
 great London Society itself, that spells its own name with a 
 capital initial. Maimie had tickets for the Artists' Ball, 
 and for the Royal Society's Conversazione, and for all the 
 private views, and first nights, and big concert?, and semi- 
 fashionable at-homes in all London. To the country-bred 
 girl, whose only amusements till lately had been lawn-tennis 
 at the doctor's and the Silbury regatta — to whom the 
 coming of Adrian Pym and his ten undergraduates was the 
 beginning of ' the season,' and their departure by train to 
 Silbury Junction the tag end and final disruption of it — 
 this wonderful new London life seemed, indeed, a sort of 
 glorious, whirling, phantasmagoric paradise. It was like 
 the Garden of Eden Jocelyn had described to her. She was 
 too happy ever even to stop and reflect upon her own 
 happiness : she was lifted into the seventh heaven of 
 excitement, for a girl of her temperament ; and she enjoyed 
 it all with the full faculty for enjoyment of a natural, 
 healthy, vigorous woman. 
 
 At her first dinner-party as mistress of Sydney Chevenix's 
 house, she had a real live baronet (F.R.S.) to take her 
 down on his arm to dinner, and a real live knight (R.A.) to 
 
io6 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 sit on her left hand in his inferior dignity ! Wliat woukl 
 they say to it all at King's Silbiiry, she wondered ; and 
 how the nasty Koctory girls (whose papa objected on 
 principle to their knuwii)g the little heathen) would die of 
 envy when they read about Lady So-and-so's at-home in 
 her letter to the doctor's wife, lier special friend there. 
 
 For even the women got on admirably with that dear 
 little Mrs. Sydney Chevenix. As a rule, girls of Maimie's 
 ^ype are anything but favourites with married ladies : they 
 are men's women, not women's women. Unt Maimic 
 formed the inevitable exception to the broad rule, and for 
 an excellent reason too. Instead of putting herself into 
 open rivalry with the young girls, instead of seeming to 
 bridle up at and resent the matronly criticism of the 
 mammas and grandmammas, she met them always on their 
 own ground with perfect frankness, perfect cordialit}', 
 perfect naivete, and perfect submission, like one who is 
 delighted to be taught better, 'Wrong, dear Lady So-and-so ! 
 You don't mean to say it ? Is that wrong too ? Oh, \m 
 so awfully glad to learn it. You know I'm only such a 
 simple little ignorant country girl, and I never had a dear 
 mother of my own to tell me anything.' What on earth 
 could Lady So-and-so do in reply but stoop down and kiss 
 the pretty little penitent like a second mother ? 
 
 As for Sydney Chevenix, he was quite as hapi)y in heap- 
 ing up pleasures for dear Maimie as Maimie herself was in 
 placidly accepting them. Hitherto he had bei a man of 
 one idea — the chemistry of ex})losives : now he had added 
 to it another and still more overpowering pursuit — the 
 pursuit of making Maimie happy. For Maimie's sake he 
 would do anything. 
 
 Dear little soul ! how utterly he loved her ! Yes, yes ; 
 he could make her happy ! Whatever she wished, he would 
 do it at once for her. Even the explosives (though this 
 Avith a sigh of regret) — even the explosives themselves 
 should go to the wall if they interfered with Maimie's 
 happiness. Body and soul, he had sunk himself in Maimie, 
 and he loved her with a depth and intensity of passion 
 which Maimie herself could never have comprehended or 
 even fathomed. 
 
A BRITISH MA TRON. 107 
 
 One tiling only troubled Maimie. From the very clay of 
 her marriage to Sydney Chevenix, Adrian Pym lia<l ceased 
 writing to her altogether. She mentioned this with some 
 surprise to Hetty ; but Hetty laughed at her, and said, 
 ' Of course, dear,' in a way that made even Maimie feel she 
 had somehow been expecting something very wicked an<l 
 very ridiculous. * You don't understand these things yet,' 
 Hetty said laughingly ; * but now that you're married, you'll 
 begin to understand them, I'm sure, Maimie, and you'll see 
 that he naturally left oft" writing to you.' 
 
 Yet, for the life of her, Maimie couldn't imagine why he 
 never sent her a single line ; and she did so long to write 
 frankly herself and ask him the reason. Still, Jocelyn had 
 told her she mustn't, on any account, write to her Oxford 
 friends after she was once married ; and though Maimie 
 was never (juite sure about what Hetty said, she knew that 
 Jocelyn's advice on matters of this sort was always sensible. 
 There was no ridiculous conventional nonsense about it ; he 
 gave it solely from the point of view, as he himself ol)sorved, 
 not of the categorical imperative, but of the empirical ('[ii>. 
 Enlightened self-interest was the sole key-stone of his 
 simple philosophical morality. 
 
 And, after all, dear old Sydney was a perfect old darling 
 — so kind and generous to her, and so proud of her beauty — 
 and what could she want more than to be comfortably 
 married, and have a house of her own, and a real live 
 baronet (F.K.S.) to take her down on his arm to dinner 1 
 
 CHAPTER XVir. 
 
 MRS. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 
 
 Some two or three months after Maimie's marriage, Adrian 
 Pym sat alone by himself in liis ground-ftoor rooms at St. 
 Boniface College, hard at work upon the concluding chapters 
 of his History of the Corcyrean Revolution. He sat at an 
 old oak desk by the bay Avindow overlooking the gardens, in 
 a red velvet-cushioned study-chair, carved with the arras of 
 the college and university by some forgotten handicraftsman 
 of the Jacobean era. AH the appointments of his sunny 
 
lo8 FOR M ATM IKS SAKE. 
 
 rooms were redolent of lettered ease and latter-day culture. 
 On the oaken wainscot of the jianellod walls hun;^ choice 
 otcliin<^s after famous pictures by JUirne Jones ami Mei^sonier. 
 The tiny mirrors of the Queen Anno overmantel reflected a 
 few select pieces of Venetian glass and old Japanese turquoise 
 vases. The carpetless floor was covered with dainty red-and- 
 whito Indian matting, relieved hero and there by great 
 splashes of mellow colour in the shape of anti(|uc oriental 
 rugs. Even the faint j srfume of stale tobacco that clung 
 about the tawny Turkish curtains added its own appropriate 
 item to the general efl'ect ; for it was the dying odour of a good 
 cigar, the very best Havana that JJacon could furnish. Every- 
 thing spoke the luxurious and self-indulgent literary don : 
 the man who mingles the apolaustic Avorship of comfort and 
 beauty with the more ancient enchorial Oxonian cult of pure 
 learning. 
 
 As Adrian leaned back in his comfortable chair, and surveyed 
 at his leisure, for the twentieth time, the much rewritten manu- 
 script of that conchiding paragraph for the admirable chapter 
 on the Demos of Corcyra — a paragraph altered and twisted 
 over and over again in every sentence to suit alike his fastidious 
 ear and his exacting sense of literary fitness — a knock sounded 
 loudly at the door of his rooms, and the under-porter entered 
 in haste, looking a trille confused and flustered. 
 
 * If you please, sir,' he said apologetically, holding the edge 
 of the door in his left hand with a deprecating air of profuse 
 humility, 'the head-porter he sent me up to tell you, sir, 
 that there's a young person . . . leastways a female . . . 
 that is to say, I mean, if you please, a lady, as would like to 
 see you very particular, sir, as soon as is agreeable, if not 
 inconvenient to you.' 
 
 * Where is she?' Adrian asked, rising from his desk, and 
 pulling together his necktie and collar at the tiny mirror in 
 the centre of the overmantel. (One never knows, when a 
 lady is announced, whether she may not turn out, on further 
 acquaintance, to be young and attractive.) 
 
 ' She's at the lodge, sir,' the under-porter answered sub- 
 missively. * The head-porter, he wouldn't allow the young 
 person . . . leastways the lady ... to come into college 
 until ho heard direct from you, sir. The head-porter, he 
 
J\//^S. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 109 
 
 says, if you please, sir, that the lady's drunk — that is to say, 
 intoxicated.' 
 
 Adrian turned round fiercely to greet him. Ifu knew in a 
 moment who it was that had come thus unexpectedly to 
 intrude her hateful presence upon him. * So she has followed 
 me up to Oxford at last,' he thought to himself bitterly ; ' run 
 mo to earth in my own kennel.' That linal disgrace was too 
 horribly cutting. 
 
 ' J)id the young person give any name, Martin V he asked 
 aloud, in as unconcerned a voice as he couUl easily muster, 
 keeping down his feelings with a supremo effort. ' Did she 
 say on what business she wanted to see me V 
 
 ' If you please, sir,' the nnderporter replied with tremulous 
 servility, handing Adrian a dirty little square of crumpled 
 cardboard, * she said that that was her right name, and she 
 asked me to give it you in your ovvn hands for her card de 
 viscet, sir. And the head-porter, he said I must take it up 
 to you at once, but must tell you the lady wasn't in a lit 
 condition to be brouglit into college, owing to being drunk, 
 sir.' 
 
 Adrian glanced mechanically with a supercilious eye at the 
 dirty s(piaro of limp cardboard. Written upon it in a loose, 
 scrawling, uneducated hand were the four terriUe, damning 
 AvordtJ, ' Mrs. Adrian Pym, Hastings.' 
 
 The tutor crumpled up the card in the hollow of his palm, 
 and flung it savagely with an oath into the empty fireplace. 
 
 * Show her up,' he said curtly. ' She's a drunken mad- 
 woman, Martin. I know who she is, and what business 
 she's come upon. Show her up, both of you — at once, I tell 
 you — you and the porter.' 
 
 Martin hesitated. ' If you please, sir,' ho blurted out at 
 last, after a moment's pause, * the head-porter, iie told mo to 
 tell you he couldn't admit a drunken female inside the 
 college without a written order from you, sir.' 
 
 With uurufiled gravity, Adrian sat soberly down at his old 
 oak desk, and took out a sheet of college note-paper. Upon 
 it he wrote two lines only : ' Admit the drunken female to 
 my rooms. Adrian Pym, tutor.' 
 
 * Better here,' he muttered to himself in his utter despair, 
 'than down there brawling at the college-gate, before the 
 
no FOR MAIM IBS SAKE. 
 
 oyes of all those chattering jackanapes of undergraduates. 
 She's come here in this state on purpose to sting and humiliate 
 me, that fiend of a woman. Confound her ! — confound her !' 
 
 * There,' he said, turning round his revolving chair, and 
 handing the laconic order with a cynical smile to the 
 frightened aud deferential under-porter ; ' show that to 
 Boflin, and tell him I sent it. Then bring up the drunken 
 female between you, will you, Martin ?' 
 
 The under-porter grinned visibly, in spite of his awe, as 
 he read the wording of that singular mandate, and went 
 down the stairs hastily to carry his orders into execution. 
 As for Adrian, he sat down once more at his desk, and 
 pretended to be continuing his literary reflections on the 
 Demos of Corcyra in the most unconcerned and unaffected 
 attitude. 
 
 In a minute more, the door opened with a sudden push, 
 and a woman of twenty-seven dashed into the study, closely 
 followed by the two porters. 
 
 She was tall and bold-looking, a fine woman, or what had 
 once passed as such, but with her face now bloated and 
 unwholesome from much drink, and her hair carelessly 
 fastened in loose plaits, which left many straggling pieces 
 ])laying untidily about the corners of her shameless forehead. 
 Her dress and bonnet were tawdry and by no means new, 
 and there breathed about her whole appearance that general 
 indescribable air of dirty finery which marks at once the 
 drunken woman who has seen better days. Her face was 
 Unshed, and her manner excited ; and the head-porter had 
 rightly concluded, from a certain pervading perfume of 
 juniper, that she had nerved herself up for tiie coming 
 interview by the aid of that spirit which is popularly sup- 
 posed to inspire Dutch courage. Yet she was far from 
 hopelessly or helplessly drunk, and she w\alked into the 
 room with some visible attempt at dignity of demeanour, as 
 if anxious to keep up the credit of her name before the 
 observant eyes of the two porters. 
 
 As she entered, she tried to rush up to Adrian, and kiss 
 him openly, in full sight of the college servants. But 
 Adrian, rightly interpreting her intentions at the first forward 
 impulse, eluded her attack by a flunk movement, aud sub- 
 
MRS. ADRIAN PYAr DROPS A CARD. in 
 
 stitutiug a chair at the ciitical second, with a courteous wave 
 of the liand compelled lier to escape a tipsy collapse by seat- 
 ing herself in it, half against her will, with what dignity 
 and grace she could manage to cull up. 
 
 * You may go,' Adrian said in an authoritative voice to the 
 two porters, before the strange woman had time to com- 
 promise him any further. 
 
 The two porters bowed and retired. 
 
 ' Stay,' Adrian cried, running out after them hastily, on 
 second thoughts, to the top of the stairs. ' If at the end of 
 another fortnight, BolRn, I discover by close observation that 
 neither of you two has said anything about this crazy woman 
 to any of the other college servants, or anyone anywhere, I 
 shall make you each a small present of five guineas.' 
 
 The head-porter bo\\cd and smiled. 
 
 ' Though, by the rides of the college,' he added, with an 
 air of oily insinuation, ' I ought to have seven of 'em, sir, 
 and three to go to the under-porter.' 
 
 Adrian Pym showed his teeth with an ugly smile. 
 
 * I make terms with no one,' he answered in a crisp tone. 
 ' You know your wages. Go, and say nothing about it.' 
 
 The head-porter withdrew, grumbling and cringing. For 
 pure unmixed essence of servility and cupidity, it may be 
 safely asserted, there is no race in the whole world to equal 
 your Oxford college servant. 
 
 Adrian went back quietly to his study. The strange 
 woman sat there still on the chair to wh.'ch he had gracefully 
 motioned her. lie sported his oak unostentatiously behind 
 him — closed that great outer door Avhich secures a man by 
 established university etiquette from all untimely interference 
 or irruption. 
 
 ' Well, ]\[rs. Adrian Pym V he remarked slowly, with 
 ironical politeness, seating himself on the edge of a chair 
 opposite her. 
 
 •Well, Adrian?' the bold-looking woman retorted saucily. 
 
 * To what do I owe the honour of this visit]' 
 
 The bold-looking woman laughed a boisterous laugh. 
 
 ' You're very grand with me nowadays, Adrian,' she cried 
 with forced merriment. * You useu't to be so line-spoken iu 
 the old days, when I was " dearest Bessie," and " darling 
 
112 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 Bessie," and " uaj ©trn, heart's angel," and all that sort of 
 thing. In those ^iaj* you used to speak to me very different.' 
 
 The tutor twijl^i Kts thumbs reflectively. 
 
 ' In those day*-, Mrs. Adrian Pyni,' he said with official 
 calmness, lookiug >tliraL;,'ht at her, * you your.self had not 
 developed all lLo«; fi*ciiliar and unpleasant tendencies which 
 induce me now to lasraft you otherwise. We had our dream, 
 Mrs. Adrian Pyjaa : y&a had yours, and I had mine. Both 
 were mistaken — j'wuirsf a.«! much as mine. We were a pair of 
 idiots : we lived iw a moment in a fuol's paradise ; Ly-and-by 
 there came a sharp awakening; the paradise disappeared in 
 the twinkling of >m. eye, and nothing remained but the pair 
 of fools, who thou^^t it best to part in the interests of 
 harmony. I Lav* iiii&ver shown any disposition to disturb 
 your retirement. Must, Adrian Pym : to what do I owe it 
 that you have ooiu-e aow to disturb mine, madam X 
 
 He spoke with a f-xvucX provoking coolness which maddened 
 and enraged the in^ilf-tipsy woman by its insolent air of 
 superiority. Thtufe t* nothing that violent people of the 
 lower order ^kXfcA skO' much as the presence of a calm and 
 collected oppoiitiuit. Passion they understand, vituperation 
 they understjnd, %iA neither frightens them ; but the per- 
 fectly unruffled jsiajufeirior anger of an educated man they 
 cannot compreheii)«l, aitid it drives them frantic. 
 
 'Adrian,' fche miti'll, rising from her chair, and standing 
 before him M-ith mi %u that would have been absolutely tragic 
 but for her uniukiukably half-tipsy appearance, 'I am your 
 wife ! your w'lit 1 ymv wedded wife, you miserable wretch, 
 you ! How dajie jmt treat me so ] You hound ! You cur ! 
 How dare you t — hfvw dare you V 
 
 * Sit down, Mm. Adrian Pym,' the college tutor answered 
 more calmly an<3 jfaiperciliously than ever. ' I am aware that 
 you are my wii^-, Mrs. Adrian Pym ; I am not at all likely 
 ever to forget iJiwilt faict, to which you so superfluously call 
 my attention. V-wa Kave blighted and destroyed the whole 
 value of life tut mft, bat I am tied to you still — tied irre- 
 vocably. It mw^ fcft a great consolation to you, Mrs. Adrian 
 Pym, to reflect thai you have got me indissolubly chained to 
 you, willy, nillj, Co* good and ever !' 
 
 The wumaii jeai «lowa again angrily, as he bid her, in 
 
MRS. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 113 
 
 impotent wrath, trembling all over ; and, burying her faco in 
 her two hands, burst out at once into an uncontrollable Hood 
 of half-drunkon tears. 
 
 ' Mrs. Adrian Pym !' she cried petulantly. 'Mrs. Adrian 
 Pyni, indeed ! That's what he calls his own wife nowadays! 
 In the old days it used to bo Bessie, darling Bessie.' 
 
 ' I wish to God it were ]]essie still !' her husband broke 
 forth, with a gesture of impatience. ' I wish to God it wero 
 only Bessie, and that you were standing even yet behind the 
 bar of the Royal, where I saw you first, and — pah ! what a 
 notion — fell in love Avith you ! i'ell in love with you^ Mrs. 
 Adrian Pym ! — fell in love with you !' 
 
 As ho spoke, he rose in di?gast and lighted a little roll of 
 ruhun de Bruges that stood upon the mantelpiece, as if physic- 
 ally to fumigate the room from his haunting memory of that 
 now impossible and inconceivable emotion. Incidentally, the 
 smouldering perfume helped to fumigate it from the pervading 
 suspicion of juniper also. 
 
 Bessie Pym sat there still, and rocked herself to and fro 
 for some time longer, in a helpless, vacillating, undecided 
 fashion ; then she rose, and standing before him like a statue 
 burst forth suddenly into a torrent of abuse and foul language, 
 such as only a barmaid who has gone to the bad could ever 
 manage to pour forth consecutively in a single Hood of vulgar 
 rhetoric. She called her husband by every disgusting and 
 filthy name fished up from the profoundest abysses of the 
 English language ; slie accused him of every impossible and 
 unnatural crime known to the law or to the inflamed fancy of 
 drunken costermongers ; she reproached him with all that ho 
 had done and all that he had not done ; with all that ho was, 
 and all that ho was not ; with everything on earth that a 
 fiTtilc imagination, not by any means unversed in male de- 
 pravity, could suggest or conceive of liltliy and evil. 
 
 Adrian, with his back turned carelessly to the fire, stood 
 still and listened to her fluent language in apparent unconcern, 
 twisting a cigarette around his delicate fingers meanwhile, 
 and watching her livid swollen face with the closest and 
 most painstaking philosophic attention. The wilder she grew, 
 the cooler he appeared to become ; and tlie cooler ho became, 
 the fiercer and hotter burned the woman's fury. It was a sort 
 
 8 
 
114 !'0R MAIM IE' S SAKE. 
 
 of duel Ijy coutraiics between those two, to see which coiihi 
 succeed best in his own character in out-brazening and shaming 
 the other. 
 
 At hast the woman's wrath wore itself out, of pure inanition, 
 and she sank once more helplessly in the chair, for want of 
 breath and lack of furtlier vocabuhiry, rocking herself to and 
 fro, as before, in the abject impotence of feminine anger. 
 
 Then Adrian Pym began quietly and dexterously to play 
 his own part in the singuhir interview. 
 
 * Having relieved your mind of all these very choice ex- 
 pressions, Mrs. Adrian Pym,' he said calmly, ' perhaps you 
 will now politely condescend to answer the question I first 
 put to you. To what do I owe the honour of this visit X 
 
 Bessie Pym rocked herself to and fro vehemently, and 
 answered never a single word for good or for evil. 
 
 Adrian coughed drily, and began again. 
 
 ' Direct examination having failed in its purpose,' he con- 
 tinued with unrullled composure, ' counsel must next have 
 recourse, I suppose, to a leading question. Have you come, 
 pray, for more money ?' 
 
 The woman took down her hands from her face, and look- 
 ing him boldly in the eyes, once more answered in an acrid 
 voice : 
 
 'Partly for that, and partly for other things.' 
 
 * Let us begin first with partly for that,' the immovable 
 husband retorted with inflexible placidity. ' If what you 
 wanted to get was partly more money, Mrs. Adrian Pym, you 
 might have written to me, and suggested a further allowance 
 with due negotiations, instead of putting me to the indelible 
 disgrace of having my name associated with yours — with 
 yours, you drunken, dissolute, good-for-nothing woman ! 
 Why didn't you write, Mrs. Adrian Pym ? Wliy didn't you 
 write and propose it formally ?' 
 
 'Haven't I always written, Adrian]' the woman cried 
 angrily, with just a tinge of righteous indignation in her 
 husky voice. ' Ain't I always writing and telling you I'm in 
 want of money % Ain't I always asking you to send mo a 
 little something extra X 
 
 Adrian smiled a smile of sardonic humour. 
 
 ' I will do you the justice to admit, Mrs. Adrian Pym,' he 
 
M/^S. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 115 
 
 answered sarcastically, ' that your letters have often contained 
 abundant remarks of the nature you are alluding to. But 
 they have been merely vague and indefinite complaints of 
 want of money, viewed in the abstract, which I know to bo 
 untrue, or at least unnecessary. Tliey alleged no just or suf- 
 ficient ground for increasing your allowance. Don't I allow 
 you your stated three pounds a week, payable every Saturday, 
 with the utmost regularity] and isn't that ([uite enough to keep 
 you in all decent comfort and respectability, especially con- 
 sidering the class I originally took you from, my dear 
 madam V 
 
 The woman jumped up, with blazing eyes, like an angry 
 tigress, as if she would leap upon him bodily at this gratui- 
 tous insult ; but Adrian stood still so absolutely like a statue 
 in front of the fireplace, cigarette in hand, that he disarmed 
 her frenzy, and she sat down once more, flop in her chair, after 
 a moment's indecision, moaning piteously. 
 
 AVomen of her sort, especially when they take to drinking, 
 oscillate ridiculously in moments of emotion between extreme 
 violence and tearful helplessness. Mrs. Adrian Pym was 
 verging rapidly now on the latter condition. 
 
 ' It isn't enough,' she cried, sobbing ; 'three pound a week 
 isn't enough ; and you know very well yourself it isn't. A 
 pretty way to keep your wife, Adrian. Here are you living 
 in every luxury and every comfort,' and she glanced eloc]^uently 
 round that well-furnished room, ' while your poor wife, your 
 lawful wife, that you promised to love, honour, and cherish, 
 has hardly what'll buy her a decent bonnet to cover her head 
 with. Ugh ! you wretch, I hate you ! — I hate you !' 
 
 * You may remember, Mrs. Adrian Pym,' the college tutor 
 said in the self-same severely official manner, ' that you also 
 at the time to which you so touchingly allude promised for 
 your part to obey me as your lawful husband. I gave you 
 orders not to 'quit Hastings without my permission. But you 
 have chosen to break them. That makes the account clear 
 between us. Now, setting aside vulgar recriminations, let us 
 return to the simple and definite (piestiou of your present 
 allowance. You haven't got enough to keep you, you say. I 
 know why. Because you drink up all I give you. That's the 
 reason, Mrs. Adrian Pym. Otherwise, three pounds a week 
 
 8—2 
 
ll6 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ought to be an ample allowance for a person of your natural 
 rank in society.' 
 
 The woman broke down and sobbed again. 
 
 * Oh, Adrian !' she crieil, ' you will kill me! — you will kill 
 me ! You can't think what a pain I have here in my side,' 
 and she put her hand upon it with real emotion. * It's kill- 
 ing me, Adrian ; it's gnawiug right into me. It's eating out 
 my heart, little by little. I only drink to ease the pain, 
 Adrian. It's only for that — only for that — I swear to you 
 solemnly.' 
 
 A sudden gleam of interest lighted up Adrian Pym's im- 
 passive countenance for a single moment as she uttered those 
 suggestive words with evident earnestness. He scrutinized 
 his wife with a closer scrutiny. 
 
 ' Ho !' he said; *so you're in pain, are you % You suffer 
 from a burning at your heart, do you % Show me the place 
 the pain settles in, Bessie.' He called her for the first time 
 by her Christian name, with soms faint show of raollilication 
 in his softened tone. ' Is it here, or here, it catches you ? 
 8how me — show mo ; put your hand upon the exact spot.' 
 
 The woman placed her hand upon the right side, a little 
 below the shorter ribs, with an unmistakable look of real pain 
 upon her bloated features. 
 
 ' Gin-drinker's liver, not a doubt about it !' Adrian Pym 
 ejaculated to himself softly, with a look of triumph. Then 
 he glanced in the glass for a moment with a curious air of 
 indecision, as if he hesitated in his own mind what should 
 be his next movement. The devil and whatever spark of 
 conscience he had left in him were fighting hard within him 
 for the mastery of his soul, that solitary minute of hesitation. 
 
 Next instant, the devil had fairly conquered, and the evil 
 suggestion Avas immediately acted on. 
 
 ' When you get the pain you speak of,' Adrian Pym went 
 on, with a further softening of his hard voice, and a further 
 faint show of personal interest, * you find, do you, Bessie, 
 that a little stimulant gives you some relief, at least for the 
 time being ]' 
 
 The wretched woman gasped shortly, and her eyes seemed 
 to gleam with a strange longing. 
 
 * Yes, Adrian, yes,' she answered eagerly. * It warms my 
 
jr/^S. ADJ^IAN PVM DROPS A CARD. 117 
 
 lieart, dear ; it makes me feel like my old self again — in the 
 old days — you know, Adrian — when wo went to tlie Isle of 
 Wight together.' 
 
 Adrian gave a slight involuntary shudder, and then re- 
 pressed it with an eflbrt of will almost before his wife could 
 so much as perceive it. He answered never a word, in speech 
 at least, but going over to the little carved oak sideboard, ho 
 took out two pretty decorated Salviati decanters, and placed 
 them with a couple of dainty old Dutch wine-glasses on tho 
 velvet-covered table by the low window. 
 
 ' You are suileriug now, I see, Bessie,' ho said slowly. ' I 
 don't want to be too hard upon you. Vou say wine relieves 
 the pain for tho moment. May I offer you a glass of sherry 
 or claret V 
 
 The miserable woman half rose in her eagerness from the 
 chair she was sitting in, and answered huskily — for the sight 
 of the driuk had roused her unquenchable thirst afresh : 
 
 * Thank you kindly, dear, I'll take sherry by choice : but 
 you don't happen to have about the place such a thin^ as a 
 drop of gin, now, do you 1' 
 
 Adrian's lip curled imperceptibly. 
 
 ' I most unfortunately happen never to keep that particular 
 spirit, Bessie,' he said with hardly concealed irony. ' But I 
 do keep a little very good old French brandy— j/tHt' clMmpafjne, 
 as they call it — tho best distilled — a glass of which is entirely 
 at your service. I'm sorry to hear you suffer so painfully.' 
 
 He poured her out a full wine-glassful of tho pale, strong 
 spirit, and handed it to her with an old-fashioned air of per- 
 fect courtesy. Tiie woman took it, raised it to her lips, and 
 saying mechanically, in the familiar phrase she had so often 
 used in bygone days, ' Here's my love to you, my dear,' 
 drained it off neat at a single gulp without a moment's falter- 
 ing or hesitation. Adrian Pym looked at her across the brim 
 curiously with a sinister look. 
 
 * Your love is easily purchased, it seems, Bessie,' ho said 
 bitterly. ' One can buy it back again with a single glass of 
 old brandy.' 
 
 The woman wiped her mouth with her sleeve in haste, and 
 then murmured in an apologetic tone : 
 
 ' That warms my heart, Adrian : that seems to still mo : 
 
Il8 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 that takes away the pain a little, my dear. There's nothing 
 does me so much good as a nice strong heating glass of neat 
 spirits.' 
 
 Adrian Pym stood still and looked at her fixedly with a 
 horribly cold and cynical smile playing upon his handsome 
 classical features. For a minute or two he watched the 
 woman, calm and remorseless, while the brandy mounted 
 slowly to her face, and gave her for the time being fresh force 
 and vigour after her hysterical sobbing. Then at last he said, 
 as coldly as before, with the devil in his eyes as well as in his 
 heart : 
 
 * Now, Bessie, we will return once more, if you please, to 
 this unsettled question of your weekly allowance.' 
 
 The wife looked up and stared at him hard. She saw a 
 mollified glitter in his eye. 
 
 * You're not so unkind after all as I thought you were, 
 Adrian,' she said in quite a friendly tone. ' You'll let me 
 have a little bit more, a few shillings more, just to keep mo 
 going, now won't you, dearie V 
 
 Adrian winced a little at the hateful term of endearment, 
 coming from that detestable woman — his wedded wife there ; 
 but he answered in the most conciliatory voice he could 
 possibly summon : 
 
 * I don't want to be too hard upon you, I'm sure, Bessie. 
 I'm anxious to allow you everything in my power, consistently 
 with my keeping up my own position here, which you must 
 be aware you've seriously compromised by coming to see me 
 in such a plight this afternoon. First and before every thing, 
 you must solemnly promise me, then, that you will never come 
 to Oxford again as long as you live unless I permit you.' 
 
 The woman, now softened and appeased by the reviving 
 effect of the brandy, answered in quite a penitent and re- 
 morseful tone : 
 
 ' I'll promise it, Adrian. I'll promise anything that'll 
 satisfy you — anything in reason. I'm very sorry if I've 
 annoyed you by coming.' 
 
 'Good,' her husband answered quietly. 'You have of 
 course seriously annoyed me, and perhaps rendered my 
 position here absolutely untenable by your crass folly. Still, 
 I am willing to overlook it : I am willing to overlook it. 
 
.URS. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 119 
 
 Now,' and he gazed at her very steadily in the face, *if I allow you 
 another pound a week, will you promise rae, equally solemnly, 
 that you won't spend a single penny of it in drink, beyond 
 the amount you arc already accustomed to spend on that 
 article — gin or its equivalent V 
 
 His eyes were fixed sternly upon hers. She quailed for a 
 moment before that steady, cold, unwavering gaze, and then 
 faltered a little, 
 
 * I'll promise,' she said, stammering, and turning away her 
 eyes uneasily from his glance, ' not to spend a penny more on 
 drink, Adrian, than I do at present.' 
 
 A gleam of triumph burned brightly for a second in Adrian 
 I'ym's cold grey eyes. He knew from her manner that the 
 woman was lying to him. 
 
 ' She'll spend it every penny on gin,' he said to himself, 
 with a fierce pleasure in the horrid expectation. * Never 
 mind ! she'll only die the (quicker and the surer for it. And 
 berndes, I've relieved my conscience — if I have any — by 
 making her promise mo. What more can any man do after 
 all than exact a promise, leaving it to others to keep it or 
 break it V 
 
 ' Then henceforth,' he said aloud, in a very slow and 
 deliberate manner, ' I'll allow you another pound a week, 
 Bessie, for your personal expenses.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Adrian,' the miserable creature cried, in an 
 access now of drunken gratitude. * That's my own dear boy 
 again, that used to love me in the old time — in the old time, 
 you remember, Adrian. Let me give you a kiss for that ! 
 Let me give you a kiss for that, dearie !' And she took a 
 couple of steps nearer him, with bloated lips outstretched as 
 if to entice him. 
 
 Adrian drew back from her offered embrace with a gesture 
 of horror. 
 
 ' Never, Mrs. Adrian Pym !' he cried, recoiling. ' All that 
 is over long ago between us ! Go back to your own place 
 whence you came — with your pittance of money ! You have 
 got what you came for, hunting me down here and wringing 
 it from me by coarse intimidation, to ray disgrace and humi- 
 liation ! Let that suffice you ! Le grateful for what you 
 have got. Ask for no more. Go back with your money !' 
 
120 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 At tho words, the woman sank once more into her chair 
 sobbing like a ohilJ, with a fresh outburst of hysterical 
 crying. 
 
 Adrian watched lier a few minutes from above in stealthy 
 silence, and then poured her out another brimmiug glassful 
 of neat brandy. 
 
 ' There, there, Bessie,' ho said soothingly, as one who pets 
 a naughty child, though without touching her or approaching 
 her closely ; * don't break down : it'll only complicate 
 matters. Keep up, keep up, whatever you do. Here, drink 
 this off at once, I advise you. It does you more good than 
 anything, you know. You're weak and shattered, and you 
 want supporting.* 
 
 The bloated lips opened mechanically, and the red hands 
 raised the glass instinctively up to the mouth, as if by some 
 unconscious automatic action, 
 
 Adrian smiled an ugly smile of terrible significance. She 
 was getting stupidly drunk now. Tho liquor was muddling 
 her. It was a horrible thing to have to do; a man of Adrian 
 Pym's sensibility shrank from it like poison ; but it was the 
 only possible way of getting rid of that atrocious woman in 
 reasonable safety. He let her head drop heavy upon tho 
 chair; then he lifted her up carefully in his arms — ugh ! tho 
 hideous burden — and laid her down like a log of wood upon 
 the Jacobean sofa. After that, he watched her sleeping her 
 drunken sleep very heavily, with a kind of horrible gloating 
 satisfaction. 
 
 The afternoon wore away slowly, and hall-time came, and 
 the bell rang to summon the college down to dinner. But 
 still Adrian Pym kept his oak sported, and gave no sign of 
 life in any way, merely watching the drunken woman with 
 profound interest. At last he rose, as the shades came on, 
 and brewed himself a cup of tea, which he drank com- 
 posedlj'^ with a dry biscuit. Evening drew on apace, and 
 the Fellows' Garden was now shrouded in darkness. Then 
 at length Adrian Pym walked away softly, opened the door 
 and locked it after him, and went down to the porters' lodge. 
 * Martin and Boffin,' he said quietly, ' I want you to help 
 me a little further. Martin, go and get me a hansom, to meet 
 me directly round at the garden gate. Boffin, you come into 
 
MRS. ADRIAN PYM DROPS A CARD. 121 
 
 my rooms. Wo must lift this crazy dmukeu womau out of 
 tho window, and carry her down across tho back lawn to 
 meet the hansom.' 
 
 In three minutes more, tliose two men, master and servant, 
 had carried Mrs. Adrian Pym between them out to tho 
 garden wicket, across the Fellows' Lawn, and safely de- 
 posited her in the hansom at the back gate beside her 
 husband. 
 
 'Where shall I drive, sirf tho cabman asked, in silent 
 wonder at this strange proceeding. 
 
 ' Drive to Abingdon, Aylesbury, Thame, anywhere,' Adrian 
 Pym answered with a savage outbreak. ' Drive to tho devil, 
 if you clioosc to go there, fellow. Drive wherever you like, 
 and however you like, as long as you only keep mo moving, 
 and let the air get at this wretched creature's stupid face to 
 wake her up again. Thank God it's raining. That'll sober 
 her tho quicker. As soon as she's fit to bo put into a railway 
 train, I'll pack her olf, with money in her pocket, to go her 
 own way straiglit off to perdition. Drive, drive, drive, for 
 your life, fellow, and don't stop for God or devil till I tell 
 you to drop us. Anywhere in the world, away from Oxford.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A SrOT OF I3L00D. 
 
 • Well, Maimie,' Sydney said to his pretty littlo wife one 
 morning at luncb a few mouths after their marriage, * how 
 far have you got with the Bible now, darling ? I hope you 
 still go on regularly reading it.' 
 
 * Oh, yes !' Maimie answered, helping herself as she spoke 
 to a chicken cutlet ; * I'm going along swimmingly, thank 
 you — getting through it splendidly. I've read now as far as 
 where a young man called David has a light with a very 
 great and terrible giant — oh, such a monstrous one ! — and 
 kills him with a stone from a simple sling in the middle of 
 his forehead. It's very curious how, in all these stories, tho 
 big boastful giant invariably gets killed by somebody over so 
 much smaller than himself, but cunninger and wiser. The 
 people seem to have a sort of grudge somehow against tho 
 
122 FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 great silly giants. I always read two or throe chapters every 
 morning, as you told me, Sydney.' 
 
 * Well, and what do you think of it, darling, as far as 
 you've gone X 
 
 Mainiio poised a morsel on her fork and assumed forthwith 
 a critical air of candid consideration. 
 
 * I like it,' she said, ' in its own way — that is, I mean, 
 Sydney, it's amusing, of course, but just a little \yec bit 
 childish: very much like the *' Arabian Nights," in fact, only 
 not perhaps ([uito so full of genii and wonders. Especially 
 that part about Joseph and his brothers, you know, and the 
 story of how those people went out of Egypt across the dry 
 land, where the sea rose up as soon as they were passed and 
 drowned the Egyptian king with all his followers. I thought 
 that part awfully interesting.' 
 
 * Well, you must read it all right through, ]\[airaie, and try 
 to remember it ; for it's an integral part of luiglish literature 
 and all other literature into the bargain. AVitliout it, half of 
 what you read everywhere must be a sealed book and a 
 perfect enigma to you. It's the key to the poetry of all 
 nations and all ages.' 
 
 'So Jocelyn told me,' Maimie answered demurely. 'lie 
 said I ought to read it for the sake of the allusions. And, 
 indeed, I begin to find that much out for myself alread}'. 
 Lots of proverbs and common sayings that I never really knew 
 the meaning of before, nor where they came from, are begin- 
 ning now to have a new sense for me. For instance, I never 
 knew in the least why people used to say to me when I was 
 a child, " Miss Maimie, you're enough to try the patience of 
 Job": and I often wondered who on earth Job could be, and 
 why he was so patient ; but I never knew till I saw his 
 name the other day at the head of one of the little parts, 
 don't you know, and I read all about him, and found out he 
 was a man who got dreadfully ill, and never complained, but 
 bore it beautifully. I think it's all' a very interesting book 
 indeed ; but, of course, I can't remember just at first all the 
 names of the different characters always.' 
 
 * You must read it and re-read it,' Sydney said en- 
 couragingly. ' Search the Scriptures, Maimie. Search the 
 Scriptures. It was the greatest mistake your poor father 
 
A SPOT OF BLOOD. 123 
 
 ever made in j'our generally admirable education, his not 
 allowing you to read the Bible, Otherwise, Muiniie,' and he 
 gliiiiced at the smiling little face atlectionately, ' why, I 
 think, darling, ho made you just a perfect little woman.' 
 
 Maimio bowed lier wifely acknowledgments with a face 
 lighted up by genuine pleasure. What a dear old fellow ho 
 was, really ! 
 
 * Oh, by-the-way, Sydney dear,' she said abruptly, * a 
 girl's coming to-day about the cook's place, you know. How 
 much do you think I ought to say we'll pay her, darling (' 
 
 * Anything you like, Maiiuic. It doesn't matter to me 
 twopence. Only get a girl you can bo thoroughly comfort- 
 able with. If you're contented, that's all I care about.' 
 
 Maimie smiled her sweetest smile* 
 
 ' You darling old husband !' she said affectionately. * I 
 do really love you ! I'm sure I love you ! I wasn't quite 
 certain about it at first, but now I'm confident of it. I de- 
 clare, Sydney, I believe I love you a great deal better than 
 any other man I've ever met with !' 
 
 Sydney's mouth curled comically. 
 
 * You absurd little pet,' he answered, rising and kissing 
 her; 'if any other woman on earth but you, darling, said 
 such a thing as that to her own husband, it would merely 
 be a grotesque platitude ; but somehow or other with you, 
 ^laimie, one feels as if you really meant it — and as if it were 
 a sort of tribute, too, to one's own distinct personal lovability.' 
 
 ^laimio nodded her small head sapiently. 
 
 ' I do mean it,' she replied, with a winning little look. 
 'And it is a tribute to your personal lovability, I'm sure, 
 Sydney, for I've met ever so many nice men in my time, of 
 course — and flirted with them desperately, too, I can tell you 
 — Jocelyn Cipriani, and Adrian ryra,and little Tom Euderby, 
 and I'm sure I can't count up for you how many others. 
 Adrian Pym told me once I wasn't to waste my time, and I 
 fflok his advice and never wasted it.' 
 
 Sydney pressed her hand tenderly. 
 
 * Sweet little innocence !' he said, with an admiring glance. 
 ' I love to hear you talk of your simple, small, girlish flirta- 
 tations as if they had been such dreadfully serious grand 
 passions. You're a child, Maimie — a perfect child ; and I 
 
124 J'OR MAL\riES SAKE. 
 
 suppose tliat's why a niau like myself, immersed in dynamite 
 and nitro-glycerino and chemical forraulaf^, can love you a 
 thousand times better after all than he could ever love one 
 of these great newfangled learned ladies. They'd drive mo 
 wild with their views and their opinions — the unspeakable 
 creatures! — men in everything except virility, with their 
 feminine shrieks and fads and fancies. Whereas yo", 
 iMaimie' — a tender caress on his broad shoulder did duty 
 elliptically for the rest of the sentence. * And now, my pet, 
 I must be off to the laboratory, for Benyowski's waiting to go 
 out to lunch : we've got a most important experiment on 
 hand which mustn't be left alone by itself for a single moment. 
 If it was, it would probably blow the house down in ten 
 minutes,' 
 
 ' If you please, ma'am,' the parlour-maid interrupted, coming 
 in suddenly, ' a young person of tiie name of Hannah Gow- 
 land would like to see you. I've showed her into the library, 
 ma'am. She says she's come in answer to the advertise- 
 ment.' "* 
 
 ^[aiiuie ran lightly on tiptoe, as was her wont, into the 
 library. K tall, pale, fragile-looking girl, dressed in black, 
 wiLh a bright red spot in the centre of each cheek, was sitting, 
 after the manner of servants coming on approval, at the very 
 edge of the stillest and most uncomfortable chair in the whole 
 room. 
 
 * Good-morning,' !Maimie said brightly, as she entered. 
 ' Why, how awfully weak and tired you look, I declare ! 
 Have you walked here far % What, all the way from Ken- 
 sington ! INIy poor child, that's a great deal too far for you. 
 You'd bettor have a glass of port first, I think, and then we 
 can talk all about the jdace at our ease afterwards.' 
 
 Hannah Gowland looked at the briglit ligure as Maimie 
 danced out of the room in search of the glass of port, and 
 was captivated at once by the brown eyes and the musical 
 voice, as everybody who ever saw Maimie was always instan- 
 taneously captivated at first sight. 
 
 ' Now, what wages have you been getting?' Maimie asked, 
 with friendly informality, when the port was drunk, and they 
 came to discuss the details of the arrangement. 
 
 She spoke to the girl as if she were an old actxuaintaucc 
 
A SPOT OF BLOOD. 125 
 
 dropped in casually for a morniug call, not a servant come to 
 inquire after a situation. 
 
 ' I had thirty in my last place,' the girl said quietly : ' I'ui 
 a trained cook, you see, ma'am, and can make clear souj), 
 and pastry, and jellies, and entroes, and all that ; but if you're 
 not in the habit of giving so much ' 
 
 ' We generally give only twenty, you know,' ^[aimie said 
 frankly, with her charming smile. 
 
 The girl looked at her with a spontaneous burst of unre- 
 strained admiration. 
 
 ' If it was only ton, ma'am,' she exclaimed vehemently, 
 * I'd rather come to live with a lady like you than take thirty 
 — or a hundred for the matter of that, either — with any 
 other family.' 
 
 Maimie bowed slightly at the compliment — she was accus- 
 tomed to compliments, but still she loved them. 
 
 ' I like you, Hannah,' she said simply. * You're not strong : 
 wo shall make a comfortable home here for you, and take care 
 of you — Mr. Chevenix is a doctor, though he doesn't practise 
 now — and see you liave something nice and strengthening. 
 And as we mutually like one another — whicli is always 
 l)leasaut — we'll make it thirty at once without any more talk- 
 ing, so as to start on a nice footing together in every way. 
 •Kever mind about the reference, thank you. I never bother 
 about those stupid referenccf^. I like best to judge people 
 for myself, and find out whether I care for them or not per- 
 sonally. And I think we shall like one another, Hannal). 
 Most people like me, and get on with me nicely. My last 
 cook only went away to get married — such a capital match 
 for her. too ! Kest a little now before you go back. Lucy 'il 
 take you down for a while to the kitchen.' 
 
 As Hannah Oowland Avent out of the door, the tears stood 
 in her eyes and rolled silently down her pale cheek. 
 
 ' yiie's a dear little lady,' she said to Lucy the housemaid, 
 as they went down the kitchen stairs together. 
 
 And Lucy answered, in her coarse voice ; 
 
 ' Well, yes, as missuses go, she's not such a bad 'un ; and 
 when you've lived in a house nine months on the stretch 
 you begin to know 'em and all their iailings. Lut she's 
 better'u most of 'em, I iv'dl say it for her. Always a pleasant 
 
126 FOR MAIM IE S SAKE. 
 
 smile and a kind votfI and a look for everybody ; and cook as 
 is leaving wo-il<ijii'!t be leaving now either — what with the 
 dripping and thijuz^t, and her never inquiring about bottles 
 and such — if it tr'^ivra't that her young man has got a good 
 place in the d'xik^ at Chatham, all along o' !iMr. Chevenix, 
 and they're gojjj;: V> be married next Toosday fortnight. But 
 I think I'd ou;;}jit tlo tell you at once that the kitchen range 
 draws abominable.' 
 
 Maimie ran >':A*Ir from the library door down the back 
 stairs to the \d}.<::\,y.:j. 
 
 ' Sydney, BydjMjr/ ahe cried eagerly, ' you must come out 
 with me. I've MTKleired the carriage for three, and I'm going 
 round this very Minwrate to see Jocelyn and Hetty on my way 
 to Lady MacdoiiJiM** for tea, you know.' 
 
 Sydney look+jd ibi|> with an embarrassed air from the test- 
 tubes that were wmumenng slowly in the sand-bath. 
 
 ' My darlinj:,' Biw; said, ' must is for the Queen ', and as 
 you're my (juwia, I suppose I ought to obey you. But I 
 don't see how I ^eami possibly go this afternoon. This is the 
 concluding daj 'yi a long experiment that's kept Benyowski 
 and myself eoj^i^ed for a fortnight. If I leave these tubes 
 for a minute tijawateJied, the critical turn may pass by un- 
 noticed, and vre jtSudll have to do the whole thing over ogaiu, 
 let alone the powtiSility of blowing the house up.. I should 
 love to go with j^m^ if only it were possible ; but can't you 
 manage without mt Joat this once, my pet Maimie V 
 Maimie pouted, 
 
 ' You wouldiii'it Iwive said that nine months ago,' she mut- 
 tered provokiiigly, 
 
 ' My darlin;^ I wouldn't. You're quite right. Forgive me, 
 Maimie, if 1 io«g(^ sometimes how very grateful I ought to 
 be to you. But eon Id n't you wait till half-past three? Ben- 
 yowski M'ilJ be h^-M by that time, for certain.' 
 
 Maimie ghuyk bii&r imperious little head, and pretended to 
 be ostentatiuu^^!IJ anuigry. She loved to exercise her power over 
 dear old Bydii^'j — tlhat tame bear, that obedient, dry old 
 scientific islave *iti foei easy enchantments. 
 
 ' No,* fshe zWi^n^iA peremptorily, * I couldn't wait. The 
 fine of the day m'iHik all be gone by that time. And, besides, 
 I want to wdtioeApii two new pictures while there's daylight 
 
A SPOT OF BLOOD. 127 
 
 to see tliein by. It's the last day before lie sends them in. 
 This is what comes of a stupid girl marrying a great, clever, 
 wise, scientitic husband. He's fonder of his pots and pans 
 and pipkins — after the first six months, of course — than ho is 
 of the poor little silly wife ho promised to love and honour 
 and cherish, ^"^ever mind, Sydney, I'll go by myself. It 
 doesn't matter to me, I'm sure. I don't care a pin, really. 
 I'd just as soon go without you, every bit, as with you. 
 80 there, stupid !' And she pouted her pretty lips at 
 him. 
 
 Sydney stood undecided for a second, with his fingers 
 I)layiug duhitative on the test-tubes. Should he empty them 
 then and there into the rubbish-bucket, and spoil the experi- 
 ment ] It was a fortnight's work wasted ; but then — iNIaimio 
 wished it. Pshaw ! what was a fortnight to a man of leisure 
 with a whole lifetime yet open before him for investigating 
 the chemistry of the nitrogen-compounds ] Nothing, nothing 
 — less than nothing, compared with Maimio's faintest whim 
 or fancy. Suppose she iras a trifle unreasonable ; don't we 
 men love women just because they are women, and therefore 
 unreasonable, and not even as we are, rational animals 1 
 Here goes, then ; and in a second's space, the contents of the 
 test-tubes were flung irrevocably into the big rubbish-bucket 
 in the corner of the laboratory. 
 
 Maimio rushed up to him as he offered this petty domestic 
 sacrifice on the connubial altar, and flung her arms around 
 him with a sudden outbur.-st of repressed affection. 
 
 *0h, Sj'dnoy, Sydney !' she cried, 'it was very wrong of 
 me — awfully wrong of me ! I'm fearfully ashamed of myself. 
 You shouldn't have given way to my foolish fancy. I didn't 
 think you'd do it ! I never meant you to do it ! I've wasted 
 your time, darling, and spoilt your experiment. It was too 
 bad of me. You shouldn't have given way to me ! \\\\\ you 
 forgive me, can you forgive me, my darling V 
 
 Sydney kissed her puckered white forehead with a faint 
 sigh. In his own heart, he was conscious that he had been 
 guilty of a culpable weakness. A man should hold his phico 
 better. Dut for Maimie's sake ! He had done it for 
 Maimie ! 
 
 * It doesn't matter a bit, pet,' he whispered caressingly. 
 
128 FOR MAIM IK'S SAKE. 
 
 * We can easily repeat the experiment apjain from the very 
 beginning. Only I haven't the face to tell Benyowski that I 
 shied the stuft' away, -without waiting for the upshot. He'd 
 despise me so for it — he isn't married, ^Faimie. I shall just 
 write him a line, and leave it in the laboratory, to say in 
 vague terms that the thing has miscarried. He must form his 
 own conclusions the best way he can as to the cause of the 
 miscarriage.' ' 
 
 But when Benyowski, half an hour later, read the few 
 pencilled lines on a scrap of paper upon the laboratory table, 
 he muttered to himself, as he stroked his close-shaven chin : 
 
 ' He has gone out with madarae ! — ho has gone out with 
 madame ! Ever since ho brought that woman here, the ex- 
 plosives have just gone to the devil ! Women are the very 
 mischief in an experimental laboratory. The man of science 
 who marries is simply lost.' 
 
 Meanwhile, Maimie was rolling round luxuriously in her 
 carriage to Jocelyn Cipriani's in high good humour ; while 
 Sydney sat silent by her side, feeling, perhaps, just a trillo 
 sheepish at his late proceedings. However much you may 
 love a woman, it's unpleasant ,to think you've made a real 
 fool of yourself just to satisfy her irrational fancies. But 
 then it was Maimie ! That makes a lot of difference, of 
 course. Who wouldn't gladly make a fool of himself any 
 day for dear, innocent, baby-facod little Maimie % 
 
 They found Jocelyn Cipriani in sore distress over a very 
 small domestic misfortune. He had just spoilt, by a curious 
 accident, his two pet water-colours by David Cox and 
 Girtin. 
 
 ' Cut my finger with my knife as I was paring the edge, 
 you see,' he said to Sydney; 'and dropped the blood in great 
 splashes upon both in half-a-dozen places. Of course, if they 
 were my own sketches, it wouldn't matter twopence; I could 
 scratch the blotches out and paint over it. JJut (Jox and 
 Cirtin ! The work of the hands that have passed away 
 from us hopelessly for ever ! A living human being isn't of 
 much account in these overcrowded ages, they go on adding 
 them to the population recklessly by the thousand in the 
 rural districts, where people don't yet understand jjolitical 
 economy; but a dead artist — a dead Kaifael, a dead liembrandt 
 
A SPOT OF BLOOD. 129 
 
 — irrecoverable, irreplaceable, gone, gone for ever !' And lio 
 rubbed his hands in artistic despair. 
 
 Sydney scanned the damage closely with a critical eye. 
 
 * ]\ry dear fellow,' ho said, taking Jocelyn's little pocket- 
 lens from his hand and gazing into the sketches with it care- 
 fully, 'thediillculty is not by any means beyond the resources 
 of science. I can soon give you something that'll remove 
 the blood without in the least damaging the paper or the 
 water-colours. An organic body like human blood is easily 
 removed, leaving the earthy pigments that underlie it un- 
 altered in any way ; every chemist can do it for you in a 
 moment. I'll send you round a bottle of stuff this evening 
 that'll set it right in ten minutes. Only, don't divulge the 
 secret, I beg of you, to all and sundry, for it might obviously 
 be uned of course by unscrupulous people for criminal 
 purposes. The knowledge of it is for the emancipated 
 only,' 
 
 ' Ah !' Jocelyn cried, brightening up at the prospect of so 
 easily restoring his precious sketches; *a good idea! IIow 
 lucky you dropped in ! What a privilege it is to have a friend 
 a chemist and a scientific authority ! I'll keep the bottle, too, 
 even if I don't display it too openly to everybody. It might 
 come in useful some day unexpectedly, you see — if one hap- 
 pened ever to commit a murder.' 
 
 *0h, Jocelyn !' Maimie cried, with a little shudder of in- 
 voluntary horror. * Did you say a murder? How can you 
 talk so very dreadfully ! It makes me quite frightened to 
 listen to you.' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed. 
 
 * One never knows what may turn up next,' he said care- 
 lessly. * Accidents will happen, you know, Maimie, even in 
 (he best-regulated families.' 
 
 ' Jocelyn, I'm ashamed of you. Joking about murder !' 
 
 * Well,' Jocelyn answered ; ' why not ] I believe people 
 attach a very exaggerated importance to murder, just because 
 the legal punishment of the crime's so heavy. Many mur- 
 derers, I should think, are quite as good in themselves as 
 most other people ; only they yield to impulse in a moment of 
 passion, or a moment of revenge, or a moment of despair, or 
 a moment of emotional intoxication. If a friend of mine 
 
 9 
 
130 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 were to commit a murder, now, I wouldn't think very much 
 the worse of him : not half as badly as if ho ill-treated his 
 wife, or behaved himself brutally to other people.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LADY WRAXALL AT n05[E. 
 
 A YEAR had passed by since Maimie's wedding, and the 
 Chevenixes were out at a big * At Home ' at the house of a 
 well-known London hostess, the wife of a great fashionable 
 doctor. Sydney was standing in the corner by the fireplace, 
 watching Maimie talking to some handsome young man just 
 opposite him — dear little Maimie ! how she did enjoy this 
 kind of thing, and how beautiful she looked in her new blue 
 satin ! — when Sir Anthony himself — the great physician — 
 happened lightly to touch his arm, and say casually : 
 
 ' Do you see that lady there, in the black grenadine — the 
 one by the mantelpiece, talking to Lady Wraxall ? That's 
 Mdlle. Vera Trotsky.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' Sydney said languidly. * What, the Eussian 
 revolutionist % I've heard her name, but I didn't know she 
 lived in London. What does she do here f 
 
 * Oh, she gives lessons in music and drawing, I believe, 
 and teaches Eussian whenever (or if ever) she can get any 
 pupils. She's a most remarkable woman in her way — an iron 
 will, they say : the very heart and soul of the London 
 Nihilists. My wife's taken quite a violent fancy to her. She's 
 got a temper of her own, though, too. You should just see 
 those pale blue eyes of hers flash with anger when her blood's 
 up. It's a sight to frighten one. Nervous diathesis, you 
 know, aggravated by hardships and political suffering.' 
 
 'Dear me,' Maimie said, joining the group even as Sir 
 Anthony Wraxall spoke. 'One would hardly think blue eyes 
 like hers could ever be terrible. They look so mild and 
 gentle and washy. But did you say she was really a Nihilist? 
 How very dreadful ! I shouldn't like to know her.' 
 
 ' I wonder whether she knows my assistant, Benyowski V 
 Sydney Chevenix remarked musingly. ' He half confesses 
 
LADY WRAXALL AT HOME. 131 
 
 that he's a Nihilist himself. Perhaps they may be acquainted 
 Avitli one another.' 
 
 Mdlle. Trotsky's sharp ear had caught at once the sound of 
 the Polish name, even in the midst of that bable of English 
 voices. 
 
 ' What,' she cried in Prcuch, ceasing at once from her 
 animated discussion of Ohnet's last novel with Lady Wraxall, 
 ' a friend of M. Benvowski's ? Have I heard ri'dit ? Have 
 the goodness to introduce me, miladi. Thank you. This 
 is the gentleman. So you know my compatriot, Stanislas 
 ]Jenyowski, do you, monsieur V 
 
 'I do,' Sydney replied, unconscious of evil. 'He's my 
 laboratory assistant.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky's cold blue eyes assumed at that moment a 
 strange cat-like look of stealthy inquiry, which escaped neither 
 Maimio's sharp notice nor Jocelyn Cipriani's (who stood close 
 by), though the two men of science, less observant, perhaps, 
 of human nature, entirely overlooked it. 
 
 * Your laboratory assistant,' she repeated, in an assumed tone 
 of perfect unconceru. * How very odd ! I always under- 
 stood my friend M. Benyowski was engaged solely in scientific 
 and literary labours.' 
 
 * So he i?, I believe, in his spare time : he's writing a 
 history of Poland, he tells mo ; but his regular employment 
 is at my laboratory, mademoiselle, where wo work together 
 upon the chemistry of explosives.' 
 
 ' The chemistry of explosives ! Dear me, how curious ! 
 Monsieur quite surprises me. I knew he was a chemist, but 
 not a specialist. And how comes it that j\r. Benyowski, of 
 all persons in the world, should possess any knowledge, then, 
 of the chemistry of explosives V 
 
 Sydney laughed. 
 
 'You can probably settle that question yourself far better 
 than I can,' he answered, ' mademoiselle. I believe you are 
 something of an authority, they say, on the doings of the 
 Russian anarchists ; and I fancy my assistant Benyowski 
 acquired his knowledge somewhere in Kussia as well as at 
 Jena, whence he came to mo excellently recommended by 
 Professor Benecke.' 
 
 'And he makes explosives with you, then, !iionsieur f 
 
 9—2 
 
1.32 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 MIe does, mademoiselle.' 
 
 * For what purpose ?' 
 
 * Not for Llowiug up Czars or Emperors, you may be sure, 
 dear lady. Ours is a peaceful experimental laboratory.' 
 
 * Good !' ^Mdlle. Vera said curtly. ' I am glad to have met 
 an acquaintance of my compatriot, Stanislas Beuyowski. 
 Knowledge is power. You do well to pursue these useful 
 investigations, monsieur. There are many valuable secrets in 
 the manufacture of explosives known as yet only to our 
 men of politics. But it is not well they should become too 
 
 general.' 
 
 'A most interesting person, ^Idlle, Trotsky,' tho hostess 
 said to Sydney a few minutes later; * and though a llussian, 
 too, such a perfect lady.' 
 
 'I dare say,' Sydney answered vaguely. 'But for my part, 
 I always rather distrust these foreign communist people; 
 They're too devoted to dynamite even for me, if you can 
 credit it.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VERA TROTSKY' UTILIZES IIEU KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Passing down the Strand towards the City a night or two 
 later, Stanislas Penyowski overtook his friend Trapmann. 
 
 ' Ho,' he said, ' you look as if you were going to the Pro- 
 visional Councih I didn't know there was a meeting on this 
 evening. I haven't received any intimation.' 
 
 Trapmann looked at him, cold and immovable. 
 
 *No,' he answered, glibly and easily, without a second's 
 hesitation. 'There's no meeting. I'm not going there. I'm 
 simply going to call at Vera Trotsky's. She expects me this 
 evening. I have an appointment with her.' 
 
 And even as he spoke, he went on, as if quite unconsciously, 
 past the turning that led by tho shortest cut to the street in 
 Soho where tho Xihilists held their weekly meetings. 
 
 ' Oh, that's all, is it 1' Eenyowski went on in German — for 
 all languages were much tho same to him. ' So you and 
 pretty little Friiulein Vera are particular friends just at 
 
VER/l TROTSKY UTILIZES HER KNOWLEDGE. 133 
 
 present, are you? A fair maiden, Friiulein Vera! Kcraembor 
 me to her most respectfully.' 
 
 And ho turned away with a wave of the liand towards tho 
 street that led to his own lodgings. 
 
 Trapniann smiled a sinister smile as the Pole, grimly 
 nodding to him, rounded tho corner ; and then, instead of 
 continuing in the direction of ^Idlle. Vera'.s, ho made his way 
 back by tho next alley to the street ho had already passed, 
 leading to the meeting-place. ' Didn't know there was a 
 meeting,' ho said to himself sardonically. 'Xot summoned, 
 lieceived no intimation. There must be something up against 
 him too, then. Xo doubt they have found out at St, Peters- 
 burg that he's corresponding with Alexander Alexandrovitch 
 and tho Third Section, and betraying our secrets to tho 
 mouchards of tho Autocrat, Spies — spies — everywhere spies ! 
 Tho Cause of tho People is beset with traitors. Wo shall 
 soon hear tho end, no doubt, of Master Stanislas Bonyowski, 
 turncoat !' 
 
 lie continued his way, with a smile on his lips, to tho 
 attic Council Chamber, and was duly admitted by tho ill- 
 shaven liussian. All the members sat around tho board much 
 as usual, with the ominous exception of Acting lutendant 
 Stanislas Benyowski. 
 
 As Trapmann entered, Vera Trotsky took her scat at tho 
 head of tho board, and Hung away tho stump end of tho 
 cigarette which up to that moment she had been quietly 
 smoking. 
 
 * The business of the evening,' she said in her usual non- 
 chalant voice, after tho first formalities had been fairly dis- 
 posed of, ' is of a very unpleasant and disagreeable character. 
 "Wo have again to complain of treachery within the fold, and 
 this time in tho quarter where wo least expected it. A friend 
 delates Stanislas Benyov/ski, Acting lutendant, for betraying 
 to outsiders the secrets of the Council, as regards tho manu- 
 facture and use of explosives. Listen, comrades, and I will 
 read you a letter,' 
 
 The rough group bent eagerly forward as Vera Trotsky 
 read out in low, clear accents an anonymous communication 
 from a friend of the Cause, accusing Benyowski of having 
 divulged to an unknown Englishman tho technical secrets of 
 
134 ^OR MAIM IBS SAKE. 
 
 tho society. It was contrary to Nihilist etiijuette for Vera 
 Trotsky to delate him herself: all communications relating 
 to real or supposed treachery within tho fold were made 
 anonymously : for the Council, like all other revolutionary 
 tribunals, was inwardly devoured by the perpetual mania 
 of mutual suspicion. A hushed silence prevailed in the 
 room as long as the fair-haired girl continued to read, and 
 then a chorus of voices burst forth at once, all talking together 
 loudly in liussian, as soon as she had finished her terrible 
 communication. 
 
 Presently, an animated discussion took place as to the 
 probability of Benyowski's guilt or innocence, some of tho 
 ^Nihilists seeming very incredulous as to the truth of tho 
 anonymous reporter's story, while others were at once pro- 
 foundly convinced of its certain genuineness and authenticity. 
 The fact was, Sydney's chance allusion to his assistant formed 
 the only basis for Benyowski's condemnation. But in the 
 atmosphere of preternatural suspicion which always surrounds 
 conspirators and revolutionists, that slender clue was amply 
 sufficient. At last, Vera Trotsky raised her calm clear voice 
 above the surrounding hubbub, and asked with an air of 
 convincing logic : 
 
 ' Is it not better that one suspected member amongst us 
 should die, even if unjustly, rather than that tho People's 
 Cause should suffer wrong from secret treachery 1 What is 
 one citizen's life among so many compared to the welfare of 
 universal humanity. Let us put it to the vote : is it the will 
 of tho Council to remove Acting Intendant Stanislas Ben- 
 yowski V 
 
 There was a prompt show of uplifted hands, with but two 
 dissentients. Vera Trotsky gazed at them significantly. 
 
 ' It is not well,' she said in hard slow accents. Ho temporize 
 with treachery.' The men listened, and seemed to cower 
 before her stern cold glance. They hesitated for a moment, 
 and then, as if against their wills, overpowered by the woman's 
 masterful individuality, raised their hands reluctantly like 
 the rest in obedience to her gesture. Vera Trotsky smiled a 
 smile of feminine triumph. ' Good !' she said. 'The Council 
 is unanimous. It is decreed that justice be executed on the 
 person of Acting Intendant Stanislas Benyowski, traitor to 
 
VE/^A TRO TSK V UTILISES HER KNO IVLEDGE. 1 3 5 
 
 the KepuUic, Anarchical, and Indissoluble, and to the united 
 Will of the Kussian People.' 
 
 The group of listeners nodded approval with grave solem- 
 nity. 
 
 ' Nicolas Gzowski,' the fair-liaired girl secretary said onco 
 more, * prepare the decree to carry out the Will of the 
 People.' 
 
 Nicolas Gzowski took a sheet of paper, and rapidly wrote 
 out the usual formula. 
 
 * Ilepublic of All the liassias, Anarchical and Indissoluble. 
 Meeting of the Provisional Council of the 20th November, 
 New Style. The Council, 
 
 ' Seeing that Stanislas Lenyowski, Acting Intcndant, has 
 been found guilty on suspicion of treachery against the lie- 
 public and the W^ill of the People, 
 
 * Decrees 
 
 ' That the said Stanislas Benyowski, Acting Intcndant, 
 be removed by such means as may prove most convenient; 
 the execution of this decree being left to the person chosen 
 by lot to give effect to tlie commands of the Council. 
 * The Provisional Councillor, 
 
 ' Nicolas Gzowski : 2137.' 
 
 * Is the decree accepted V asked Vera Trotsky, in a solemn 
 tone of formal inquiry. 
 
 All hands were raised unanimously in prompt reply to this 
 official question. 
 
 ' Draw lots,' the girl said in her imperious fashion, folding 
 up a dozen little pieces of paper with eager fingers, and throw- 
 ing them together into Gzowski's hat. 
 
 The lot fell to Karl Trapmann. 
 
 ' It is well,' the German said, placing the paper solemnly 
 in his bosom. ' By to-morrow night there shall be no such 
 person in the land of the living as Stanislas Benyowski.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky arranged the straying curls of her frizzy fringe 
 with careless fingers, and answered, smiling : 
 
 * You speak bravely, Brother Karl Trapmann, Have you 
 such a thing as a cigarette about you 1 So, so ; thank you, 
 thank you.' 
 
136 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE, 
 
 CIIArTEIl XXT. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS MEET, 
 
 It was a fi^ggy afternoon the clay after, and ]\riiiinio, coming 
 out for a constitutional, turned lior steps, she knew not wliy, 
 towards I'riniroso llill. Sydney was busy as usual in his 
 laboratory — messinj^' away with lieuyowski at his nasty 
 chetnicals : what a tiling it is to marry a scientific man ! — 
 and Maimio was glad to get away from the tedium of sitting 
 alone in the solitary drawing-room (for she had no visitor 
 stopping in the house), and turning carelessly over the dull 
 pages of the stupid em])ty weekly papers. She had read 
 through Tndh and the JTorhl and tlie Stdunhn/, bar politics, 
 from end to end, and she didn't care for Nature and tlie 
 ylcadcmi/. So having nothing further to amuse her, she put 
 on her cloak and hat out of pure ennui, and took a stroll list- 
 lessly out parkwards. 
 
 The world was all looking very grey and dingy and 
 autumnal as she reached the slope of IVimrose Hill. How 
 very dilferent from spring and summer at dear dull poky old 
 Silbury ! There, at least, there was sun and freshness. After 
 all, life in London wasn't all parties, and dinners, and dances, 
 and theatres. There were stray blank episodes every now 
 and then of fog and autumn and afternoon. Why was after- 
 noon invented at all, ]\Iaimie wondered : unless, indeed, it 
 were on purpose to encourage the foolish and stupid practice 
 of paying visits. This was a particularly gloomy afternoon : 
 the sort of yellow London day on which, according to French 
 authorities, the insular Briton, depressed beyond endurance 
 by that painful national malady, the spleen, commits suicide 
 in vast numbers by jumping over the parapet of Waterloo 
 IJridge. 
 
 Maimie didn't want to commit suicide : that was the very 
 last thing in the world that would over have practically 
 presented itself to her gay, easy, vacant little mind ; and as 
 eho crossed the llegent's Canal, the -water looked a great deal 
 too cold and dirty and muddy for anyone over to go and 
 drown in. She was far too young and bright and vivacious, 
 far too full of the internal joy of simple living, to bo very pro- 
 foundly affected by any mere passing barometrical influences. 
 
OLD FRIENDS MEET. 137 
 
 Wlicn you are twcnty-ono, and liavo a good constitution, and 
 aro passionately fond of dancing, and enjoy your breakfast 
 bettor than any other meal in the day, your own spirits aro 
 quite cuciigh to carry you safely (so far as your policy of 
 insurance is concerned) through the very direst^ inllictions of 
 London fog. 
 
 Still, Maimic was not wholly unallected in her own way 
 by the prevailing greyness of external nature. It made her 
 vaguely moody and discontented : it made her think life to 
 some extent a fdlure, and pessimism an exceedingly sensible 
 congenial philosophy. Sydney had got a book about pes- 
 simism on a shelf in his study, written by a Mr. James Sully; 
 and Maimio had read a page or so out of the middle one other 
 gloomy afternoon, and thought it all very nice and melancholy 
 and dispiriting, and extremely demonstrative of the pleasant 
 conclusion that the universe at largo is one huge gigantic 
 blunder. Such a clever word, pessimism ! JNIaimio was 
 (juito proud of herself for being able to pronounce it, and to 
 use it correctly in conversation without stumbling over it. 
 
 It's some consolation on a muggy day to feel that you know 
 what pessimism means ! And some consolation, too, to think 
 that you aro experiencing much the same sentiments as great 
 l)hilosoi)hers like Ilartmann, and Schopen-something, and Mr. 
 James Sully himself, in whose book you have read all about 
 them ! 
 
 Still, in spite of the solace to be derived from that highly 
 comforting word, pessimism, ]\Iaimio somehow felt thah 
 afternoon that the universe generally was out of joint. It's 
 very nice, of course, to be married ; and it's very nice to live 
 in London ; and it's very nice to be a clever man's Avife ; and 
 it's very nice to liave pretty dresses, and go out to dinner, 
 and have lots of dances, and be admired and llirted with, and 
 have nobody at all to scold you or bore you. Dear old 
 Sydney was very kind — no one on earth could possibly be 
 kinder : that Maimie frankly acknowledged to herself, for 
 she was no grumbler. Lut then, she did wish he wasn't 
 always poking and bothering all day long in that horrid, 
 nasty, smellified old laboratory. Of course, if he was ever to 
 bo a great chemist, and become President of the lloyal 
 Society, and get knighted (' Lady Chevenix At Home' sounded 
 
13^ FOR MAIMII'JS SAKE. 
 
 really very imposing) ho must go on working at his chemicals 
 and explosives to the end of the chapter. General Vanrenen, 
 the great artilleryman at Shoehuryness, whom she met the 
 other night at the Astronomer Royal's, had told her in confi- 
 dence, if Sydney continued on his present course it was a 
 moral certainty that sooner or later he must get knighted. 
 Still, I\raimie did wish in her own heart he v;as just a little 
 wee hit more human ! "Why couldn't he come out with her 
 that afternoon, for example, and take her to see the shops in 
 Kegent Street % To bo sure, she hadn't asked him : and if 
 she had he would no doubt have laid aside his crucibles and 
 test-tubes immediately, and would have put on his hat, 
 brushing it carefully, and taken her down with all his usual 
 chivalrous courtesy. But he would havo done it with the air 
 of a man who makes a sacrifice, not spontaneously and of his 
 own accord. INIaimie didn't want chivalry and respect. She 
 wanted a husband who made no sacrifices, and who stared 
 in all the windows in Eegent Street because it amused 
 him. 
 
 IMusing thus, more or less consciously, and in a nnicent 
 ill humour with the world in general and Sydney in particu- 
 lar, jNIaimio had reached the top of Primrose Hill, and was 
 standing looking from that dreary summit through the 
 drearier sea of pale yellow fog that lay floating vaguely in 
 front of her. Suddenly, a figure loomed through the fog 
 opposite her, and assumed visible form at last as a tall man 
 in black clothes, smiling a grim smile at nobody in particular. 
 As ho approached, the smile relaxed into a look of hasty 
 recognition, and Maimie saw to her great surprise that Adrian 
 Pym stood before her. 
 
 Adrian drew a long breath. 
 
 ' This is most singular,' he said with a little gasp at last. 
 ' I recognise in this the finger of Providence. Or ought I 
 rather to say .... Mrs. Chevenix. . . . that the devil has had 
 his hand in our meeting'}' 
 
 The fog cleared away at once from Maimie's horizon, and 
 sunshine beamed once more brightly from her face as she 
 held out her hand with the old childish smile to take tho 
 new comer's. 
 
 ' Good-morning, Adrian,' she said, as simply and as 
 
OLD FRIENDS MEET. 139 
 
 naturally as ever. ' I'm sure I don't know and don't caro 
 ■whether it was Providence or the other person who sent us 
 here to-day ; but I'm very glad we've happened to knock up 
 against one another, anyhow. But why "Mrs. Chevenix"? 
 I don't expect to be called that way by friends like you. In 
 the old days, you know, Adrian, it used to be only 
 " Maimie." ' 
 
 Adrian grasped the little proffered hand in its tightly 
 fitting number six French grey glove, with a sudden thrill of 
 newly-born tremulousness. 
 
 * Then you haven't forgotten me, Maimie]' he cried eagerly, 
 pressing it hard with a speaking pressure. ' It shall bo 
 Maimie still, if only you'll allow me. You haven't forgotten 
 me ? You haven't forgotten me f 
 
 * Forgotten you, Adrian ! Forgotten those delightful 
 evenings at Silbury ! Forgotten heaven ! How could I 
 ever forget you — you dear old stupid !' 
 
 * But, Maimie, Maimie, you're talking to me and looking 
 at me just as you used to talk and look in the old days 
 before you were married ! I didn't expect such a grcjting as 
 this from — from Mrs. Chevenix.' 
 
 Maimie shook her little head with a wayward shake, and 
 pouted wilfully. 
 
 'Mrs. Chevenix!' she cried. 'Again, Mrs. Chevenix! 
 AVhy do you throw my marriage in my teeth, Adrian % 
 Sydney's a very dear, good old fellow, and of course I love 
 him awfully, and all that; but I don't want all the men 
 I've ever been in love with to think I'm turned into quite 
 another person, just because I've gone and stupidly married 
 Sydney Chevenix.' 
 
 Adrian laughed a short little laugh. 
 
 ' Candid as ever,' he said, ' Maimie ! You needn't bo 
 afraid that " all the men you've ever been in love with " — as 
 if you carried a round doz^n of them hanging at your girdle, 
 you audacious little woman — will ever suspect you of turning 
 into anything so utterly conventional as a mere Mrs. Chevenix. 
 Maimie you are, and ^laimio you will always be — a dear, 
 original, inimitable little innocent, incapable of bowing the 
 knee in obedience to the stern command of Mrs. Grundy. 
 How deliciously refreshing it is to meet you again ! I declare, 
 
I40 FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 Maimie, I hav^oi'lt felt ao happy before since the last Jay I 
 parted from ym aft MSilbury.' 
 
 Maimie \i^^mA and hesitated a second. Then she an- 
 swered in a ]yi«r aoicl very soft voice, the three words : 
 
 * Nor I, Admo<' 
 
 As she 8pol£«, «!iie lifted her eyes to his, and Adrian Pym 
 read in them JUMtatiitly the absolute truth (for the moment, 
 at lepst) of wh.^ slue said to him. His heart beat wildly and 
 llut»-./inKb'- ^3ii« still loved him, then! She still loved 
 liim ! He coiaM L^rdly before have believed himself, that 
 any woman's tsm^hi could move him so profoundly, 
 
 * Then you Igirfti me still, Maimie 1' he cried in a low voice, 
 seizing her uot rowwilling hand a second time. * Then you 
 love me still 1 Y<oii haven't quite left off loving me 1' 
 
 Maimie drew away her hand reluctantly, with a pierciug 
 glance into the (fiftii«e fog all round (lest anyone should be 
 coming), and au.««rftiret:I with all the tenderness of her strange 
 little nature : 
 
 ' AVhen 1 oij©? love, Adrian, I love always. I love you 
 dearly. I ghaJi lk>iTe you, and think of you, for ever and 
 ever.' 
 
 Adrian stepped l)iack a pace or two, and stood fronting her 
 in deep emotioit TLen he spoke again from the depths of 
 his heart : 
 
 * Oh, Maiiuie, Maimie, it is too k..e ! If wo had only 
 known twelve i^^m^)A ago what I know now ! It is terrible, 
 terrible !' 
 
 ' What do jiQH mean, Adrian 1' Maimie cried, astonished. 
 •What is terriJikI What are you talking about"?' 
 
 ' ^\'hy, Maiujjf-, grieas on what errand I came up to London 
 from Oxford K\m Tftty morning]' 
 
 ' I can't guefs)«, (dajlihig. Oh, tell me, tell me ! Adrian — 
 you haven't coija« rap here— -to marry some other woman V 
 
 Adrian shook lnw head gloomily. 
 
 'No, no,' he wai'I; *not that, you may be certain. I was 
 more than manwl ftnough already, darling. I came up to- 
 day — for wliat, Maimie? Not to marry one, but to bury one I 
 — to attend a fum^iral ? 
 
 ^[aimie clutcWi hiw arm eagerly. 
 
 'Not hersl' «!iie dried, with a face pale with devouring 
 
OLD FRIENDS MEET. 141 
 
 interest. *Xot hers, Adrian! Not hers, surely! You are 
 not set free ! Is^'ot your wife, my darling 1' 
 Adrian nodded a solemn nod of acquiescence. 
 
 * Yes, Maimie,' ho answered slowly. * This morning I 
 have had the melancholy pleasure of following to Kensal 
 Green Cemetery the mortal remains of Mrs. Adrian Pym, 
 Avho died on Saturday — twelve months too late for our 
 happiness, curse her !' 
 
 jNIaiiuie sank as if exhausted upon the bare wooden seat 
 on the hill-top, and began to rock herself to and fro in a slow, 
 swinging, desperate fashion. 
 
 'Dead,' she murmured vacantly, making the word answer 
 to each forward and backward movement of her body. 'Dead, 
 dead, dead, too late, Adrian. Too late, too late, too late, 
 Adrian. Oh, it h terrible, terrible, terrible !' 
 
 Adrian looked at her in blank despondency. 
 
 ' The miserable creature !' he cried angrily. • The wretched, 
 drunken, miserable creature ! Sho drank herself to death, 
 at last, Maimie. I let her have as much brandy as ever sho 
 wanted, and at last she drank herself to death, the demon ! 
 But sho was too long about it. Oh, Maimie, it's unbear- 
 able !' 
 
 ' Adrian !' 
 
 ' AVell r 
 
 ' Why didn't you give her brandy earlier? Lots of brandy ! 
 Barrels of brandy ! Oceans of brandy ! twelve months 
 earlier ! Oh, my darling, my darling, tell me, I beg of you, 
 why didn't you give her the brandy earlier ?' 
 
 * Maimie, you are too terrible — too pitiless !' 
 
 ' Adrian, I love you ! What on earth do we caro for that 
 wretched woman 1 It might have been heaven ! It u a 
 tragedy ! Oh, Adrian, Adrian, if you loved me — if you 
 wanted me — for heaven's sake why didn't you give her tho 
 brandy earlier V 
 
 Adrian shook his head once more. 
 
 * I didn't know it then,' he cried bitterly. ' I didn't know 
 there was any chance of getting her to — to drink herself 
 quietly to death, Maimie. If I had known, I would certainly 
 —but there, what's the use of incriminating one's self all for 
 nothing. It's too late and why talk about it ] But oh ! 
 
142 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 ^laimie, Maimie, Mairaio ! to think of what might have been 
 if only you had consented to wait a little while for me, and 
 hadn't married Sydney Chevenix ! Why on earth did you 
 do it, Maimie V 
 
 ' I loved him, Adrian.' 
 
 * And you love him still V 
 Maimie hesitated. 
 
 * When I once love, I love always, darling,' she whispered 
 softly. Then, after a pause, she added lower still, * But not 
 one half as well as I love you, Adrian.' 
 
 A fierce joy rose tumultuously within Adrian Pym's throbbing 
 heart at the sound of those softly spoken irrevocable words. 
 He would have given anything on earth at that moment if 
 he could only then and there, on the open top of Primrose 
 Hill, have clasped her hard within his eager arms, and pressed 
 her tight against his straining bosom. What to him were 
 laws and forms and conventions, what to him were the 
 musty platitudes of moral philosophy, at that wild moment 
 of despair and delight 1 She was his ! Slie loved him ! 
 She had said so ! She had confessed it still ! — She was not 
 his ! She could never be his ! She had thrown herself 
 away — flung herself foolishly on a mere wooden stick of a 
 Sydney Chevenix — while he, Adrian Pym, he, that out- 
 wardly cool, calm, and collected volcano, that tempestuous 
 vessel of restrained passion, that profoundly emotional mass 
 of veneered cynicism, he would have loved her and cherished 
 her all his life long with all the devotion of his inmost con- 
 cealed nature, far more than ever she deserved to be loved. 
 Yes, he knew it himself : he felt it even then : with his 
 searching introspective criticism, with his strangely truthful 
 estimate of his own personality and hers, ho confessed to 
 himself that she was not really worth loving, and yet ho 
 could have flung away his very life for her that minute, 
 were it only for a single long sweet kiss, such as they had 
 often drunk in together on the twilight beach at dear old 
 Silbury. 
 
 Ho stood and looked at her with hungry eyes, and his hands 
 quivered as he held them restlessly before him, like a grey- 
 hound that longs to leap upon his prey. Maimie saw the 
 terrible passion that was goading him almost beyond his powers 
 
OLD FRIENDS MEET. 143 
 
 of restraint, and smiled benignly at liira. It was so delightful 
 to bo able to move a mature man of his kind like that ! Adrian 
 Pym was thoroughly in love with her ! And so was Sydney 
 Clievenix ! Loth were profoundly in love with her, yet so 
 differently. Xo wonder. She know herself she was so 
 pretty and so charming. 
 
 'MaimiOj'themancriedatlast, unable to keep inhis devouring 
 passion, 'it's too late. Too late ! Why do you torture me] Why 
 do you tell mo now ? Oh, why do you tell me? — And yet . . . 
 I wouldn't have missed meeting you here to-day for ten thou- 
 sand pounds. Ten thousand pounds ! pooh ! a drop in the 
 bucket ! I wouldn't have missed hearing you say what you've 
 just said for the whole world and life itself, darling !' 
 
 Miiiraie smiled still demurely. 
 
 'Adrian,' she said, 'dearest Adrian, I have loved a great 
 many men in my time — almost every man I've ever met 
 with : but I've never loved anybody yet as I love you, my 
 darling. I love dear old Sydney as I love all the others : 
 he's such a good, kind, excellent fellow, and lie's never cross 
 or angry with me for anything ; but you, Adrian ! I love you 
 somehow quite differently, my darling. I love you dearly, 
 absolutely, devotedly. I should love you still, even though 
 you trampled upon me. I think, Adrian, I should almost 
 love you better if you were to trample upon me.' 
 
 Adrian turned and began to move down the hill rapidly. 
 
 'Come, Maimie,' ho said, 'you must come down with me. 
 I must walk : I must keep moving : I must work the steam 
 oif : if I stand here any longer, I shall have to take you in 
 my arms, darling, and kiss you a hundred times over and 
 over here in the open public pathway. Let us get down into 
 the streets where there are plenty of people ! Let us get 
 away at once where everyone will see us.' 
 
 Maimie started and walked beside him for a minute or two 
 in silence. Then she said at last, with perfect openness, in a 
 simple voice of everyday conversation : 
 
 ' If anything should ever happen to dear old Sydney, you 
 know, Adrian ' 
 
 Adrian Pym broke from her with a start. 
 
 ' Oh, Maimie,' he cried, ' you are too much for me — too 
 much for mo ! You will drive mo frantic. I can't stop with 
 
144 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 you now any longer. I •svill write to you soon. I will come 
 again to you. But if I stop any longer. now, there'll bo murder 
 — murder ! Good-bye, iNIaimie ! Good-bye, for the present. 
 I love you ! I love you ! I shall always love you !' 
 
 And without stopping even to raise his hat, he rushed away 
 down a side-street, and disappeared immediately round the 
 first corner. 
 
 CHAriER XXII. 
 
 SCIENCE TRIUMPHS. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the laboratory, Sydney Chovenix and 
 Stanislas Bonyowski were eagerly continuing the final 
 experiments for their great invention of a noiseless explosive. 
 For months they had toiled away at their long task, now 
 apparently growing nearer their ideal goal, and now again 
 seeming to get farther away from it ; but on this particular 
 afternoon, the last finishing touch was really being put to the 
 grand discovery : they had eliminated every possible source 
 of error or impurity in the original ingredients ; they had 
 perfected the direct self-compensating double wave-action, 
 whereby the sound undulations, in their mutual interference, 
 spontaneously deadened one another so as to be absolutely 
 inaudible \ they had secured all but the actual certainty of 
 success : and now they were anxiously watching the last 
 result, as the viscid material passed slowly and cautiously 
 through the final stages of its long manufacture. At last it 
 was finished, and Benyowski stood anxiously by Sydney's 
 side as the master placed a small detonator by a tiny 
 fragment of the deadly compound, and waited in breathless 
 and tremulous silence to observe what followed on strikiug 
 the hammer. 
 
 To Sydney's terrible and inexpressible disappointment, 
 result there was none, visible or audible. For a second, the 
 inventor's heart sank within him at the thought that their 
 long and toilsome experiments had proved, in the end, a total 
 failure. But Benyowski, with a cry of joy, pointed trium- 
 phantly next instant to the place where the lump of explosive 
 had stood but a moment before ; and then, to his unspeak- 
 
SCIENCE TRIUMPHS. 145 
 
 able delight — ob, joy ! ob, ecstasy ! — Sydney saw that it was 
 gone — gone utterly. The material bad exploded and dissi- 
 pated itself in tbc air invisibly and inaudibly. His beart 
 stood still witbin bini for deligbt. He bad made a great, a 
 marvellous discovery. Ho bad perfected at last a noiseless 
 explosive. 
 
 ' Let's try it in a pistol,' bo murmured in an awe-struck 
 wbisper to Benyowski — it seemed as if tbe great secret must 
 bo kept profoundly from all comers. ' Let's see if it'll 
 ])roject a bullet from a barrel as well as tbe other partial 
 faikires did !' 
 
 The Pole took up one of the pistols that lay in tho 
 laboratory without a spoken word — silent and grim as ever — 
 and loaded it cautiously with the deadly material. Ho 
 banded it to Sydney : the employer bad the first right to 
 make trial of tho new and marvellous compound : and 
 Sydney, lifting bis arm fearlessly and taking good aim, fired 
 straight at the centre of his experimental target. 
 
 No smoke — no noise — no sound of any kind. Xo symptom 
 that the thing was fired at all. But tho pistol kicked a 
 little in Sydney's hand, and a bullet bad buried itself, as if 
 by magic, an inch deep in tlic solid wood of the thick deal 
 target. 
 
 They looked at one another, sigliing deep, with mute con- 
 gratulation. IS'eitber spoke : but Sydney held bis band out 
 trembling to Benyowski, and tbe Pole grasped it eagerly with 
 friendly fervour. In their way, they liked each other, those 
 two diverse enthusiasts : their common interest in their 
 deadly explosives made them feel towards one another a 
 certain strange weird sense of fraternal affection. 
 
 Again and again they loaded and fired, one after tbe other, 
 without exclianging a word, and always with tbe same 
 extraordinary silence and perfect cfTectiveness. It was a 
 grand invention : there was no denying it. It would 
 revolutionize the art of war — and the practice of Nihilism. 
 
 Lach thought bis own thoughts to himself in silence, as 
 they went on mechanically loading and reloading, with a 
 fresh thrill of deligbt at every hole they put afresh in tho 
 well-riddled target. 
 
 Sydney's first thought was that be bad now gained tho 
 
 10 
 
J 46 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 summit ol" his ambition, and would become a groat aud 
 famous man, and ^laimio would bo proud of him, prouder 
 than ever. He would make a present of the secret to the 
 IJritish Government — not sell it. Ho was a rich man, and ho 
 didn't need the moL iy : .and besides, his nature revolted 
 from the bare idea of making wealth out of an instrument of 
 slaughter. But it would bo an instrument of civilization 
 too — an instrument of well-doing — for its chief use would bo 
 in savage warfare, no doubt, where it would allow us at onco 
 to walk over the feeble resistance of half-naked warriors, who 
 would fain retard the onward march of European culture. 
 Yes, yes ; it was an instrument of civilization : had not 
 Wordsworth even said, in an address to Heaven : 
 
 'But thy most dreaded instrument 
 In working out thy deep intent 
 Is man arrayed for mutual .slaughter ; 
 Yea, carriage is thy daugliter !' 
 
 And then, how proud Maimie would bo when she saw the 
 honours heaped by a grateful country on the head of the man 
 whoso invention had made it invincible, irresistible, the 
 embodiment of well-directed force, the greatest power of tho 
 European world, tho guiding nation in tho great upward 
 course of human civilization and human progress. 
 
 Benyowski's first thought was, how easily with this, when 
 Alexander Alexandrovitch (whom men call the Czar) was 
 driving gaily down tho Nevski Prospect, an enlightened 
 patriot could hide behind a fourth-story window anywhere ; 
 and without noise, without fiash, without smoke, without 
 sign of any sort, send an avenging bullet, in tho name of tho 
 sovereign people, straight through tho heart of tho accursed 
 despot ! And then, tho new era of humanity would set in 
 for all ; for let them make fresh Czars, and crown thorn in 
 tho Kremlin every day of tho week, tho indefatigable 
 Nihilists could pick them off unseen daily, and the glorious 
 reign of universal anarchy would bo begun at last in real 
 earnest. 
 
 But neither man thought in his own heart, even, that ho 
 was aiding and abetting tho introduction of fresh massacres 
 and crimes and horrors and enormities, to a world already 
 
SCIENCE TRIUMPHS. 147 
 
 stained enougli with blood, by the horrid invention of yet 
 another means of mutual slaughter. 
 
 By-and-by, even the inventors themselves grew tired of the 
 childisli iteration of bullet-sliot after bullet-shot, ringiug 
 dead against the solid underlying wood-work. Then at last 
 Sydney spoke. 
 
 'Ueuyowski,' he saiJ, 'our work is done. We have made 
 a really great discovery. 8ay nothing about it, I beg of you, 
 to any man. I know you are silent, silent and trustworthy. 
 Be silent still. The secret must not be divulged on any 
 account. I must make my arrangements about it privately 
 with the English Government !' 
 
 Bcnyowski nodded. 
 
 ' I am silent,' ho answered. * Silent as the grave. !No 
 man shall hear of it, patron. I, too, have purposes for which 
 it will be useful, but for whose full accomplishment silence is 
 necessary.' 
 
 Sydney sat on the corner of the table. 
 
 *I think, Benj'owski,' ho said, with unwonted carelessness, 
 * we both now need a holiday. We've stuck awfully close at 
 this thing while we've been working at it ; and now we're 
 done, we'd better rest awhile before going on any further. 
 You may have your quarter's salary now, and go away if you 
 like till after Cliristmas. Then we shall begin making 
 arrangements for manufacturing the stuff upon a large scale, 
 and letting Government have the benefit of the invention.' 
 
 Benyowski bowed. 
 
 * As you please, patron,' he said grimly; for ho thought in 
 his heart it would be a good opportunity for him to take a 
 little trip, on business and pleasure combined, as far as 
 St. Petersburg. 
 
 Sydney sat down to tlic table at once, and wrote him out a 
 cheque for a quarter's salary. 
 
 • You may go now, Benyowski,' he said shortly. ' I'd 
 rather be alone. I feel almost broken, overwhelmed, crushed 
 down by the very magnitude of the great invention.' 
 
 Benyowski folded the cheque up carefully and stuck it in 
 his pocket, notMed a friendly nod oblicjuely to his employer, 
 and went straightway out of the laboratory. 
 
 For a minute or two, Sydney sat alone still on the table, 
 
 10—2 
 
148 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 Bcarco able fully to grasp in 'all its implications the real 
 greatness of his wonderful discovery : and then an unwelcome 
 voico broke in upon him unexpectedly from the top of the 
 staircase — the laboratory was upon the basement floor : 
 
 'Sydney, Sydney — can I come down ? or if I do shall I bo 
 blown to pieces ]' 
 
 It was Jocelyn Cipriani. 
 
 Sydney pulled himself together from his deep reverie with 
 a great effort, answering as unconcernedly as he was able, 
 ' Come down, my dear fellow. Delighted to see you.' 
 And as he did so, ho pushed away the pistol carelessly on 
 one side, but not before Jocelyn's (juick eye had taken in tho 
 action quite instinctively. On no account must he tell even 
 Jocelyn. The secret must be profoundly kept from absolutely 
 everybody. 
 
 Jocelyn had brought a friend with him — a brother painter, 
 Hardy by name — who wanted to consult tho distinguished 
 chemist as to a picture ho was working at of tho death of the 
 Czar Alexander II. Chevcnix would know all about the 
 explosives, Cipriani had told him ; for not only was Chevenix 
 himself a great authority on dynamite and its congenerr, but 
 ho had moreover permanently in his employment a genuine 
 Polish Nihilist — not wholly unsuspected of political crime — 
 a man whose name M'as Something-or-other-owski. 
 
 Yet for some extraordinary and inexplicable reason, on 
 this particular afternoon, Sydney refused entirely to be drawn 
 in any way on tho subject of explosives. The interruption 
 was, in fact, an untimely one. He was too excited and pre- 
 occupied now to talk of anything but his great discovery, and 
 about that, of course, he must be profoundly silent. 
 
 ' I'm sick and tired of explosives,' he said apologetically to 
 Jocelyn Cipriani. ' I really can't converse intelligibly upon 
 anything at all this afternoon. If Mr. Hardy would only 
 call some other day, when I'm less weary and bothered, I 
 should be happy to demonstrate for him : if he likes, I can 
 blow a C/ar up just to show him how we do it. The fact is, 
 my dear fellow, I've been overworking myself lately, and I've 
 quite determined to take a holiday. I've just paid Benyowski 
 a quarter's salary on the nail beforehand, and told him to be 
 otl' about his business. And, indeed, I feel I've quite over- 
 
SCIENCE TRIUMPHS. 149 
 
 done it. "We've heon watching hour after hour for the last 
 fortnight, and now our experiments are well over — success- 
 fully, I'm glad to say — a reaction has set in, and I'm ([uito 
 washed out and unfit for anything.' 
 
 Jocelyn had never seen Sydney look so strange and pre- 
 occupied heforo — there was certainly something or other 
 wrong ahout him. l)ut ho only said : 
 
 ' ^Jy dear boy, you've been doing too much. I'm awfully 
 glad you're going to rest awhile. I shall tell Maimio she 
 must look well after you. AVo won't trouble you any more 
 this afternoon. Some other day I dare say you'll be able to 
 give ITardy some descriptions and diagrams.' 
 
 Sydney smiled feebly — he was really very tired — and 
 went up to see them out of the front door, lucy, the house- 
 maid, came out unbidden as they passed, and opened the 
 door for them. Jocelyn remembered all these little unim- 
 portant details afterwards: they Avere indelibly impressed 
 upon his memory and upon iiardy's by the subsequent facts 
 of that eventful evenin". 
 
 As soon as they got outside the door, Hardy observed 
 casually to his friend : 
 
 * Don't you think there was something very odd about 
 your friend Chevenix's manner ? Did you notice he had a 
 pistol lying upon the table, and he tried to hide it the 
 moment ho saw us coming 1 I really fancied there was 
 something or other awfully queer the matter with liira.' 
 
 Jocelyn laughed away the vague suspicion. 
 
 * There are always pistols in Chevenix's laboratory,' he 
 replied carelessly. 'Chevenix uses them constantly for 
 experimenting on his different explosives. I never go down 
 without inquiring whether I shall be received with a volley 
 of musketry. He's all right. It's just his way. Ho only 
 wants a little rest and quiet.' 
 
 As for Sydney, ho went back to his room dreamily by 
 himself, and helped himself, Avith (juivering hands, to a glass 
 of port from the decanter in the cupboard. 
 
ISO FOR MAIM IE S SAKE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 APPLIED SCIENCE. 
 
 Maimie, when Adrian left her, didn't feel as if she cared to 
 go homo at once to dear old Sydney, so soon after that small 
 whirlwind of passion with her half-forgotten Oxford lover \ 
 so hy way of interposing a little variety, she strolled down to 
 I'ortland Place by herself, and had a good look at all the bonnets 
 in all the windows in the whole length of liegent Street. 
 One in particular took her fancy much. She had no money 
 with her, but quarter-day for her allowance would come round 
 soon, and of course then she could pay for it easily. (For 
 generous as Sydney's allowance was, Maimie somehow always 
 anticipated it.) She went in and tried the bonnet on. It 
 was very becoming, and quaint and quakerish, and not so 
 very dear either — at least, as one counts dear nowadays, 
 Maimie thought to herself; at Silbury, of course, in the old 
 days, the price would have been simply prohibitive. 
 
 * I'll take that one,' she said carelessly to the young 
 woman who waited on her. * You're sure it suits me, are 
 you % You don't think they're worn now just a wee bit more 
 off the forehead V 
 
 ' No, madam,' the young woman answered ; ' this is the 
 very latest thing we've had from Paris. There isn't another 
 bonnet like it in all London.' 
 
 ' Dear old Sydney will think mo so pretty in it,' Maimie 
 thought to herself complacently. ' He always likes me so 
 much in old gold and maize colour. He does love to see mo 
 looking dressy, ... Or Adrian, if he comes again, and I 
 have to go out a walk anywhere with him. Adrian's so 
 awfully fond of seeing mo dressed as a pretty girl ought to 
 be. I wonder whether ho noticed ray new cloak this after- 
 Doon. I dare say he really didn't. Men never see what one 
 wears at all when they're interested, or making love, or any- 
 thing of that sort, unless one positively calls their attention 
 to it. But he'll come again soon. He said he would, and I 
 know he'll do exactly as he promised. He's a dear fellow, 
 Adrian. He isn't nearly as good as Sydney, of course ; and 
 yet somehow or other, I feel as if I liked him all the better 
 for it.' 
 
APPLIED SCIENCE, 151 
 
 From Regent Street, iNfaiiniG took a cab up homo to Beau- 
 mont 'i'errace, and reached the door at five o'clock, just as 
 Syilney was beginning to tliiuk of closing tlio laboratory. 
 
 Slie walked into the bare back room, in spite of her 
 interview with Adrian, as light, and gay, and innocent as 
 ever. 
 
 ' 01), Sydney,' she cried, 'what do you think I've gone and 
 done] I've bought myself such a duck of a nice new 
 bonnet. I'm sure you'll like it. And who do you think I've 
 seen and met ? ^Vhy, dear old Adrian Pym ; you remember 
 my speaking of him : the Oxford tutor who used to bring 
 the reading-parties down to Silbury. I wm so glad to see 
 him again ! lie and I were great chums in the old days, you 
 know, and I used to go out fishing with him, over and over. 
 I was so glad to see him I could have positively kissed him, 
 only it was on top of Primrose Hill ; if it had been here, 
 you know, or upstairs in the drawing-room, I really think I 
 should have done it, 1 was so delighted. Jfowevcr, ho says 
 he'll come and sec us here some day before long; and if ho 
 does, I know I shall kiss him.' 
 
 Sydney smiled. It was a relief to him to have his pretty 
 little wife burst in upon him so suddenly, and break th(5 
 current of his thoughts that went whirling round and round 
 in his brain, on the one subject of the new explosive. 
 
 ' I wouldn't advise you to,' ho said, kissing her and pinch- 
 ing her soft round cheek between his thumb and finger. 
 ' You dear ohl Maimie, you're really and truly a shade too 
 innocent. / know you, and I understand you, and I would 
 quite feel in what way you njeant it. But I'ym probably 
 wouldn't see it in the same light. All men are not as simple- 
 minded as you are, Maimie. He'd probably go away and say 
 to all the other fellows at his club and his college that Mrs. 
 Chevenix was a dreadfully forward improper person, who 
 actually kissed him.' 
 
 * You dear old Sydney ! it's you yourself who'ro too 
 simple-minded. I wish I was only one-half as good and 
 innocent as you are. And yet I don't: for I like to be 
 original, and I believe you love me all the better for it.' 
 (Sydney smiled and nodded.) 'But Adrian Pym's such a 
 darling, you know ! Nobody on earth could think it was 
 
152 FOR MAI MIL'S SAKE. 
 
 wrong to kiss him. Oh, Sydney,' clasping her lianda ecstati- 
 cally, ' liis moustache, my dear boy — why, there, his mous- 
 tache, I declare, it used to bo so scraggy, and now it's grown 
 just simply delicious!' 
 
 ►Sydney laughed outright, and laid his hand caressingly 
 upon her jjlump round shoulder. 
 
 'Why, Maimie,* he said, 'do you know, there isn't another 
 wife in all London who'd venture to talk that way about 
 another fellow to her own husband. And there isn't another 
 husband in all London who'd let his wife talk to him that 
 way about another fellow. You're really too open-hearted 
 altogether, little woman, and I'm not sure that I'm doing 
 right in not stopping you. For your own sake, darling, you 
 must moderate your transports. It isn't usual, you know; it 
 isn't conventional; it isn't what people are at all accustomed to. 
 Alone hero with me, of course, it doesn't matter the least bit 
 in the world ; but you'd say exactly the very same things, I 
 feel sure, if half the dowagers in London society were all 
 listening to you, and that would seem awfully queer to 
 them.' 
 
 Maimio threw herself down in the one easy-chair, held her 
 two arms up behind her head in the most becoming and list- 
 less attitude, and said with her sunniest and brightest smile : 
 
 '^""ow go on. Continue the lecture. I'm quite sure you'ro 
 going to give mo a lecture, Sydney.' 
 
 ' A lecture, darling 1 To you, Maimio ? Why, you dear 
 little bit of floating thistledown, what on earth would bo 
 tho use of scolding you, I wonder ? I only meant ' 
 
 'There now, Sydney, T know it was coming.' 
 
 Sydney bent down with a broad smile, and kissed her 
 tenderly. 
 
 *It isn't coming,' ho answered, with a good hard pinch, 
 'and you know it isn't, Maimie, as well as I do. I won't 
 say another word about it. I love you just as you are : 
 innocence and transports and kisses and all, darling ; and I 
 don't care twopence myself whether you kiss Adrian Pyni or 
 not, out of the fulness of your heart, you dear old thing, you. 
 So there's another for yourself, and two of them, too, and 
 that closes the subject entirely for the present.' 
 
 Maimie leaned back in the chair with her eyes shut, and 
 
APPLIED SCIENCE. 153 
 
 tlirevv l)ack lior head (lialf unconsciously) so as to sliow off 
 the full wliito beautiful neck in all its voluptuousness to the 
 greatest advantapje. Sydney Chovenix thought, as ho gazed 
 at her lovingly tliat moment, he had never before seen her in 
 his life look so absolutely and statues(iuely beautiful. Xo, 
 not statuesquely ; for the colour in her cheeks was higher 
 than usual, and the excitement of the interview with Adrian 
 I'ym had left her face even more than ordinarily Hushed and 
 vivacious, Sydney stood and looked at her long, and Maiinie, 
 though her eyes were closed tightly, felt by instinct that ho 
 was looking hard at her. 
 
 After a wliile, she opened her big eyes with a sudden Hash, 
 and asked with nmcli show of wifely interest: 
 
 ' What have you been doing to-day at your work, 
 Sydney]' 
 
 Sydney started. She seldom seemed to feel much curiosity 
 as to his scientific studies, and he was pleased and gratified 
 that on this particular evening, when ho had hit upon what 
 was probably the greatest military invention of the present 
 centur)', she should happen to ask him, all of her own 
 accord, what ho had been doing. 
 
 ' Why, ^[aimie,' ho said, 'you don't know what great dis- 
 coveries I've been making to-day. I've found out something 
 that may probably revolutionize henceforth and for ever tlu^ 
 whole art of artillery and of warfare. I've found out somi»- 
 thing that may jjrove in the end as great an advance uj)on 
 the use of gunpowder as gunpowder itself was upon the 
 crossbows and arrows of the Middle Ages. I've found out 
 what I believe to bo a perfectly noiseless and smokeless 
 oxi)losive, Maimio.' 
 
 ' And will they make you a knight for it, do you think, 
 darling ]' 
 
 * A knight, little woman ! Why, what a funny notion ! 
 IIow your dear little woman's brain does jump to conclusions ! 
 A man would never have dreamt of thinking of that, now. 
 Well, no, I don't suppose they'll knight me all at once for it — 
 that would be going ajiead very fast indeed, Maiiuie. And 
 yet, after all, if the invention's really as great a one and as 
 useful a one as I'm inclined to fancy it is, I don't see why in 
 tho end. I shouldn't look forward to getting a knighthood, if 
 
154 FOR MAI MIES SAKE, 
 
 that's any sort cf f:m^cA^\!\c)x\ to you, darling. . . . Oh yeg. 
 They've knigibkxl lots of fellows for only inventing some 
 new variety of j^morritle, and I sliould tliink they'd certainly, 
 knight a man — m lEft long run — who invented a totally fresh 
 and invaluaU* ^i-xjxlmive for military purposes.' 
 
 'Perhajjs tliii^'j might even give him a peerage,' Maimie 
 suggested, jAavoirii;;^ idly with the pistol which lay upon the 
 plain wooden idble iA the long laboratory. 
 
 Sydney la"Ugli«L 
 
 * How you fdiQ j<!Ufi|y, ^fainiio,' he answered gaily, smoothing 
 her hair, au<l t^vmrm'^ the pistol gently from her hands. 
 ' Give a woLuima ztt inch, and she takes an ell : allow her a 
 knighthood on awonnt for lier Imsband, and she straightway 
 goes in for dittdontiMing the future and making it a peerage. 
 ^No, I don't hnyyfmiy darling, in any case it'd run to a peerage. • 
 The House of \/nx\i^ will probably be abolished altogether, 
 and hereditary launk be done away with in England, long 
 before the tiui't aBHiTesi at which my new explosive could con- 
 ceivably cont<ta!LrallA a claim to be made a jnnior baron. Still, 
 it's a very niw iBHttle useful family explosive for all that. 
 Look here, ^Smmm^ you'll be quite astonished at what it 
 does. Jubt ^^t ifflift fire now at this piece of board here.' 
 
 lie put up a iSiikk board on the laboratory easel — the other 
 was long ^inoe JvMiftti through and through — and loaded the 
 pistol carefully vittli aome of his now anacoustic explosive. 
 Then he put in a co-nical bullet, and fired quickly at the ex- 
 temporized taag^rC There was neither smoke nor flash nor 
 sound of guijpf>ivcIftT, as before ; but "Mainiie, looking intently 
 at the board, saw a hole drilled suddenly, as if by magic, iu 
 its very centre, lltuffoagh which the gasliglit from the burner 
 behind shone hmMj, The bullet had passed clean through 
 the board, and hmxfA itself iu the thick wooden padding at 
 the end of th^s kWatory. 
 
 Maimie la>ugL«wl and clapped her hands childishly -she 
 thought Sydn*j vr>oId like to see she felt a proper interest 
 in his new inT(MiftBoii, Then she took up the pistol again 
 from his hand*, and a^ked cautiously : 
 
 * Is it load^J, Hjflnfty ]* 
 
 * No,' Sy<ln<ty ajwwered, letting her take it from him care- 
 lessly : * it isn't karled, Maimie ; but if you'd like to fire it 
 
APPLIED SCIENCE. i55 
 
 yourself and see how it works, I'll load it again for you to 
 try with : only mind you must aim straight, and be awfully 
 particular.' 
 
 ' 01), how nice !' Maimio cried eagerly. * Fancy being the 
 very first person in the whola world, except the original in- 
 ventor, ever to try a new discovery ! I shall always be awfully 
 proud of it, Sydney !' 
 
 Sydney loaded the pistol at once, and handed it back to 
 her with a smile cf real triumph. 
 
 ' Mind you don't hurt yourself,' he said cautiously. * Hold 
 it well away from you. It's very ex[)losivo and dangerous 
 stuff. It goes off with the faintest pressure on the trigger, 
 mind you.' 
 
 ' Will it burst in my hands V j\[aimio asked, hesitating, and 
 letting the muzzle point upwards as she spoke towards the 
 ceiling of the laboratory. 
 
 Sydney seized her hand in haste, and turned the muzzle 
 horizontal in some trepidation. 
 
 ' No, it won't burst,' he answered smiling ; 'but if it goes 
 off pointing up like that, Mainiie, '.A\ smash througli the 
 ceiling in half a second, and into the breakfast-room, and kill 
 cook or somebody, and then of course you'll bo had up for 
 manslaughter right off, little woman.' 
 
 Maimie shuddered a visible shudder with her expressive 
 shoulders, and held the pistol at arm's length timidly before 
 her. 
 
 ' Shall I fire, Sydney V she asked, pointing towards the 
 target with her finger on the trigger. 
 
 ' Fire away,' Sydney answered briskly. 
 
 Maimie's forefinger pulk'd the trigger with some trernulotis- 
 ness. Again there was no smoke or fiash or tumult, but she 
 IV'lt the butt-end kick a little against her arm as far as the 
 shoulder, and saw another big round hole come not very f;vr 
 from the centre of the target. 
 
 ' Well fired indeed !' Sydney exclaimed, applauding. 'Why, 
 ^faimie, you've made a regular bull's-eye ! Anybody'd say 
 you'd been accustomed all your life to constant practising.' 
 
 ' So I have,' Maimio answered laughingly. ' Poor papa 
 used to make me practise at a target with a rusty naval pistol 
 down at dear old Silbury. llo said it prevented women 
 
156 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 from having nerves. I often made f,'olcls, aud sometimes 
 centres. But I don't seem quite to like tliis new explosive 
 of yours, Sydney. It looks unciinny, somehow. It goes off 
 too smooth and fast and sudden, don't you know, without 
 any bang, or smash, or llaro, or fiz/niagig. I don't like a 
 ])istol to go oil' silently. It soems so murderous, to me, I fancy. 
 I)on't you think a pistol like this now is very dangerous? 
 Oh no, I don't mean to the person who fires it off, of course, 
 Sydney ' — for Sydney had pantominiically expressed extreme 
 disapproval — * but don't you think it'd be a dreadful thing to 
 l)Ut into the hands of murderers, and burglars, and such-like 
 people] You see, they could just commit a murder with it 
 quite suddenly, and nobody'd over hear or know anything 
 about it.' 
 
 * Well, but they can stick a knife into you now as it is, 
 can't they, and nobody objects that knives are noiseless. We 
 don't refuse to manufacture steel blades on the ground that 
 rogues can go and stick them into one another silently.' 
 
 ' Ah, but that's such a very dillercnt matter, you know, 
 Sydney,' Maimie retorted, growing quite argumentative. ' If 
 a man uses a knife, he must be close up to the person he 
 strikes, and the person must bo able to struggle a little, and, 
 more or less, defend himself. And then, the murderer gets 
 blood on his clothes, of course, and all that sort of thing, so 
 there's some chance of one's detecting him afterwards. And 
 with a pistol and ordinary gunpowder, there's a bang and a 
 ilash, you see, that excites attention, and gets the murderer 
 identified at once. But with this dreadful new stuff of yours, 
 it p«^ems to me a man can pop his head out of a window any- 
 where, ([uite unobserved, and shoot anybody down in the street; 
 and the somebody would drop down dead all of a sudden, for 
 no visible reason, and until tliey came to pick him up and see 
 there was a bullet-hole drilled right through him, they'd all 
 tliiidv it was only apoplexy, or heart disease, or something.' 
 
 '(j)uite true,' Sydney said, delighted, for ho was pleased to 
 see Maimio show so much interest in anything that happened 
 in the laboratory. * I've thought of all that already, Maimie. 
 That's a very serious (piestion to settle, I admit. But I 
 don't think it's really of much importance compared with the 
 value to the nation of such an extraordinary explosive — the 
 
APPLIED SCIENCE. 157 
 
 secret of which, of course, I shall keep to myself and our owu 
 Government — especially in dealing with uncivili/od enemies. 
 Just fancy ! suppose they had some of it now out at the seat 
 of war over yonder : they could send a few do/on selected 
 sharp-shooters out behind the enemy somcwhero, and pick off 
 any number of these nigger fellows at once, without their 
 ever being able to discover so much as where the firing camo 
 from. What a fearful stampede thorc'd be, as soon as they 
 saw their men bowled over as if by magic, tumbling down 
 right and loft on every side of them ! They'd run away 
 en masse as hard as ever their legs could carry them. There'd 
 never have been such a stampede in all history, sinco 
 Sennacherib's men ran away from Ilc/ekiah.' 
 
 Maimic smiled a smile of recognition — she had read as far 
 as that in the lUble, and recollected the circumstance iu 
 (piestion somewhat vaguely — but she shuddered at the same 
 time with a little shudder of genuine horror, as she answered 
 back : 
 
 M )h, Sydney, how on earth can a dear, kind, good follow liko 
 you talk in that way about bowling people over 1 Just 
 fancy ! a lot of poor, helpless, ignore nt negroes lying bleeding 
 all around one dying on the ground ! And to think that 
 that's what you're working and scheming for — hero at easo 
 in your own house — you, who are so clever, and so wise, and 
 so gentle. I wonder you don't try instead to invent comc- 
 thing to cure the toothache. I can't understand how you 
 can ever go on inventing explosives. Don't tell the secret 
 to anybody, Sydney ! Don't, there's a dear, good, sweet old 
 love of a husband ! Consider the harm you might be tho 
 means of doing.' 
 
 She spoke persuasively, and Sydney thought at that 
 moment he could ahuost have given up his legitimate hopes 
 of fame and reputation for the sake of one tiny tender kiss 
 from her pretty little ripe red rosy lips there. ]3ut ho loaded 
 the pistol carelessly once more, and handed it to her, saying 
 as ho did so : 
 
 ' Just you try it again, at tho target, Maimic. It's lovely 
 when you got used to it. I'vo been firing away myself all 
 the afternoon for pure pleasure at my own invention. Ifavo 
 another shot, and see buw nice it is.' 
 
158 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 Maimio took the pistol from his hands with a womanish 
 reluctance, and fired once more at the target opposite. Tlic 
 rebound seemed even lighter than before, and the bullet went 
 magically, clean through the board, to Maimie's intense 
 delight and amusement. It was just the sort of thing she 
 loved doing. There was a neatness and concinnity about 
 the way it worked that charmed her childish mind un- 
 speakably. 
 
 'Do load again,' she cried, 'Sydney! I love it awfully. 
 It's just beautiful — for a mere toy, you know — only to 
 amuse one's self with. I think it's really a lovely invention. 
 I could go on firing all the evening.' 
 
 ' So could I,' Sydney answered, reloading quickly. ' I 
 love to see the noiseless effect produced so instantaneously 
 on the board opposite one. It seems so like the " Arabian 
 Nights." You pull a trigger, and hi, presto ! a man falls 
 down dead at once before you.' 
 
 'Would it go through a man like that]' Maimie asked, 
 shuddering, even as she fired. 
 
 ' To be sure it would. Clean through him at a shot. Its 
 explosive force is, weight for weight, about fourteen times 
 that of gunpowder. You don't care for the exact decimals, I 
 suppose, do you V 
 
 ' I don't know what decimals arc, I'm sure,' Maimio 
 answered, with a little toss of her pretty round head ; ' but I 
 don't like to think about a bullet making a great hole like 
 that right through a human body. I call it awfully wicked 
 of you, Sydney, to go inventing new ways of killing off your 
 fellow-creatures. Load the pistol again for mo please, will 
 you V 
 
 Sydney laughed, and loaded gail}'. 
 
 * You don't seem to have much practical objection to tho 
 explosive, anyhow,' he said, handing it back to her. ' You 
 appear to like firiug it just as well as I do.' 
 
 Maimio fired and handed the pistol back a fourth time. 
 
 * I think I could go on shooting for ever,' she answered 
 merrily. 
 
 Sydney loaded for her three or four times more, and then 
 a sudden quaint fancy struck him forcibly. 
 
 ' Look here,' ho said, handing her tho pistol. * Let's sec 
 
APPLIED SCIEi\CE. 159 
 
 wlietlior you could knock over a real live nigger. I'll go 
 and chalk my own size upon the board yonder, and you .shall 
 try whether you can cover me. Practise at a man, in sliort : 
 bowl him over in every possible part : try first his heart, 
 then his head, then disable his legs, and so on till you're 
 really a proficient amateur sharp-shooter. See here, Maimie,' 
 and he turned his back to her over by the target. * I shall 
 take this fresh piece of board, and chalk my figure out in 
 black upon it. Head here : that's about my height : the 
 shadow from the gas does admirably to chalk it by. Now 
 shoulders— that's right: you shall have a live man to 
 practise upon if you'll wait a moment.' 
 
 * Oh, Sydney,' ^laimie cried, raising the pistol, ' how can 
 you talk so very dreadfully ! I won't do it. I'll never do 
 it. I couldn't even fire at a man's shadow.' 
 
 'Nonsense, Maimie ! It's nothing when you're used to it. 
 You must aim at the heart, you know. That will kill him 
 instantly.' His back was still turned to her. 'Aim nol too 
 high nor too low, but straight for the heart, little woman. 
 About this point, you see, where I put a cross upon him. 
 That'll bring him down the instant he's hit, as dead as a 
 doornail.' 
 
 As Sydney spoke, Maimie's hand raised itself to the exact 
 attitude, and held the pistol poised point-blank at Sydney's 
 back while he stood there marking the black cross above the 
 heart of his imaginary figure. 
 
 * I could put a hole right through him, Sydney,' she said, 
 with a wry face. ' IJefore ho knew where he was, he'd bo 
 lying dead down upon the rug there. Ugh ! how horrible !' 
 
 At that moment her face Hushed suddeuly, and a terrible 
 thought swept with a flash across her whirling brain — so 
 terrible, that even complacent little !Maimio grew pale as 
 death at the bare idea of it. What was it she had said that 
 very afternoon to Adrian I'ym, as they walked down Prim- 
 rose Hill together? * If anything should ever happen to dear 
 old Sydney, you know, Adrian ' The rest was silence. 
 
 If anything should ever happen to dear old Sydney ! 
 Anything ever happen to dear old Sydney ! Happen to 
 Sydney ! Happen to Sydney ! 
 
 She held hor hand trembling upon the trigger. Sydney, 
 
i6o rOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 all unconscious, went on chalking out the arms and fingcrp, 
 with his back still steadily turned towards her, A single 
 luotion of that little forefinger, and all would bo over. 
 Adrian, Adrian, dear Adrian ! How her forefinger trembled ! 
 It requires such a very tiny pull to fire a pistol ! If any- 
 thing should happen to dear old Sydney ! But what could 
 happen to him ] Oh, heavens, what an awful eternity of 
 hesitation ! How easily one pulls the little trigger ! A faint 
 impulse, a wavering movement, a sudden, half-unconscious 
 jerk of the forefinger, and then 
 
 No noise, no cry, no sound of any sort. Dut Sydney, 
 turning round to her slowly, clapped his hand like lightning 
 upon his right breast, and murmured in a dazed and 
 stupefied manner : 
 
 ' You have shot mo, ]\Iaimie. Shot mo ! Shot me 1 
 How on earth did you ever manage to do that, darling V 
 
 CHAPTiai XXIV. 
 
 SYDNEY GOES. 
 
 AViTii a little suppressed scream of horror and ngony, Maimio 
 rushed up at once trembling in every lind:) to where Sydney 
 was standing, or half stnggcring, over by the target. Though 
 she had pulled the trigger by a voluntary effort, well know- 
 ing at the instant what she was doing, she didn't even yet 
 fully realize the true effects of that terrible momentary 
 impulse. Sydney stood looking at her tenderly, with his 
 hand still pressed in a breathless fashion against his right 
 breast ; and Maimie felt in some vague, uncertain way that 
 the bullet must have passed right through his body, and 
 come out at the spot where his hand was held with convul- 
 sive tightness. She flung her arms around liis waist wildly, 
 and cried in a voice of deadly terror : 
 
 * Sydney, Sydney ! my darling Sydney, have I killed y.ui 
 — have I killed you V 
 
 ' I don't know,' Sydney answered sloAvly, staggering to a 
 chair like a drunken man. * The bullet must liavo passed 
 just below the right lung : it's bleeding profusel}'. Make mo 
 a bandage — quick, Maimie !' 
 
SVDiWEV COKS. i6i 
 
 Maimio tore tho littlo white table-cover to pieces iu a 
 Rocond, and, opening his waistcoat, passed it hastily round 
 his body outside the shirt, so as just to staunch tho external 
 bleeding. 
 
 'My darling,' she cried, ' my own darling! I have killed 
 you ! I have killed you! Oh, Sydney ! I have killed 
 you I' 
 
 * IIow did you do it, Maimio ]' Sydney asked huskil}'. 
 His strength seemed to bo ebbing fast. ' Did it go ofl' iu 
 your hand by accident 'J' 
 
 Maimio Hung herself passionately on the floor at his foot. 
 
 * Sydney !' she cried, looking straight in his face, simple 
 and truthful and direct as ever. ' Vou will never forgive 
 me. You can't forgive me. It's too horrible to tell you . . . 
 My darling, my darling, I did it on purpose. ... I meant 
 to slioot you. I don't know what devil put it into my heart, 
 my darling, my darling, but I pulled the trigger deliberately. 
 ] knew I was shooting you. I did it int'intionally. I meant 
 to shoot you.' 
 
 Sydney staggered madly to his feet. 
 
 ' You meant to shoot me, Maimio !' he cried with con- 
 vulsive energy, laying his hand tenderly upon her crisp 
 black locks. * You meant to shoot me, darling. My God I 
 my God ! what is this you're saying to me ! Tell me, toll 
 me, before I die, why in Heaven's name did you wish to 
 shoot me ]' 
 
 Maimio crouched terrified at his feet and clung to his 
 knees, with head hung down, as she answered iu a low but 
 perfectly articulate voice : 
 
 * It was Adrian Pym, Sydney. Adrian Pym made mo 
 think of it. I said to Adrian this afternoon — I mot him up 
 on Trimrose Hill — " If anything were ever to happen to dear 
 old Sydney, Adrian "' 
 
 Sydney s voice failed him for a mo:ueut. He stood there, 
 dazzled, stunned, and speechless, struck through tho heart a 
 thousand times worse than when tho bullet had passed 
 through his body ten seconds earlier. 
 
 'ThwU you meant to shoot me, just to get rid of mo, so 
 that you might marry Adrian, Maimio ]' ho said at last, very 
 slowly, but (j[uite pitifully. 
 
 11 
 
1 62 FOR MA /MIL'S SAKE. 
 
 * Oh, Sydney ! Oh, my darling ? It was a moment's 
 impulsG. I hardly knew what I was doing ! I do lovo him 
 so dearly, Sydney.' 
 
 The wounded man paused irresolute for half a second, as if 
 struck with palsy. Then he disengaged Maimie's arms from 
 about his kuees with tender solicitude, and staggered over 
 to the laboratory writing-table. 
 
 * This is a bad business, dear little woman,' he said, 
 stroking her head gently with his left hand (for slio had fol- 
 lowed him over to the table, and flung herself once more in 
 agony at his feet). * If we don't do something at once, they'll 
 be taking you up, my own darling, fur having murdered 
 nie 1 Oh, my darling ! my darling ! if you wanted to get 
 rid of me, for Heaven's sake why didn't you trust me and 
 tell me beforehand, and let us two plan it carefully together, 
 instead of shooting mo oll'hand in this foolish, open, uncon- 
 cealed manner ! Ihdeps I have strength enough to write a 
 letter, I'm afraid, Maimie, they'll go and hang you — hang 
 you, my pet ! — you, Maimie ! Oh, my darling ! my darling, 
 it's too terrible to tliink of !' 
 
 ' Sydney, Sydney ! darling Sydney, you won't die, will 
 you? Oh, don't die, Sydney — don't tell mo I've really, 
 really killed you V 
 
 Sydney drew the pen and paper to him as he answered 
 feebly — for all the time he was bleeding without 
 pause : 
 
 * If I can possibly do it, I'll keep alive for you, darling. 
 If I keep alive, I can swear 1 did it myself by accident. But 
 if I die, I'm terribly afraid you'll find it a hard task to prove 
 yourself innocent, Maimie.' 
 
 He took up the pen and wrote hastily across a sheet of 
 note-paper. Maimie looked over his shoulder and saw the 
 words as he traced them along the page with trembling 
 fingers. A drop of blood fell from the wound upon the 
 paper while he wrote. Sydney blotted it away upon the 
 blotting-pad in haste, and went on writing without taking 
 any further notice of it, The words were written in his 
 ordinary hand, Avith very little more shaking or tremulousness 
 than might easily have been accounted for by the circum- 
 stances he imagined in them. 
 
SYDNEY GOES. 163 
 
 'Dearest Maimie, 
 
 ' I am tired of life, ^[y reasons for shooting myself 
 will never bo known to you. liut I am about to take my 
 own life, and I beg your forgiveness for what I am doing. 
 Good-bye for ever, darling. God bless you. 
 
 ' Your loving Husband, 
 
 ' Sydney Ciievenix.' 
 
 He laid down the pen with a deep sigh of inexpressible 
 relief. 
 
 ' There,' ho said, ' I've liad strength enough to do it. 
 That will suftice to exculpate you, Maimie. Thank God, 
 darling, I've had time to save you ! Now go, little wife. 
 Go at once, I beg of you, I implore you. I must be left here 
 to die alone, or all's lost. Go up to your own room, darling, 
 and try not to let anyone see you going there. Don't let 
 them come to look for mo hero till ju; t dinner-time. I'll do 
 my best meanwhile to live. Go at oace ; go, darling.' 
 
 Maimie threw her arms around him once more with a wild 
 gesture of utter despair, and sobbed out frantically, 
 
 ' Oh, Sydney, Sydney, I can never leave you ! My darling, 
 my darling, you're too good to me ! Whether they hang 
 mo or whether they don't, I shall never, never, never leave 
 you.' 
 
 Sydney unwound her clasping arms again with a little cry 
 of instinctive horror. 
 
 * Oh, Maimie,' ho said, ' what ever are you doing, sweet- 
 heart ? You've got the horrid tell-tale blood smeared all over 
 your dear jacket. Take it olF at once, darling, and put it on 
 the chair here. There, that's right ! Now for Heaven's sake 
 don't come a step nearer to me. Go, go, go at once — for 
 God's sake go, I tell you — or else the game's lost for ever.' 
 
 'Never,' Maimie cried. Hinging herself with clasped hands 
 into the easy-chair. ' I don't care whether they hang me or 
 not, but I'll never leave you, my husband, my darling.' 
 
 Sydney tore off his coat and waistcoat with fust-failing 
 hands, and bound the other half of the table-cover around his 
 body, under the shirt. As he did so, he looked through his 
 clothes at the wound. 
 
 ' U God ' he cried, as ho saw the direction of the bullet, 
 
 11—2 
 
i64 rOR MAIM IE' S SAKE. 
 
 * this is a worse business than even I thouglit it was. 
 Mairaie, I must try to live for your sake. If ever I die, it'll 
 be all up with you. That was a foolish letter to write. I've 
 no strength or nerve left now to write another one. But 
 even the letter will never save you, I'm terribly afraid. The 
 doctors will all know as soon as they see it, such a wound 
 as that could never possibly bo self-iullicted.' 
 
 Maimie sat still in the chair, rocking herself madly to and 
 fro, as she had done that afternoon at Primrose Hill, and 
 muttering in an agonized voice, 
 
 * Oh, Sydney, Sydney, before you die, say you forgive me, 
 say you forgive me !' 
 
 ' Forgive you, my darling,' Sydney answered with a fresh 
 access of strength. ' There's nothing to forgive, INIaimie ! It 
 was the impulse of a moment. I know what you are, 
 darling ! A child, a dear little, simple, innocent child, 
 Maimie. If everyone else would only look at it as I look at 
 it, they'd kiss you, so, and forgive you easily.' 
 
 As he spoke, ho leant over her tenderly, and kissed her 
 forehead. 
 
 Maimie, looking up at him in {igony from between her 
 clasped hands, pressed upon her face, saw to her surprise 
 that he had managed to put on his big ulster. 
 
 * Oh, Sydney — husband — what are you going to do ?' she 
 cried in sore astonishment. 
 
 Sydney answered only half-inarticulately, with a gurgling 
 sound low in his throat, 
 
 'Can't die here and let you get taken, Maimie. Going 
 outside. King the bell ten minutes after I'm gone. When 
 the servants come, tell them I'm out — blood in the laboratory 
 — ask for policeman. Keep the letter. Very important tho 
 letter. One more kiss, Maimie. Good-bye — good-bye — 
 good-bye for ever.* 
 
 * Sydney, Sydney, darling Sydney — you will forgive mo I 
 You don't hate me !' 
 
 'Hate you, Maimie? God forbid, my darling. I lovo 
 you, I love you — as dearly as ever.' 
 
 She held his hand and tried to detain him. With a faint 
 wrench, Sydney dragged it away, and turned, staggering, to 
 tho laboratory stairs. He stumbled up them, bleeding as ho 
 
ANOTHER BLOOD-SPOT. 165 
 
 went, never noticing even that the kitchen-door stood njar 
 behind him ; up the stairs, and alonj,' into the passage; out 
 of the door, and into the cool November evening. The fresh 
 air revived him for a moment He dragged himself on for 
 twenty yards, and then hailed a passing hansom. 
 
 The man stopped and looked at him suspiciously. A 
 drunken fare ! But, still, a gentleman. With a supremo 
 elfurt, Sydney lifted himself somehow from the kerb-stono 
 into the cab, and called out in a gurgling voice, 
 
 * Regent's Park Hospital.' 
 
 Next moment he had fallen back heavily upon the scat, 
 and remained utterly unconscious of all else that happeued 
 to him afterward. 
 
 When Hannah Gowland came up in answer to the bell ten 
 minutes later, she found Maimio fainting in the laboratory 
 chair, and little pools of blood lying about everywhere on 
 coat and jacket on the floor and table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ANOTHER nLOOD-SPOT. 
 
 Hannah Gowland, frail as she looked, lifted her mistress 
 with convulsive energy up in her arms, and carried her safely 
 to her own bedroom. Then she rang the bell with two 
 sharp lings for Lucy, the housemaid. 
 
 ' Water, water !' she cried, holding up Maimie's head upon 
 the pillow in her arm. ' Bring her water quickly ! A littlo 
 sal volatile! A little brandy or something. She's ftiin ted ! 
 She's fainted ! The dear soul, she's fainted away at the bare 
 sight of it. The laboratory's lying thick with blood, and 
 !Mr. Chevenix isn't about the house anywhere.' 
 
 * Blood !' the housemaid cried, starting back suddenly. 
 'Blood, did you say] Blood, Hannah! Why, what on 
 earth do you think's the matter, then ?' 
 
 Hannah Gowland pressed a cold wet towel to Maimie's 
 forehead with infinite tenderness as she answered slowly, 
 
 * Vlx. Chevenix, it's my belief, must have blown himself 
 up accidental or something, with some of those dreadful 
 chemicals of his he's always messiujg with ; and Mrs. 
 
166 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 Chevcnix, poor little soul, she's gone into the laboratory, ami 
 found the blood lying all about the iloor and everything, and 
 fainted away outright at the sight of it. Dear little thing ! 
 she's that tender-hearted, she couldn't stand the sight of 
 blood, Lucy.' 
 
 ' ])Ut Mr. Chevcnix,' Lucy cried excitedly. 'Him! — him! 
 "What's become of him, Hannah? Is he lying dead down 
 there in the laboratory 1' 
 
 Hannah wrung out the towel a second time, and laid it 
 fresh again upon her mistress's forehead, h(jluing the sal 
 volatile anxiously to her face, before she answered curtly in 
 an almost contemptuous tone — 
 
 ' Him ! Oh, him ! I'm sure I don't know what's become 
 of him, anyhow. I dare say he's dead, or something. I 
 didn't look about the laboratory for him. 1 saw the precious 
 soul lying fainting there in the chair by the fireside, and I 
 took her up and carried her oil' uj) here in my arms, away 
 from the blood, and the mess, and everything. She's coming 
 round I — she's coming round ! The Loril bo thanked, she 
 isn't dead yet !' 
 
 Lucy ran hastily down the stairs, and along the ])assage, 
 and out into the laboratory. ]{lood lay everywhere on the 
 rug and ilooi, but not a sign of Sydney to bo seen anywhere. 
 She glanced hastily at the table by the window. A letter 
 lay upon it, beginning with the words, ' Dearest Mainiie.' It 
 was in Sydney's handwriting. Slio read it hastily. (Ireat 
 Heavens ! yes ! it was too true. Mr. Chevcnix must actually 
 liave gone and just shot himself 
 
 She rushed up with the letter excitedly to Hannah. 
 
 'See, seel' she erieil, 'he's left a letter! lie's left a 
 letter! He's shot himself, Hannah! It's that that's killed 
 her.' 
 
 Hannah dowland took the paper from her fellow-servant's 
 hands with languid curiosity, and ran her eyes down it 
 hastily and carelessly. As she did so, her face Hushed a 
 6U('den crimson, and a deep red spot gathered lierco and 
 feverish in the middle of either sunken cheek. 
 
 'Ho wrote that!' she said, half to herself, fohling it up 
 with care, and putting it cautiously into her bosom. 'Ho 
 wrote that, did ho ? — tbo good soul ! Ho diet right. I 
 
ANOTHER BLOOD-SPOT. 167 
 
 shouldn't have thou{:];ht lio had ii in liim ! Then she's all 
 sale ; .she's all safe, thank Heaven ! They won't go wrongly 
 suspecting her, anyhow.' 
 
 At that moment Maimio opened her eyes dreamily. 
 'Hannah,' she said, * llannali — Hannah, whero's Mr, 
 Chcvenix ? Where is he 1 How is he T 
 
 Haiinah soothed lier mistress's hair with her hand. 
 ' I don't know, you puor dear,' she whispered softl}'. 
 * Uiit it's all riglit. You needn't be afraiil. lie's gone out, I 
 think. Perhaps he'll come back again.' 
 
 Lucy ran liurriedly downstairs once more, and began to 
 examine the hall and i)assago. There were drops of blood 
 lying all along it, and out of the door, and down the door- 
 steps. She came back and whispered to Hannah, 'Mr. 
 Chevenix must have crawled out into the street. There's 
 marks of blood right along the passage to the front 
 door,* 
 
 Hannah shook her head impatiently. 
 
 'Like enough,' sho said. 'He may have gone out and 
 crawled into the street. Perhaps ho did, and perhaps he 
 didn't, liut what we've got to do now is to look after this 
 jxx.r dear i)recious lady. People have no right, I say, to go 
 and shout thcmscilves.' 
 
 At the words, Maimio clutched tight hold of her arm, and 
 cried excitedly : 
 
 'Sydney, Sydney ! oh, where's Sydney ! Send round for 
 Jucelyn and Hetty, Hannah. Send round for Jocelyn to 
 come and comfort me.' 
 
 'Go, liUcy,' Hannah said in a tone of authority, 'go at 
 onco for Mr. and Mrs. Cipriani. Tell them tiiey mustn't 
 lose a single moment. And on the way, you may tell the 
 policeman.' 
 
 lUit as soon as Lucy was well out of the room, she took tho 
 foliled letter from }ier breast, read it over again and again 
 with a searching glance, held it carefully out at arm's length, 
 and then once mo e, with a sigh of relief, slipped it back into 
 the safe keeping of her own bosom. 
 
 'Mo harm will come to you, dear,' sho said, leaning over 
 ^laimie with a niutlier's tenderness. ' Mr. Cipriani will soon 
 bo hero. Let mo put a little moro water to your forehead. 
 
168 FOR MAIMIF:S SAKE. 
 
 Poor soul 1 poor amil ! her nerves arc all that broken and 
 sliattered/ 
 
 Hetty was fmi — dfttainod later than usual at an afternoon 
 tea — and .J(je*'l|'ii Kad just finished dressing for dinner when 
 the houKcmaM «s»IIftvl ; hut he hastily diew on his light dust- 
 coat, and hum*i'E round with all ppeed, as soon as he heard 
 the terribl<i Vj^-msi^f: the girl brought him : 
 
 * If you jj'katw, >tir, Mr. Chevenix has just shot Inniself; 
 and Mre. Hhn^mitix has fainted away as if she was dead 
 almost,' 
 
 In a moiij^'Jiitt, Jrtcelyn rem'jmberod all that had passed that 
 afternoon — H^^lm^y^ depression, his unwillingness to talk, 
 the pistol OM tftft tabic, ffardy's suspicions. They were too 
 true, then ; \h*:j wcrre too true ! For some incomprehensiblo 
 reason, Sydu<:'j h^d lit^stroyed himself! 
 
 AN'hen he i<-m:\)if^\ the house, Maimio was sitting up now in 
 the little himAfyir nfrxt to her own bedroom, and she rose, 
 pale and wJjjit*', a.« he entered at the door, and stretched out 
 her hands eag^rirlj to greet him. Mow handsome he looked 
 in liis eveiiittg fclothes, she thought to herself, (juite paren- 
 thetically. Jwcft-ljn always looked best when he was dressed 
 for dinner: the white shirt-front threw up his complexion so. 
 She was gljii<l Ilfttty hadn't come, too. In such a crisis, 
 anotiier womani* aympathy really rather oppresses one than 
 otherwise. Wliiai Ahe needed now was a man's strong arm 
 to grasp aiMl lean opon ; advice, assistauoe, relief from her 
 terror. 
 
 Mocelyn, Joiwrljn/ she cried, almost throwing lierself upon 
 him, ' have y^;C heard ? Have you heard? Sydney's killed 
 himself !' 
 
 Jocelyn seak4 her tenderly upon the sofa, and soothed lier 
 white hand iu U>th of his. 
 
 ' Where i« %(fliifty V he asked in a soft low voice. ' Where 
 is he, Maiiflie I— where is he V 
 
 • We duu't kiiov, Jocelyn,' ^Maimio answered, simply, 
 looking throoji^ her tears. ' He shot himself in the labora- 
 tory — in the LaWatoTj. Oh, the blood— the blood in the 
 laboratory ! Yoo never saw anything in your life so terrible 
 — so terrible 1 And then he went out — ho staggered out — 
 we don't knwir where. We don't know what's become of 
 
ANOTHER BLOOD-SPOT. 169 
 
 him at all. I suppose ihcy'vo taken liiin to a liuspitu), or 
 somewhere.* 
 
 Jocc'lyn started up in astonishment and horror. 
 
 * You don't know where he's fjone !' ho cried excitedly. 
 'Y'^u don't know what's become of liim ! He's shot himself, 
 and staggered away, and you don't even know where he's 
 gone to ]' 
 
 ' Ko,' Muimie answered ; * m'o know nothing — nothing. 
 He just shot himself, and left a letter. I came in, from a 
 walk by myself down ]iegent Street, and went into the 
 laboratory ; and there the blood was lying on the iloor. 
 Oh, Jocelyn, the blood ! the blood ! You never in your life 
 saw anything like it !' 
 
 'Where is the letter?' Jocelyn asked almost sternly. 
 ' Give mo the letter. liCt me see it ; let me see it.' 
 
 * Hannah has it,' ^laimie replied, bursting out afresh into 
 childish sobs. * Hannah founil it down in the laboratory. 
 Give it to him, Hannah. Let him read it ; let him read it.' 
 
 Hannah handed him the letter in silence, and stood by, 
 watching him jealously, while he read it through with a 
 critical scrutiny. 
 
 In a second, his painter's eye lighted instinctively upon 
 the round red blood spot near the end of the letter. It wa'i 
 still fresh — fresh and scarlet- looking — and ho noticed at onco 
 with his professional instinct, what another man might easily 
 have overlooked, that the ink of the letter lay above the blut, 
 not below it, as it would have done if the blot had been 
 splashed there by accident after the letter was written. Ho 
 gazed at the sheet of paper with profound curiosity, and tiien 
 he turned and looked hard at Maimio. Maimie winced anil 
 tremi'led a little as Jocelyn looked at her : he was sure 
 she was frightened — not merely terrified at Sydney's death, 
 but distinctly frightened at his close scrutiny. Wliat could 
 bo the meaning of her sudden shrinking ? He could see that 
 she shrank from him, not merely with the lasting terror of 
 this sudden misfortune, but with a special alarm when ho 
 looked so close into the writing of the letter. She was 
 frightened somehow on her own account ; of that he felt 
 certain : a painter of passion learns to read the emotions of 
 others like an open book upon their speaking countenances. 
 
170 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 It was terror of hxm tliat Muimie exhibited \ terror of Kim — 
 not merely terror of the deadly letter. 
 
 * Leave the room,' he saiil with authority to Hannah. ' I 
 sliall take cliarge of this letter.' He looked hard at ]\[ainue. 
 * It will be wanted at the in(j[uest.* 
 
 The red spot loomed a^'aiu fiercely in TTannali's cheek as 
 Jocelyn spoke to her ; but she obeyed sullenly, and shut the 
 door after lier, with the reluctant air of one who yields 
 against iier will to an overpowering necessity. 
 
 Jocelyn rose, as soon as she was gone, and slowly turned 
 the key in the door. Then he took the letter deliberately 
 over to the gaslight by the table. For a second Maimie's 
 heart bounded violently ; she thouglit Jocelyn was going to 
 burn it — her one piece of exculpatory evidence. ]iut Jocelyn 
 only took his little lens, such as painters use, from his waist- 
 coat pocket, and gazed intently at the spot and at the writing. 
 Yes, yes, there could bo no denying it ! The letters were 
 written right across the blood-spot. In other words, the 
 spot must certainly have been upon the paper before the 
 letters were written over it. Sydney Chevenix must have 
 ]>enned that note after, not before, the fatal shot was fired 
 that killed him. ^Vhy, then, should he say, ' I am about to 
 take my own life,' when for all practical purposes he had 
 at that moment already actually taken it ] Why thus pre- 
 varicate, with his own blood positively flowing from the 
 wound lie had himself inflicted upon his own body I Sydney 
 was always a truthful and an upright man ; why should ho 
 die with an obvious and gratuitous lie thus deliberately 
 traced on tell-tale paper by his trembling fingers 1 
 
 Great (}od ! — great God ! ( 'ould that be the meaning of it ? 
 
 With one of those sudden gleams of intuition which some- 
 times break upon sensitive men like a lightning flash, at a 
 great crisis, the whole truth burst at a rush instantaneously 
 and wildly upon Jocelyn Cipriani's bewildered brain. Ah! 
 yes, ah ! yes, ho saw it all now, as if by some subtle trans- 
 ference of impression. Wiiy Maimie should ever have wiched 
 to shoot her own husband he couldn't as yet, to bo sure, even 
 imagine. Whether she had done it accidentally or inten- 
 tionally he hadn't at first the remotest conception. lie only 
 knew, in some vague, iudeiinite, instinctive fashion, that 
 
ANOTHER BLOOD-SPOT. 171 
 
 Maimie had somehow shot Sydney, and that Sydney, to save 
 her, liad afterwards traced with his dying hands that short 
 and curt exculpatory letter. ]»ut that that was the true 
 explanation of the mysterious blood-stain and of Maimie's own 
 ahject and terrified manner ho felt wholly, absolutely, in- 
 stinctively certain. 
 
 Ho glanced at Maimie once more from the table, as she sat 
 there crouching, with her face in her hands, and road in 
 every curve of her bent shoulders and trembling back her 
 shrinking, infantile personal terror for her own security. 
 
 Jocelyn folded up the letter carefully, put it in his pocket, 
 and stepped across the room again to where Maimie sat, 
 cowering like a child upon the sofa. 
 
 ' Maimie,' he said very softly, seating himself beside her, 
 and holding her hand, ' Maimie ! I must go and find out 
 about Sydney. This is a sad business — a terrible business. I 
 understand it all. The first thing to do is to discover 
 whether Sydney's dead or living. If he's dead, you woulil 
 have been left under the shadow of a terrible doubt, but 
 for poor Sydney's explanatory letter. J>ut don't be afraid. 
 Sydney's letter will entirely relievo you from all danger of 
 unjust suspicion. It was a noble thing of Sydney to write it. 
 I will take very, very great care of that priceless letter. It 
 will save you entirely — entirely — entirely.' 
 
 Maimie nestled up close to him in an agony of fear. 
 
 ' Oh, Jocelyn,' she cried, * you mustn't go, you mustn't go, 
 you really mustn't go and leave me. I can't bo left alone; 
 I shall kill myself if I'm left — kill myself if you forsake me. 
 It is too terrible — too terrible. Yes ! yes ! it was a wonder- 
 fully noble thing of Sydney to write it !' 
 
 As she spoke, her eyes met Jocelyn's for a second, and she 
 saw, with a sudden intuitive glance just like his own, that 
 .locciyn knew or suspected everything. She shrank back 
 from him alarmed as soon as she real 'zed it, and uttered onco 
 more a little broken cry of inarticulate terror. IJut Jocelyn 
 seized the hand she had withdrawn and soothed it tenderly. 
 
 * You needn't be afraid of ihc, Maimie,' ho said as ho 
 soothed it. * I am true as steel, firm as rock, silent as the 
 grave, dear. ^o ; don't speak ; don't try to confess ; 
 don't tell mt) anything. What I guess, I guess, and the rest 
 
172 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 goes best without the saying. "Wliatever it was, Sydney has 
 forgiven it, and Sydney has taken care you shall not suffer 
 for it. Where I once love, I love for ever. I must go out 
 now and look for ])oor Sydney.' 
 
 'Uut Jocelyn, .locelyn, the blood-spot! — the blood-spot! 
 I saw you looking at it there with your little pocket lens. 
 Do you think they'll bo able to make anything out of it V 
 And with another frantic buist of childish tears, she threw 
 herself wildly upon Jocelyn's bosom. 
 
 ' The letter shall be produced at the inquest, Maimio, if 
 there over is on(!,' Jocelyn answered quietly ; * and when it's 
 produced, the blood-spot shall not show upon it any longer. 
 I know how to manage that easily enough. The spot shall 
 tell no tales upon you, >[aimie. You remember the stuff 
 Sydney gave me to take the stains out of my water-colours 
 when I cut my finger? I can take this blotch here out with 
 that. Keep a thing for seven years, they say, and it's sure 
 in the end to turn up useful. Do you recollect what I told 
 you that day ? Accidents }rill happen, I told you, Maimio, 
 and now you see one has actually happened.' 
 
 *Eut, Jocelyn,' Maimie cried, flinging her arms fiercely 
 around him, 'you don't mean to say they'll call it a mur ' 
 
 Jocelyn clapped his hand firndy upon her lips. 
 
 ' Not a word of that !' he whispered low in her car in a 
 stern undertone. ' For God's sake, not a word of that even 
 to me, alone here, Maimie. Keep your own counsel ; it's 
 better so. \Vo will never speak any more to one another 
 while wo live about it.' 
 
 I^faimio clasped him madly in her arms. 
 * * Oh, Jocelyn, dear Jocelyn !' she cried passionately, * what 
 should I ever have done without you here this evening 1 
 You will stand by me ! You will stand by me ! You will 
 not betray me ! You will help mo out of this trouble, won'i* 
 you, my darling V 
 
 Jocelyn pressed her hand quietly. 
 
 * Speak low, Maimie,' he said ; * for Heaven's sake, speak 
 low and gently. If you wore overheard, it might go hard 
 against you. Yes, dear little woman, I will stand by you 
 always. Nobody shall over hurt a hair of your head, if I can 
 do aught in any way to save you.' 
 
ANOTHER BLOOD-SPOT. 173 
 
 * Then you don't hato me ?' Maimie cried once more in a 
 sobbing whisper. * You're not terribly angry with me ] ' You 
 don't think you ought to cast me off for ever !' 
 
 Jocelyn smiled a calm, philosophic smile. 
 
 ' Maimie,' ho said, * you'd better say no more about it. I 
 understand you, and I will speak of it to nobody. ]>ut you'd 
 better make no confidences to others — to any one — to any 
 one !' 
 
 ' Not even to Adrian?' Maimie asked innocently. 
 
 Jocelyn started. In another flash, the purpose, the mean- 
 ing, the motive of the act burst in upon him irresistibly, 
 with intuitive conviction. 
 
 ' Adrian !' he cried. * Why, what about Adrian — Adrian 
 Pym ! — is he in London ?' 
 
 * Ho was this afternoon,' Maimie blurtod out at once with 
 perfect simplicity. ' I met him and talked with him on 
 Primrose Hill about four o'clock, Jocelyn.' 
 
 Jocelyn rose and moved towards the door. 
 
 * I'm going to look after Sydney,' he murmured sternly. 
 Maimie sprang after him with a startled cry of misery and 
 
 terror. 
 
 * Oh, darling!' she whispered, 'Jocelyn, dear Jocelyn! 
 don't leave me alone here to kill myself with fear, will you? 
 I can't do without some man to support me ! I'm only a 
 woman — only a poor, weak, frightened woman ! I can't 
 bear it by myself! I can't bear it ! — I can't bear it ! Don't 
 leave me alone, without somebody strong to help me and 
 comfort me !' 
 
 ' The first thing wo must do,' Jocelyn answered, drawing a 
 deep breath and disengaging himself with (\\\\\t\, strength 
 from her twining arms, * is to find out whether poor Sydney 
 is now dead or living. Until we know for certain about all 
 that, we can do nothing and arrange nothing.' 
 
 'Then, Jocelyn, Ji ulyn, if you won't stop with mo hero 
 yourself to comfort me, will you send for Adrian ? — send for 
 Adrian ! I uiXD^i havo somebody here to supiwrt me !' 
 
 'What's his address?' Jocelyn asked coldly. * Where'd 
 ho stopping ?' 
 
 'Ho generally stops at the Paddington Hotel,' Maimio 
 answered with a sob. 
 
174 fOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ' I'll send a conimissionairo at onco to fetch him,' Jocclyn 
 rejoined, as he turned the key once more in the door. * Ho 
 shall bo hero immetl lately. And as it won't be well that 
 Adrian should stop with you in the house alone, I'll send 
 Hetty round to sit with you also.' 
 
 * Oh, Jocelyn, how kind of you ! You're always so 
 thoughtful ! liut you won't go ! — you won't leave me ! Oh, 
 Jocelyn, Jocclyn ! if you're really going, before you leave — 
 just this once — this onco only — you won't go away without 
 ever kissing me V 
 
 Jocelyn stooped down and took her plump white fingers 
 caressingly in his own. 
 
 'Maimie,' he said, playing with them affectionately, 'I'm 
 very fond of you, and I'll stand by you faithfully, what- 
 ever happens ; you may rely upon me not to bo shaken 
 by good report or evil report, by right or wrong, by fact or 
 by fancy : but I mustn't kiss you ; I can't kiss you ; I won't 
 kit's you. Kot oven to-night, darling; not even to-night. 
 I must never, never again kiss you !' 
 
 Ho turned the key resolutely in tho lock, and opened 
 the door of tlie little boudoir. 
 
 Outside, Hannah Gowland stood mounting guanl, silent 
 and watchful, over her mistress's door, with a suspicious eye 
 bent angrily, as ho passed, on Jocelyn Cipriani. 
 
 As for Maimie, left alone for awhile with her terrors in 
 the boudoir, she Hung herself back upon the sofa in a fresh 
 agony of tears, and muttered audibly between her tempestuous 
 sobs : 
 
 * He doesn't love me ! He doesn't care for mo ! Ho 
 wouldn't kiss me ! He wouldn't be kind to me ! 1 shall bo 
 left alone, with nobody to comfort me ! Not even to-night : 
 he wouldn't kiss me.' 
 
 •My pool darling!' Hannah Gowland ciied, springing 
 hastily to her rescue. ' He has been frightening you ! — ho 
 has been frightening you ! The wicked man ! he has been talk- 
 ing to you and frightening you. But they shan't hurt you ; 
 they shan't hurt you. Whoever else turns against you, 1 
 shall stand by you, I shall bo with you. My poor darling ! 
 he shall never frighten you !' 
 
 ^laimio turned, as was Maimie'a wont, and buried her 
 
MURDER f 175 
 
 lioad caressingly for tlio moment on tho first shoulder that 
 then and there offered support and consolation. 
 
 * Thank you, Hannah,' she murmured through her tears; 
 ' thank you ; thank you. It's very kind of you, dear. I 
 hope .h)colyn will send round Ailrian. Sydney, Sidney, my 
 darling Sydney ! I wonder what on earth has over become 
 of my poor dear unfortunate Sydney !' 
 
 And all this time Sydney Chevenix lay unconscious, 
 between life and death, hanging by a thread, in a ward of tho 
 liegent's Park Hospital. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 MURDER? 
 
 How Sydney got there, he never knew. Ho could remember 
 staggering out from the laboratory steps to tho front door, 
 and hailing tho cab, and falling back senseless upon tho 
 padded cushions ; but when he next recovered consciousness 
 for a few minutoji, ho found himself lying on a bed in tho 
 accident ward, with his wounds all properly dressed, and a 
 house-surgeon looking down critically upon him with pro- 
 fessional indiil'erence. How often he had stood and looked so 
 in medical unconcern at an * interesting case ' in his student 
 days at the Middlesex Hospital ; how little ho ever thought 
 then that ho himself would be so looked upon at such a 
 moment by a brother-surgeon ! 
 
 Ho couldn't speak. His returning consciousness was still 
 fur too faint and feeble for that. He could only lie with eyes 
 and mouth half open, listlessly gazing up through his eyelids 
 at the young surgeon, and hearing in some vague uncertain 
 buzz tho conversation that was passing between him and tho 
 nurse at tho bedside. Indefinite sounds, fioating faintly 
 through his dazed head, they all seemed, and yet his vivid 
 interest in the subject of their talk made him listen intently, 
 with whatever intelligence he had left him for the moment, 
 to the solitary scraps ho could now and again overhear of 
 their whispered colloquy. 
 
 'Not suicide . . . impossible to bo self-inflicted . . . Ball 
 must have passed la at the back, beside the shoulder . . , 
 
\-](^ FOR MAIMIE'H SAKE. 
 
 out below tlio riglit lung . . . Very seriou:}.' Thoso 
 were tlio first stray scattered snatches ho caught of the young 
 purgeon's running comment. 
 
 Sydney Chcvenix shut his mouth hard, and drew a long 
 breath in terrible trepidation. Then they had already dis- 
 coveroil, as ho know they would, that his wiusn't really a caso 
 of suicide ! There would bo no saving Maimio upon that 
 simple plea. Whatever came, ho must manage to pick up 
 strength enough to tell some absurd cock-and-bull story about 
 lii.s fa.stening the pistol and pulling it with a string, in order 
 to give it the ai)pearanco of an accident. Yea, yes, at all 
 hazards he must save Maimio, darling Maimie — A[aimio, 
 !Maimio, Maimio, ^fairnie ! And then his mind began onco 
 more to wander deliriously. 
 
 Ho was recalled to consciousness again the next moment 
 by hearing the nurse answer confidently : 
 
 * IJut then there was no bullet-mark, you see, sir, in tho 
 ulster, lie must have fired off tho pi.stol first, and somehow 
 put on his coat afterward and staggered out to a cab before- ho 
 fainted. He had no jacket or waistcoat on, but only tho 
 ulster above the shirt, with the bullet-mark in it.' 
 
 With an immense effort Sydney Chevenix gasped out, * I 
 did !' and then relapsed once moro for a while into blank 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 Five minutes later he became dreamily aware, yet another 
 time, of voices by tho bedside, and heard tho surgeon ask tho 
 nurse, * Have you found out what's his name and address yet V 
 
 ' Thero was a card case in tho pocket of the ulster,' tho 
 nurse answered, * with a lot of cards in it. Here's ouo : 
 ** Mr. Sydney Chevenix, 27, Beaumont Terrace, Regent's Park, 
 N.W." Wo'vo sent off at onco to the address on the cards to 
 make all iu([uiries from the people there about him.' 
 
 Sydney drew another deep breath. Then Maimio would 
 Boon bo coming to see him. That was bad — bad for Maimio. 
 He hoped something would turn up to prevent her from 
 coming. If she camo, she would for certain begin to cry, and 
 talk, and upbraid herself foolishly, and ask his forgiveness, 
 and then it would all come out hopelessly. The terror and 
 anxiety of that horrid thought made him swoon again into 
 unconsciousness for a minute ; yet, even in the midst of his 
 
MURDER? 177 
 
 very swoon, ho was vaguely awaro all tho timo, as in a 
 hideous nightmare, of somo terribjo danger overhanging 
 Maimie. Maimie, ^lairaie, Maimio, Maimie ! Till that awful 
 hour, he had never fully known before how profoundly ho 
 loved her. In spite of everything, he loved her unutterabl}'. 
 
 If only ho could speak and tell tho hospital people all 
 about it — not tho real story of course, but tho false excul- 
 patory one, of how he had tied tho pistol no tho table, and 
 pulled a string, and shot himself with it ! IJut his tonguo 
 somehow seemed to be fairly paralyzed ; he couldn't utter a 
 single sound. lie could only lie and think it over helplessly. 
 
 And Maimie ! — dear darling Maimie. How terribly she 
 must bo feeling, alone at Twenty-seven ! He hoped Hetty 
 Cipriani was there with her. Poor child, she did it in a 
 moment of impulse : she never meant it — it was the merest 
 accident. And then to think that, if ho were to die, they 
 would try to hang that sweet little angel for it ! Wretches ! 
 monitors ! The bare idea was ten thousand times more agonizing 
 than death itself could bo. IIow happily ho could die, if 
 only he knew that ho left dear Maimie safo ])ehind him. 
 
 Fortunately he had mado a will iu her favour when they 
 were first mr.rried ; he executed it on his wedding-day. Sho 
 would be left happy and well provided for. And then tho 
 letter — the letter would exculpate her. She would marry 
 Adrian Pym, whom alio seemed to love better than her 
 husband, and who would bo a good husband to her. Oh, 
 yes, if only the coroner's jury would believe the letter, 
 Maimie might yet live very happily. 
 
 And then a horrible thought struck him suddenly. 
 Suppose, after all, he were not to die, but live, and improve, 
 and get well again ? Why, that would be almost worse than 
 tho other way. He could go back himself, of course, and lovo 
 Maimie as well as ever : what mattered a mere passing im- 
 pulsive action on the part of a child such as Maimie ? But 
 how could she ever come back to him and love him ? How 
 could she ever feel the same towards him again ] How could 
 she ever manage to forget that she had tried to — well, 
 to get rid of him ] How could sho forget the fact she had 
 told him that she loved Adrian Pym better than she loved 
 him, her husband, Sydney Chevenjx'? 
 
 12 
 
178 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 Yes, yes, it was too terrible. Come what might, for 
 Maimie's sake, he must try to die. He mustn't live to prove 
 her miser}'. She never could be happy with him again. 
 She never could get over her natural feeling that he must 
 distrust her, and suspect her, and dislike her, and be angry 
 with her. lie would only blight and spoil her life — he, who 
 liad no thought except to make her happy. Come what 
 might, he must manage to die, and leave Maimie free to marry 
 Adrian. 
 
 Come what might, he must die ! he must die ! He mustn't 
 stand in the way for INIaimie, Maimie, Maimie, Maimie ! 
 
 It rang in his ears : and then he relapsed again. 
 
 By-and-by, ho woke up once more. Eaising his eyes, with 
 his head thrown back loosely on the pillow, he saw a number 
 on top of the bed — it was seventeen — and his own card stuck 
 in a little sliding metal frame just beneath it. 
 
 Somebody dim was standing beside him — it was Jocelyn 
 Cipriani he knew a minute later — and whispering something 
 to the nurse at the bedside. 
 
 * Tried to commit suicide in his own laboratory,' Jocelyn 
 was saying in a low voice ; ' . . . well-known man of science 
 and distinguished chemist ; . . . left a letter behind for his 
 wife, to say he was going to shoot himself. . . . Seems to 
 have repented of it afterwards and tried to bandage himself. 
 . . . Poor wife lying at home utterly prostrated. . . . Far 
 too ill to come here this evening. . . . Doctor says she mustn't 
 bo disturbed, or moved, on any account. . . . Thought I'd 
 better come round to identify him, just for form's sake. . . . 
 Doesn't think it at all probable he'll live till morning ; h'm, 
 doesn'o he V 
 
 Thank God for that ! — thank God for that ! The surgeon 
 didn't think it probable he'd live till morning ! 
 
 Then, at any rate, he wouldn't live to blight Maimie's 
 happiness — ^laimie's happiness ! Maimie, !Maimio, Maimie, 
 Maind". ! How it rung in his ears still. The whole universe 
 had narrowed itself down now to one little whirling, eddying 
 circle, and of that circle Maimie was the centre. Sydney 
 Chevenix's mind revolved over and over again in his delirious 
 frenzy on that one solitary broken pivot. 
 
 Soon the nurse moved away for a minute to another bed- 
 
MURDER? 179 
 
 side. Jocelyn Ciprani stood still, leaning over him in silence, 
 and watching his face with profound interest. Presently, 
 Sydney's eyes half opened for a moment, and Jocelyn, lookinn- 
 down, saw part of the pupil gazing vacantly upward, with the 
 fixed blank stare of total unconsciousness. Xext instant, the 
 pupil had rolled slowly round with deliberate elfort, and 
 was concentrated in a meaning, imploring look straight upon 
 his own wavering eyes above it. Jocelyn Cipriani started 
 suddenly. 
 
 ' Sydney,' he whispered in a low, frightened tone, ' are you 
 awake % Are you conscious ? Do you know it's me ? Have 
 you anything to tell me f 
 
 Sydney's lips moved convulsively. He could hardly speak. 
 As in a ghastly dream, he seemed to be tongue-tied. At last, 
 with a terrible mumbling and mouthing, he brouglit his 
 parched and feverish throat in some dim fashion to frame tho 
 words he was trembling and gasping to utter. 
 
 ' Jocelyn,' he cried, in an agony of effort, * save Maimie ! 
 save Maimie !' And then his eyes closed again automati- 
 cally. 
 
 Jocelyn grasped the bloodless hand that lay now outside 
 the coverlet, and pressed it hard with a sympathetic pressure. 
 
 ' You're a noble fellow, Sydney,' he answ^ered with un- 
 wonted emotion, the tears rising fast to his eyes meanwhile ; 
 'you're a very noble fellow. You've done your best to 
 screen her and save her. She hasn't told me, but I suspect 
 and guess the whole truth. I've seen your letter, and I 
 know the meaning of it. Don't be afraid. Y''ou may die 
 happy. Leave her to us. We will save her still, in spite of 
 all, with the aid of your letter.' 
 
 Sydney was too weak to speak again, but Jocelyn felt a 
 slight return of his pressure from the bloodless hand ; and 
 tho tears fairly fell from his swimming eyes as he looked 
 down in pity on the pallid eyelids closing below him. 
 Sydney's lower jaw relaxed once more, and Jocelyn thought 
 for a moment he was really dead. But no — his pulse still 
 beat feebly \ he had only relapsed yet another time into 
 temporary unconsciousness. 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani bent down tenderly and kissed with 
 reverent awe, like one unworthy to touch it, tho white hand 
 
 12—2 
 
i8o FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 upon the coarse hospital counterpane. Then he went out 
 slowly, muttering to the nurse as he passed : 
 
 * I shall come again, to ask after Mr. Chevenix, to-morrow 
 morning.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 OR SUICIDE? 
 
 Would Sydney live, or would ho die ? That was now the 
 great question. For if ho Hved, it was merely an accident — 
 an attempted suicide ; but if he died, as Jocelyn knew full 
 well, it was murder — murder ! and Maimio was a murderess ! 
 
 On the doorstep, as Jocelyn went out on his search for 
 Sydney, he had met the messenger from the Regent's Park 
 Hospital, who told him briefly where Sydney had been 
 taken ; and close behind came the doctor from the next 
 street, brought round officiously to see INlaimie, by Lucy, the 
 housemaid. Jocelyn turned back with the doctor for a 
 moment, to discover Avhether Maimie would accompany hi in 
 to the hospital ; but the mere suggestion of once more 
 facing her dying husband, after all that had happened, threw 
 ]\Iaimie into such a fresh paroxysm of hysterical weeping and 
 deadly faintness, that the doctor promptly vetoed the° pro- 
 ceeding, and sent Jocelyn off alone on his mission of inquiry. 
 An hour later, the painter returned in breathless haste, 
 telling Maimie that Sydney was still alive and doing fairly' 
 and that he would go round to inquire for him again at the 
 hospital early in the morning. The surgeon thought he 
 might just possibly live till morning. The newd that Sydney 
 was still living pacified Maimie a little for the moment, and 
 she cried now more silently and naturally, as well as with 
 less of terror in her weeping, than at the first outset. 
 
 Meanwhile Hetty had arrived to keep IMaimio company in 
 her sorrow, as Jocelyn had promised ; and a commissionaire, 
 hurriedly despatched in a cab, had brought round Adrian 
 Pym in hot haste from the Great Western Hotel at Padding- 
 ton. 
 
 Jocelyn saw him first alone in the drawing-room. 
 
OR SUICIDE? iSi 
 
 ' This is a bad business, Adrian/ ho said at once, making 
 no secret with him about the whole affair. * Of course, the 
 messenger told you everything — that Sydney has shot him- 
 self, and Maimie's upstairs crying her eyes out. Well, here's 
 the letter for you to see, that Sydney wrote and left behind 
 him.' 
 
 Adrian Pym read it through carefully, in his calm, self- 
 restrained manner, and then handed it back again to the 
 observant painter with a deathly pallor on his cold, clear 
 countenance. In a moment he, too, jumped at a conclusion 
 of his own ; how could ho conceivably do otherwise, when he 
 remembered those terriblo words of Maimie's that very after- 
 noon ? ' If anything should ever happen to dear old 
 Sydney, you know, Adrian '' Great Heavens ! what could 
 this sudden realization of her prophetic words so quickly 
 mean ? Was it possible to doubt that the prophecy had 
 wrought out in Maimie's rash hands its own fulfilment^ 
 
 Adrian Pym gasped horribly for breath, and looked hard 
 at Jocelyn in dire pcrplexit5\ 
 
 ' Well,' he said at last, after a long silence, ' and what do 
 you make of it, yourself, Cipriani V 
 
 ' I've been to the hospital,' Jocelyn answered evasively, 
 'and I've seen Chevenix, and the surgeon there thinks it just 
 possible he may yet recover.' 
 
 Adrian Pym drew a long breath. 
 
 ' He may yet recover,' he repeated mechanically ; ' ho may 
 vet recover. The surgeon thinks it just possible ho may yet 
 recover.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Jocelyn went on, eyeing him hard ; ' and, in that 
 case, of course everything might, no doubt, in the end, bo 
 arranged the same as usual.' 
 
 Adrian stared at him vacantly. 
 
 * The same as usual,' ho muttered as in a dream ; * tho 
 same as usual. Quite so — quite so. But what in tho name 
 of Heaven, Cipriani, can have made . . . Chevenix . . . 
 think ... of shooting himself?' 
 
 By the pause, and tho sudden jerk ho gave at tho name, 
 Jocelyn knew, as well as if he could seo by magic into 
 Adrian's heart, that Adrian was really thinking to himself, 
 * What can have made Maimio shoot him, and what can have 
 
i82 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 made Sydney afterwards write such a letter as that to 
 exculpate her V 
 
 * It all hangs upon his living or dying now,' Jocelyn con- 
 tinued abstractedly, as if ho hardly knew what he was 
 saying. ' If he lives, all will be well ; if he dies, we must 
 try our best ' 
 
 * Our best to do what V Adrian interposed eagerly, as 
 Jocelyu hesitated with deliberate adroitness for a second 
 before finishing his sentence. 
 
 * Our best to make ]\Irs. Chevenix happy,' Jocelyn con- 
 tinued significantly. 
 
 Adrian Pym drew back in alarm, and looked hard at the 
 painter, not without trembling. Had this man, then, arrived 
 intuitively at the same suspicion as he himself had ] Did 
 he, too, guess with his Italian astuteness that Maimie had 
 played no minor part in this suspected tragedy 1 But no, 
 no ; he was over-suspicious. Conscience makes cowards of 
 us all. Even he himself hadn't really any good grounds for 
 his hasty idea. Sydney had written with his own hand that 
 he was going to kill himself. And why on earth should 
 Sydney write that, if it was really Maiiuie who was going to 
 kill him 1 After all, how ridiculous to suppose that Maimie 
 had said to her husband, * I mean to shoot you, my dear. 
 Please sit down and write a letter at once to screen me !' 
 Sydney Chevenix w^as doubtless the most indulgent and most 
 infatuated of husbands — so Jocelyn had told him — but that 
 was really beyond even Sydney Chevenix's utmost span of 
 infatuation. 
 
 Jocelyn eyed him closely still. Adrian Pym, strong- 
 minded as he was, quailed and fidgeted a little before that 
 frank, open, inquiring gaze. He didn't exactly like Jocelyn's 
 severe scrutin3\ He felt that the painter was scanning his 
 face with the trained eye of a reader of emotion. If only it 
 had been anybody but Jocelyn Cipriani ! Adrfan did his 
 best to look wholly unconcerned, and, like all men wdio make 
 that most hopeless of attempts, failed egregiously in the im- 
 possible effort. 
 
 Presently Jocelyn broke the awkward silence. 
 
 ' You met Maimie this afternoon, I believe, up on Primrose 
 Hill, didn't you, Adrian V 
 
OR SUICIDE? 183 
 
 Adrian, in spite of his habitual self-control, gave a visible 
 start, and then with equal maladroitness repressed it visibly'. 
 
 * I did,' he answered, with ill-concealed agitation. * How 
 . . . how did you come to know of that, pray, Cipriani ? I 
 mean to say . . . what the devil . . . that is, rather, I should 
 like to know who ever can have told you so V 
 
 ' Maimie mentioned to me that she'd seen you there,' 
 Jocelyn continued in a musing voice, as though it were an 
 abstract fact, to which he attached not the slightest practical 
 importance ; ' and she asked me to send for you to the 
 Paddington Hotel. Indeed, I shouldn't otherwise have known 
 your address, or even that you were up in town this even- 
 ing.' 
 
 Adrian could have cursed in his heart his own childish 
 clumsiness in letting Jocelyn see so plainly how annoyed and 
 frightened he was to learn that the painter had heard of their 
 accidental meeting. How foolish of Mairaic ever to have 
 mentioned it; how many thousand times more foolish of 
 himself to have betrayed such tell-tale and ill-timed agitation ! 
 
 *It was kind of you to let me know so quickly,' lie said, 
 with awkward politeness, aware all the time that Jocelyn's 
 keen eye was still riveted upon him. ' I ... I am glad if 
 I can bo of any service to ... to Mrs. Chcvenix in her great 
 trouble.' 
 
 Jocelyn held the fatal lettci still unfolded in his hands. 
 
 * Yes,' he said, glancing casually sideways at the blood-spot; 
 ' we must all do our best to ... to save Maimie from any 
 possible unpleasant consequences. It was a fortunate thing 
 that Chevenix wrote this letter beforehand. A man wlio 
 intends to commit suicide owes it as a moral duty to others 
 to put his intentions plainly in writing. It prevents all 
 unjust suspicions. Had it not been for this letter' — he 
 paused significantly. 
 
 * Well,' Adrian said, with marked impatience ; ' had it not 
 been fur this letter ' 
 
 'Why, then, no doubt,' Jocelyn went on quietly, 'a great 
 deal of unjust suspicion might easily have fallen upon Mrs. 
 Chevenix. . . . We speak as between friends, Adrian. I 
 know you are a staunch friend of our poor little Mainiie's. 
 ... If it hadn't been for this letter, I must say it would 
 
i84 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 liave been very natural indeed to suspect. . . . You follow 
 my meaning]' 
 
 * J in possible ! — impossible!' Adrian cried, trembling, and 
 breaking out all over into a cold perspiration. 
 
 * I've just returned from the liegent's Park Hospital, you 
 know,' Jocelyn went on, calmly, diverging all at once into a 
 now subject with premeditated cruelty, 'and there I saw poor 
 Sydney Chevenix. He was very weak, and ahnost unconscious; 
 in fact, the nurse told me he'd been (]^uito unconscious several 
 times for many minutes together. But he opened his eyes a 
 little when ho saw me, and seemed as if ho were muttering 
 and struggling hard to say something that was burdening his 
 conscience. So I bent down my ear close to his lips, and 
 heard him murmur in an agony of effort, "Jocelyn, Jocelyn, 
 save jNIaimie, save Maimio !" How very singular ho sliould 
 say that, Adrian ! Why on earth should ho ask mo at such a 
 moment to save Maimio V 
 
 Adrian Pym paced up and down the room excitedly, like a 
 caged tiger. 
 
 * Cipriani, Cipriani !' ho said at last, ' arc you doing this on 
 purpose ? Are you trying deliberately and intentionally to 
 play upon me V 
 
 Jocelyn answered only with an evasive smile : 
 
 * There are subjects, Adrian,' ho said, stroking his brown 
 beard with a meditative hand, * which it is better always to 
 approach obliquely. Tiiis is one of them. Have you 
 happened to notice tho blot here, by tho way, on this sheet 
 of paper f 
 
 Adrian snatched the letter from his firm grasp in a sudden 
 fit of exasperation and terror. 
 
 * Yes,' ho answered ; ' yes, I noticed it, of course. What 
 of it, then? I suppose it got splashed on when Sydney 
 shot himself.' 
 
 'Not at all,' Jocelyn answered, coldly and demonstratively. 
 * That's not a splash : every painter knows at once tho differ- 
 ence in shape and elfect between drops and splashes. That's 
 a drop, Adrian — a drop from a wound ; and, what's more, it 
 was there — I don't mind tolling you — before ever the letter 
 ■was written.' 
 
 Hg spoke low, solemnly and impressively, and Adrian 
 
OR SUICIDE? 1S5 
 
 could see that ho meant to attach great iraportmco to tho 
 suggestion ho made with so much significance ; but, clever as 
 the Oxford tutor was, his mind worked less rapidly than 
 Jocelyn's, and ho couldn't immediately catch at the full im- 
 plication of that little tell-tale fragment of circumstantial 
 evidence. 
 
 * Well,' ho said, in a dazed and puzzled voice, avoiding 
 Jocelyn's eyes as well as he was able, ' I suppose Clievenix 
 may have written the letter, then, after ho shot himself.' 
 
 'Precisely,' Jocelyn replied. 'That's just it. He wrote 
 the letter after he shot himself. Look at the words as they 
 run distinctly right across tho blot, Adrian. Don't you see 
 quite unmistakably that the ink lies on top of the blood- 
 spot, not underneath it ? If you can't see that with your 
 own eyes, take my lens here, and examine it carefully.' 
 
 A<lrian scanned the letter through the lens with close atten- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Well,' ho said, handing it back at last to Jocelyn with a 
 terrified face, ' what do you think of the matter, Cipriani V 
 
 The painter spoke slowly and distinctly, with a long pause 
 between each sentence : 
 
 ' If Chevenix dies, there will have to be an inquest. . . . 
 The letter must, of course, be produced in evidence there. . . . 
 Chevenix implored me with what I believe to be his dying 
 breath to save Maimie. ... I shall do my best to carry out 
 his wishes. ... I can remove the blood-stain from tho face 
 of the letter with a chemical, which will not destroy tho 
 writing. ... In case of his death, I shall remove it so before 
 the inquest. . . . Except that blood-stain, there is absolutely 
 not one tittle of evidence against . . . against Maimie. The 
 letter alone will entirely exculpate her. . . . No shadow of 
 suspicion even will ever fall upon her.' 
 
 Adrian gasped a moment for more breath. 
 
 'Then you are with us, Cipriani]' he asked anxiously; 
 ' with us, not against us ?' 
 
 ' I am with you in the desire to save Mrs. Chevenix from 
 any unpleasant consequences of this unfortunate accident,' 
 Jocelyn answered quietly. ' Of course I am with you. AVhat 
 else do you take me for? A private detective, or a public 
 executioner? I should fancy no one who called himself a 
 
1 86 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 man could have any other wish in such a matter except to 
 save poor little Maimie.' 
 
 Adrian paced the room once more in solemn silence for 
 another minute. 
 
 *I think we understand each other,' ho said at last, turning 
 cautiously with a look of appeal to Jocelyn. ' Am I right 
 in supposing that we quite understand each other V 
 
 Jocelyn nodded a mute assent. 
 
 * Yes,' he added, after a pause ; ' we quite understand 
 each otlier. And that being so, the less wo say to each other 
 in words upon the subject in future, the better, Adrian. . . . 
 One word more ; one question only. I ask it merely in the 
 desire to serve you. Was this matter premeditated 1 Was 
 it the result of a preconcerted arrangement between you? 
 Or did it merely happen, so far as you know, on the spur of 
 the moment f 
 
 * It was as great a thunder-clap to mo as to you,' Adrian 
 answered truthfully. * I knew nothing about it — absolutely 
 nothing — until I heard the first news of it from the messenger 
 you sent me, I believe it must have been the result of a 
 momentary impulse — a momentary impulse — a terrible, 
 terrible one.' 
 
 * I'm glad of that,' Jocelyn replied with calm confidence ; 
 * very glad of it. She will have less to reproach herself 
 with. And now that we've settled this matter between us, 
 and know exactly where we both stand, suppose we go up- 
 stairs at once to poor Maimie.' lie paused as he turned the 
 handle of the door, and then murmured softly, • Fou're a 
 barrister, of course? I believe the legal term is misprision, 
 isn't it f 
 
 Adrian started. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, with a shudder ; ' misprision of 
 murder. But if we conspire together to destroy the evidence 
 by removing the blood-stain, that would render us ac- 
 cessories after the fact, and liable, of course, to penal ser- 
 vitude.' 
 
 ' Good !' Jocelyn answered. 'We have some guarantee at 
 least, then, of mutual confidence. That will do, Adrian. 
 Let us never again, as long as we live, mention the subject 
 to one another.' 
 
FIRE! 1 87 
 
 But, all this while, Sydney Chcvcnix lay still as before, 
 unconscious and silent, hovering for ever between life and 
 death, in a ward of the Kegent'a Park Hospital. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 FIUE ! 
 
 TiiEY sat up late that night with Maimie, who had fallen 
 now into a regular fever, and was moaning terribly on the 
 boudoir sofa. 
 
 About half-past four in the morning a curious glare in tlio 
 sky to southward arrested Jocelyn C^ipriani's attention even 
 through the blind and in those terrible circumstances. 
 
 lie went to the window and looked out. 
 
 ' What is it ]' Adrian asked him, below his breath. 
 
 'A fire somewhere,' Jocelyn answered carelessly, and 
 thought no more for the moment about it. 
 
 But presently Hannah Gowland appeared at the door, and 
 with a scared white fiice, more ghost-like than ever, beckoned 
 Jocelyn imperiously out of the room. 
 
 ' Sir, sir,' she cried, ' for Heaven's sake don't tell her — don't 
 tell her ; it'd break her heart — it'd kill her, it'd kill licr. 
 The fire's at the hospital where they've taken INIr. Choveuix!' 
 
 ' How do you know ?' Jocelyn asked in tremulous astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I've been out to ask,' the girl answered confidently ; * and 
 a policeman told me so. Ho said it was at the liegent's Park 
 Hospital.' 
 
 Jocelyn stole back softly into the boudoir. 
 
 * Adrian,' he whispered, * you must come with me and see 
 this thing out. The fire is at the liegent's Park Hospital, 
 where they've taken Chevenix. Hetty, you must stop with 
 her and take good care of her. We may be back before very 
 long. Come along, Adrian, we must go and look into it.' 
 
 Maimie raised herself up on the sofa, 
 
 * You're not both going out at once, Adrian V she cried 
 passionately. * You're not both going olf together, are you, 
 and going to leave me here alone with Hetty ?' 
 
1 88 FOR MAIMWS SAKE. 
 
 ' Wo must go and incjuiro about Sydney,' Jocelyn 
 answered, pacifying her. ' Wo ... wo think there may be 
 soino possible change in Sydney's condition.' 
 
 They hailed a passing hansom in hot haste, and drovo as 
 near as the horse could take them to the scene of the iire. A 
 couple of hundred yards away or more, they were stopped in 
 their course by the surging throng of curious onlookers. 
 Jocolyu jumped out, closely followed by Adrian, and i)ushed 
 his way sturdily through the dense crowd. The lircmen 
 were playing upon one ward of the hospital, and a ring of 
 policemen kept off the crowd in every direction. 
 
 Jocelyn passed the policemen in his authoritative way. 
 
 'Friends of a patient,' he said with an air of command. 
 * Come to look after him by special permission.' 
 
 The nearest policeman nodded acquiescence and let them 
 pass on. He saw that Jocelyn was in evening dress under 
 his light dust coat, and evening dress is a universal passport 
 under all possible circumstances with the London policeman. 
 
 They mounted the great white stairs of the hospital. 
 There for a minute or two all was hurry and confusion, 
 lied tongues of flame leaped madly out of the first-floor 
 windows, and licked up the wood-work of the frames outside. 
 Patients on beds were being hastily removed, in panic antl 
 terror, from the burning ward to places of safety. It was an 
 awful sight, that tcrrihc lire in such painful circumstances ; 
 men on crutches hobbling along down the corridors, eager and 
 terror-stricken ; women with clasped white hands carried helpless 
 on mattresses; children, ghastly pale with sickness and with fear, 
 borne Imrriedly on in the big rough arms of firemen and of 
 nurses. Everywhere smoke, and glare, and bustle, black 
 clouds and red battling together in a terrible struggle for 
 their helpless victims. Half suffocated by the flames, 
 Jocelyn and Adrian pushed their way into the body of tho 
 building. It was some time before they could find anyone at 
 leisure to answer their inquiries ; but the painter saw at a 
 glance for himself that the fire had broken out in the very 
 ward in which ho had already visited Sydney Chevenix 
 earlier that evening. 
 
 By-and-by tho firemen got the flames in some degree under; 
 the fire slowly ceased to spread ; and the last embers were 
 
FIRE! 189 
 
 finally cxtinguisliod by tho play of the engines. The two 
 visitors mounted then unobstructed to the ward where 
 Jocelyn had last seen and spoken with Sydney. 
 
 'Can you tell me,' he asked of the first nurse ho met, 
 prying tentatively among the charred and smoking ruins, 
 * wliat has become of a patient of the name of Sydney 
 Chevenix V 
 
 * Clicvenix/ tho woman repeated slowly, * Chevenix, 
 Chevenix ! In the accident ward ? Why, ye?, that's him that's 
 lying up dead there — him as they didn't move at all when 
 the tire broke out. Ho died about hulf-an-hour before, and 
 the fire caught first just on his bed-clothes. I expect he's 
 burnt dreadful with the flames in the ward by this time.' 
 
 Horrified at the newf^, Jocelyn walked on, picking his way 
 with care among the charred timbers and wet ashes on which 
 the firemen had just been playing, and approached cautiously 
 the little iron bed near tjie corner of the ward to which the 
 woman had pointed. He remembered the number — it was 
 seventeen — and the figures were painted on a little iron space 
 above the bed-head. A visitiug-canl, singed and blackened 
 by the fire, but still quite legible in spite of its smoky cover- 
 ing, was slipped into a small metal frame for tho patient's 
 name close below it. Jocelyn glanced at it as he passed 
 to the bedside : it bore tho familiar name and address, 
 'Mr. Sydney Chevenix, 27, Beaumont Terrace, Regent's 
 Talk, N.W.' 
 
 The other bedsteads about were stripped entirely of their 
 beds and bed-clothes, hastily carried away with their inmates 
 by the firemen and nurses on the first alarm when the fire 
 was discovered. But this one had been left unstripped when 
 the surrounding ones were emptied, because it contained 
 merely a corpse, and, in the hideous scramble of tho nurses 
 and porters to save the living, the one dead man had been 
 unavoidably neglected. 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani brushed away with his hand from tho 
 body the moist and clinging ashes of the sheet and coverlet. 
 The sight that met his eyes beneath was indeed a sickening 
 one. The corpse, though unspeakably burnt and distorted, 
 still showed clear evidence that it must have been really a 
 corpse before the first outbreak of the fire could have taken 
 
150 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 place, for a cloth, tied tif^litly around the under jaw to keep it 
 from dropping, remained but little burnt beneath the chin, 
 in spite of the flames ; and though the eyebrows and lashes 
 were now completely singed away, the lids were closed by 
 some officious hand — not open and staring as in the natural 
 condition. But the features were so hideously charred and 
 livid with the fire as to be scarcely recognizable, and the hair 
 on the head was matted and frizzled with the intense heat of 
 the enveloping flames, Jocelyn bared the lean and blackened 
 breast : the raw bullet-wound and the clotted blood on the 
 bandages had partially preserved the body from the fire ; and 
 much of the flesh here was unburnt, though most of the sheet, 
 coverlet, and blanket was reduced to ashes. As for the 
 feather-bed beneath him, it was scorched and burnt on the 
 outside only ; its own thickness and the weight of the corpse 
 had saved it from the power of the consuming flames. An 
 ominous smell of burnt petroleum pervaded the whole room, 
 and fragments of a glass lamp, scattered on the floor, showed 
 plainly to the painter's observant eye what had been the 
 origin of the whole catastrophe. 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani gazed for a second, horror-struck, upon the 
 hideous liguro thus awfully presented to his swimming sight ; 
 then he turned away his face in natural disgust from the 
 sickening object, and lot his philosophy so far forget itself 
 for the time as to brush the tears hastily from his dim eyes. 
 As for Adrian Pym, he drew back with a fearful shudder 
 from the horrible remains of the man whose death ho had so 
 unwittingly been instrumental in causing. 
 
 ' Jocelyn, Jocelyn,' he cried instinctively, clutching the 
 painter's arm to support himself from falling, * this is too 
 horrible, too horrible ! Don't tell her of this. JShe must 
 never know it. We must keep it from her, whatever happens. 
 The sight would poison her life for ever. She may hear 
 he is dead, but she must never know a word about the fire.' 
 
 * Never,' Jocelyn answered very firmly. 
 
 Adrian Pym approached the corpse once more, with a 
 blanched face of terrible interest. It seemed to possess for 
 him some horrid fascination. 
 
 * Dead !' he muttered to himself in a hoarse undertone. 
 He is dead, dead j and Maimie is a ' 
 
THE ORDEAL. 191 
 
 Jocelyn checked him sternly with a rebuking gesture. 
 
 ' Ho is dead,' the painter said iu a cahuer voice, ' and 
 ]\Iaimie is ... a widow. I!«[ever for a moment say the other 
 even to your own heart, Adrian.' 
 
 And when they went back to Maimie that evening, they 
 said not a word about the fire or the mutilation. Tliey told 
 her merely, breaking it to her gently, that Sydney was dead — 
 dead at the hospital. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 There was an inquest, of course : it would have been clearly 
 impossible to do without an inquest ; but, after all, it was a 
 purely formal one. The fire had almost obliterated from men's 
 minds the memory of the suicide, and the question how the 
 mere dead body came to be burnt and mutilated by the llamea 
 superseded almost entirely the real and original question how 
 Sydney Chevenix ever came by his suspicious and mysterious 
 death in the first place. The horror of the charred and dis- 
 figured corpse absorbed attention from the wound and the 
 letter, which seemed, for the rest, suflicicntly obvious. 
 
 Maimie herself appeared as a matter of form to give her 
 evidence ; but she was merely led in crying by Hetty and 
 Jocelyn ; and coroner and jury, naturally touched by so much 
 beauty and so much sorrow in so young and childish a widow, 
 were well content to let her go, after telling them in a few 
 simple broken words how she had come to the laboratory on 
 the evening of the suicide, and found the place all deluged 
 with blood, and the letter (produced) lying upon the table. 
 So Hetty led her out again, and took her home, without her 
 ever hearing a word, for good or for evil, about the fire and 
 the horrible disfigurement. 
 
 Then Jocelyn and Hardy were put upon their oath, and 
 described how they had found Sydney, on the evening of the 
 accident, very depressed and dull and preoccupied, playing 
 with a pistol, which he attempted to conceal from them ; and 
 Hardy added, with the perennial joy of the man who can 
 rightly say, ' I told you so,' that ho had suggested to Jocelyn 
 
192 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE, 
 
 Cipriiini at the timo the clanger of suicide, and that Jocelyn 
 in his superior wisdom had pooh-poohed the notion as utterly 
 ridicu.'ous. 
 
 ' But, for my part, I could plainly see by his eyes,' the 
 younger painter said emphatically, * that he was just going 
 to make an attempt to destroy himself.' 
 
 Hannah Gowland also gave evidence ; but her evidence, 
 too, amounted to nothing. She had heard her master open 
 the door and go into the street, and that was all ; when the 
 bell rang, she rushed into the laboratory, and found her 
 mistress, who had just lot herself in with the latch-key, 
 fainting away at the sight before her. 
 
 Had she heard no report of a pistol when Mr. Chevenix 
 shot himself? 
 
 Well, in that house, they never took much account of 
 reports or anything. Mr. Chevenix was always blowing up 
 somebody or something out in the laboratory, and they never 
 noticed it much ; nor no more did the neighbours. She 
 might have heard it, or, ''.gain, she mightn't have heard it ; 
 but, anyhow, she didn't remember anything about it. 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani obderved with his acute sense, as he watched 
 the witnesses keenly, that Hannah Gowland seemed somehow 
 to stand strangely on the defensive — to answer all questions 
 cautiously and suspiciously, as though she expected an attempt 
 to draw something unpleasant out of her by insidious stages. 
 But it was natural, perhaps — perfectly natural. She may 
 have thought she was herself suspected ; she may even — 
 who knows \ — for Jocelyn was a student of human nature — 
 have had some visitor of her own in the kitchen at the time, 
 whose presence she was naturally anxious to conceal from the 
 jury and her mistress. How much we usually look at 
 everybody else from the point of view of our own interests 
 and our own relations with them ; how much we forget that 
 such a girl as this Hannah Gowland, for example, has her 
 own individuality and her own objects, her own hopes and 
 her own terrors; how seldom we remember that she too 
 sees things from her own particular points of view exclusively. 
 So musing, Jocelyn Cipriani dismissed from his mind this 
 queer suspiciousness of Hannah Gowland's defensive manner; 
 and as for the rest, they were neither painters nor observers 
 
THE ORDEAL. 193 
 
 of human nature, and they overlooked the signs of it 
 altogether. 
 
 The only other important evidence as to the cause of death 
 was the house-surgeon's at the Regent's Park Hospital. That 
 evidence Jocelyn watched with close attentioD, and so also 
 did Adrian Pym. 
 
 Surely the doctor's practised eye would detect the fact that 
 the wound was not a self-inflicted one? Yet, after all, why 
 should it? Many wounds must be much the same whether 
 the pistol he held by the hand of the wounded man or that 
 of an adversary. As for the surgeon himself, he had very 
 little doubt at all about the matter. He had at first supposed, 
 indeed, he said, that the wound had been inflicted by another 
 hand, because he thought the ball had passed in at the back 
 below the shoulder-blade, and out in front by the right lung. 
 But now that he had been able to perform a careful and accu- 
 rate post-mortem, he saw distinctly, as did his brother-operator, 
 that the appearances which had at first led him to adopt that 
 hasty opinion were wholly deceptive, and that the bullet had 
 really been discharged from a pistol held close to the body — 
 right in front of it — as would naturally be the case on the 
 hypothesis of a suicide. Death was due entirely to the pistol- 
 wound. The injuries by the fire were clearly subsequent. 
 Life had been extinct for fully half an hour before the be- 
 ginniug of the burning. The jaw had had time to set in com- 
 pletely. Of the causes of the fire the surgeon knew nothing. 
 Two more witnesses were called, ^ro formd ; but their 
 evidence really related entirely to the accident in the ward, 
 and not at all to the underlying question of the fatal pistol- 
 shot. They were the nurses at the hospital. One of them 
 had seen the deceased, Sydney Chevenix, No. 17, die 
 at a quarter to three in the morning. She had tied up 
 his jaw, as usual, with a handkerchief, and left him there 
 till the dressers were ready. She was positive he was dead 
 before the fire broke out : why, yes, of course she was. She 
 had seen hundreds of them die in her time, and would she 
 have gone and tied up his face if she thought it possible he 
 was still living ? At four o'clock she handed over the 
 charge to Amelia Hesselwether. And so she, for her part, 
 was well out of it. 
 
194 ^'OR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 Amelia Hesselwether had nothing serious to add, so far as 
 regarded the cause of deatli, to what had been already stated 
 by the last witness. She had seen the deceased, Sydney 
 Chevenix, lying dead in Xo. 17, when she took over the 
 room from her predecessor. He was stone-dead : of that 
 she was certain. As for the fire, which had nothing to do 
 with the cause of death, it originated in the restlessness 
 of another patient, in ]S^o. 18, delirious with fever. No. 18 
 had upset tlie paraffin lamp by his bedside, and the whole 
 place was in flames in a second. By great efforts they had 
 successfully removed pll the patients without an accident. 
 That was all she knew about it. 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani, watching her narrowly, observed that 
 this witness too gave her evidence with great reluctance, and 
 in some obvious trepidation. Clearly she had certain good 
 reasons of her own for wishing to hush up the business as 
 far as possible. "With his instinctive habit of throwing 
 himself into other people's attitudes, however, Jocelyn at 
 once invented a plausible cause for it. The woman had 
 been dozing when the accident arose : it was evident she had 
 no clear idea of her own how it all came about ; and she was 
 trembling in her shoes for her own skin, and for fear she should 
 lose her situation. 
 
 That concluded the whole evidence. 
 
 As the jury whispered together over their verdict, four faces 
 in the body of the room betrayed in four curiously varied ways 
 their different degrees and kinds of anxiety. Jocelyn Cipriani's 
 was pale and eager : Adrian Pym's was sullen and terrified : 
 Hannah Gowland's was burning with a deep red spot of 
 violent intensity : Amelia Hesselwether's was heavy with 
 the sordid stolid fear of a dull, stupid, self-centred servant- 
 
 girl- 
 
 The jury found, after a minute's consideration, that the 
 deceased, Sydney Chevenix, committed suicide while in an 
 unsound state of mind, and added a rider condemning the 
 use of paruffiu lamps by the patients' bedsides in the Kegent's 
 Park Hospital. 
 
 * Thank God,' Adrian Pym muttered soft and low to 
 Jocelyn Cipriani. ' The verdict puts her out of all danger, I 
 hope, for ever,' 
 
THE ORDEAL. ; 195 
 
 ' It docs,' Jocelyn answered with a sigh of relieved sus- 
 pense. *Tho lire was the very luckiest thing that could 
 possibly have happened for us. It took oil' those twelve 
 foolish persons' distracted attention from the one fundamental 
 question of life and death they were really and truly asked 
 to decide upon.' 
 
 As they went out of the room, Hannah Gowland stood 
 half-fainting by tlie door, and leaning on Lucy. 
 
 'Thank God,' she was muttering low to herself. ' They've 
 never got us into any trouble ! I was afraid they'd get us 
 into trouble, Lucy.' 
 
 Amelia Hesselwether stood with the other nurse hard by. 
 
 ' Well, that's a blessing, anyhow,' she said in her coarse, 
 stolid voice. ' They've as good as put the blame of the fire 
 on the committee of the hospital, by saying they ought never 
 to have used them paraffin lamps there. I was afraid of my 
 life they'd be giving me the sack for having let that crazy 
 foreigner man get at it to upset it. He was that delirious, 
 the crazy man was, there was no doing anything anyhow to 
 hold him.' 
 
 * Well,' the other nurse said in an unconcerned voice, ' any- 
 how, he'll be glad to hear it's suicide while in an unsound 
 state of mind, that man Beuyowski will. He's been in such a 
 rampaging excitement ever since the fire, there's been no 
 quieting him ; and he promised mo a sovereign as soon as 
 he's discharged, if only I'd bring him back word what tho 
 verdict was as soon as they'd given it. He's been as mad to 
 know what it's all coming to as if he thought they was going 
 to hang him for upsetting the paraffin. I do believe the man 
 ain't right in his head sometimes ; and that's just my opinion 
 about it.' 
 
 Jjenyowski ! Eenyowski ! so that was tho name of the 
 patient who upset the lamp, was it % AVhere on earth had 
 Jocelyn heard the name before % It was quite familiar to 
 him. And then, with a sudden revival of memory, it Hashed 
 across his mind that JJenyowski was the name of the grim 
 Polish assistant who used to work in Sydney Chevenix's 
 laboratory. What on earth could this man Eenyowski have 
 to do at the hospital, and why should he be so interested in 
 the result of the inquest ? 
 
 13—2 
 
196 FOR MAI MIL'S SAKE. 
 
 Three days later, Jocelyn Cipriani and Adrian Pym went 
 down with many other mourners to Sydney Chevenix's 
 funeral, at Woking Cemetery, And wlien they saw the loose 
 clay shovelled in upon that oaken cofliu in the shallow grave, 
 they both felt in their own minds that the earth had closed 
 for ever and ever upon Maimie's secret. 
 
 Murder will out, says the old-fashioned proverb — a proverb 
 of days more believing than our own. Eut murder will not 
 always out, thought Jocelyn Cipriani ; as a matter of ftict, 
 how many times a year is the proverb falsified? "Who ever 
 discovered the Great Coram TStreet murderer? or the Braith- 
 waito murderer? or, to take a more certain historical instance, 
 past all gainsaying, tho murderer of the Quaker girl im- 
 mortalized by ^Nlacaulay ? No, no ; the vulgar axiom will 
 not hold water. For who on earth would ever dream of 
 suspecting poor little innocent-faced beautiful ^laimie ? 
 
 Besides, save Maimie's own self, who ever knew, if it 
 came to that, whether a murder had or had not been com- 
 mitted ? 
 
 On M'hat a slight thread, to be sure, does the crime itself 
 really hang ! AV e call it a murder, because Sydney was 
 dead. It would have been no more than a mere accident if 
 Sydney had happened to pull safely through it. 
 
 But Sydney was dead. So there was an end of it. 
 
 Sydney was dead, and now all we had got to think about 
 was how to make Maimic happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE OTHER SIDE. 
 
 Every event has many aspects — one for each mind that is an 
 actor or spectator of it. This was how the events of that 
 terrible episode envisaged themselves to Maimie, to Jocelyn, 
 and to Adrian. Meanwhile, they had envisaged themselves 
 very diilerontly to Sydney Chevenix in the accident ward at 
 Eegent's Park Hospital. 
 
 When Jocelyn had left him on his first visit, Sydney dozed 
 awhile in completo unconsciousness of all that was passing 
 
THE OTHER SIDE. 197 
 
 around him, till at lengtli, afer what seemed lo hiia a cou- 
 sideiable iuterval, he heard the clock from the ueiL^hbouriug 
 church-tower strike eleven. Then he awoke to a faint con- 
 sciousness Oi the fact that the bed next his own, Xo. 18, was 
 being allotted to a fresh patient. 
 
 'Very curious indeeil,' the surgeon was saying, 'this second 
 case, so precisely similar to the other one, coming in on the 
 same evening ! There must be some jolly row going on in 
 the neighbourhood, one would think. Tiiis man's shot, too, 
 right through the body. Is his name and address known, I 
 wonder X 
 
 The man they were laying in the next bed seemed to bo 
 moving his lips for a moment feebly and ineffectually. Then 
 Sydney Chevenix's heart gave a sudden throb of surprise and 
 wonder, as the muttered words struck his ear distinctly, 
 ' Stanislas Benyowski.' 
 
 Yes, it was Benyowski himself, not a doubt about it. 
 Some strange chance had associated the two discoverers there 
 that night in that terrible conjunction. Sydney Chcvenix 
 breathed heavily. It seemed like an interposition of fate 
 that had brought Benyowski so close beside him under such 
 singular and mysterious circumstances. 
 
 ' Stanislas Benyowski,' the surgeon repeated, writing down 
 his name carelessly upon a blank card, and slipping it into 
 the little metal receptacle. * Ah, well then, that accounts for 
 it all. A Pole, I suppose ; one of these refugee dynamite 
 people. They're always Mling out like thieves among them- 
 selves, and I expect there's been some free shooting going on 
 among the gang this evening.' 
 
 As he spoke, Benyowski, lying stretched at full length 
 upon the bed where they had laid him, turned his pale face 
 slowly to the right, and glanced at Sydney Chevenix with a 
 sudden look of surprise and recognition, which Sydney's 
 features immediately reciprocated. Neither man was strong 
 enough to utter a single word, but their eyes met, and they 
 knew one another ; it was impossible to mistake the little 
 start of astonishment with which each mot the startled gaze 
 of his Avounded neighbour. 
 
 ' Dynamiters, both of 'era, I don't doubt,' the surgeon 
 went on, proceeding coolly to examine the wound. * Must 
 
198 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 have been liaving a general pistol-match all round, somewhere 
 down in Marylebone ; that's where most of these people 
 usually conf^regate. Ey Jove ! this last fellow's done for, 
 anyhow. He can't possibly hold out till morning. In fact, 
 it's really no good trying to do anything for him ; only 
 bothering the poor wretch for nothing. He's hopelessly 
 wounded — quite hopelessly. However, of course, one must 
 bandage him decently. Absurd etiquette of the profession, 
 to be sure, that can't even allow a case like this to die un- 
 worried in his bed, in peace and quietness !' 
 
 ' The other case seems to be doing pretty well,' whispered 
 the nurse, in the regulation undertone of a hospital ward. 
 * No. 1 7, I mean ; the first this evening. His pulse is very 
 nice now, and his skin's as cool as one could expect under 
 the circumstances.' 
 
 * Oh yes,' the surgeon went on carelessly, glancing at 
 Sydney with a sidelong eye. ' He'll do, I dare say, if 
 nothing unexpected turns up to prevent him. No vital 
 organ badly struck there. This is a much more serious 
 bullet wound, No. 18's, I take it. Lungs grazed, and spine 
 a bit injured.' 
 
 Sydney ('hevenix drew a long breath. God ! O 
 agony ! He felt it was true — quite true \ he wasn't dying, 
 he was going to recover. The injury was a serious one, but 
 not fatal. His professional instinct told him that at once 
 quite clearly. Yes, yes ; with his splendid constitution — 
 that constitution he was generally so proud of, and that now 
 he hated and detested so cordially — he was sure to get over 
 it ; he could feel in his own heart he was going to get over 
 it. He would soon pull round again : his pulse was beating 
 steady and even ; there was no fever, no unnatural exalta- 
 tion, no failing, or feebleness, or relapse of any sort. In spite 
 of all his internal agony, he was bearing up against the 
 effects of the wound as well as could possibly be expected. 
 
 Nay, rather, the internal agony itself was keeping him up. 
 He couldn't die, because he was alternately so eager for it, 
 and so anxious lest Maimie should be suspected of having 
 murdered him. 
 
 He lay there still, pale and silent, unable as yet to utter a 
 word ; unable to confer with his brother-surgeon ; yet hear- 
 
THE OTHER SIDE. 199 
 
 iDg and seeing everything that was passing all around him, 
 and terribly agitated in soul within with that one wild 
 thought of danger to ^laimio. There was no road out of it 
 possible either way. If lie died, they might hang Maimic ; 
 and if he lived, ]\raimio could never again be happy. Ah, 
 God ! if he could only die in peace, and feel quite sure that 
 Maimie would never, never be suspected, but would marry 
 the man she loved better than him, and bo happier then than 
 he could ever hope to make her ! 
 
 Maimie ! ISIaimie ! Maimie ! Maimie ! jS'ever a single 
 thought of himself or of his suffering ; never even a thought 
 of anger or horror ; never a doubt or a loathing for the crime 
 she had committed ; scarcely so much as a pang for the very 
 fact that she did not love him — she did love him, as much as 
 he deserved and as she was able ; but one absorbing over- 
 whelming fear for Maimie's safety — one devouring, entrancing, 
 self-efifacing desire for INlaimie's happiness ! What in the 
 name of Heaven did it matter to him whom she married, or 
 what she did, as long as Maimie — his own Maimie, his 
 darling Maimie, his heart's idol — was pleased and happy ? 
 Maimie willed it, and that was enough. "Who was he that 
 he should venture to complain of it ? If Maimie wished 
 him to die that minute, Sydney Chevenix felt almost guilty 
 in his own soul because ho wasn't able, try as he would, to 
 die soon enough. 
 
 The night wore on, hour after hour, slowly, slowly. The 
 deep-toned clock in the big church-tower hard by struck 
 twelve : it struck one : it struck two ; and still Sydney 
 Chevenix lay there on his bed in the hospital ward, vaguely 
 conscious of all around him, and revolving for ever in his 
 own fevered and whirling brain that terrible problem of what 
 to do for the best for ^laimie. As hour upon hour passed 
 slowly away, clanging its quarters one after the other — an 
 eternity of doubt and suffering for Sydney Chevenix — the 
 consciousness that he would recover and not die, forced 
 itself more and more certainly upon him with every minute. 
 Yes, yes — it was terrible ; it was awful ; it was unspeakable ; 
 it was unendurable ; but he could not die — he could not — he 
 could not. Did ever man so cling to life as he clung in his 
 frenzy, then, to the bare chance of dying 1 What would he 
 
200 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 not have given that liorriblo night if ho could but change 
 places with Stanislas Benyowski ? 
 
 If he could but change places with Stanislas Benyowski ! 
 Benyowski lay there, so still and motionless, growing fainter 
 and paler in the face every minute, lie was dying, Stanislas 
 Benyowski was — not a doubt of it. Fortunate man ! he was 
 dying — dying ! Dying slowly before Sydney Chevenix's 
 very eyes ! And how coolly they take death, too, in a 
 hospital ! The night nurse, seated by herself in her chair 
 at the end of the ward, dozed off (quietly from time to time, 
 and now and again "walked once with formal care from end 
 to end of the long corridor, very noiselessly, casting a casual 
 glance as she passed at the most critical cases. She saw that 
 Stanislas Benyowski was dying, and she looked at him like 
 an expert, with an observant eye, as Sydney Chevcnix him- 
 self had often looked at interesting patients in the Middlesex 
 Hospital. 
 
 Half-past two clanged from the clock-tower. Benyowski 
 turned his head uueasily. Sydney Chevenix, looking across 
 askance without moving in his bed, to No. 18, saw Beny- 
 owski's mouth open with an ominous gasp, and remain 
 open for the space of a moment. There was a deep breath, 
 a gurgle of the throat, a slow relaxation of the facial muscles ; 
 and then the lower jaw dropped upon the neck in a loose 
 fashion that Sydney knew well at once how to interpret. 
 The nurse heard the rattle in his throat from the end of the 
 ward. She came up and carelessly watched him dying. 
 Then she closed the staring eyes with her rough finger and 
 thumb — no love, no reverence, a mere function of her daily 
 duty — tied a handkerchief lightly around the beardless face 
 and went back yawning to her place by the fireside, leaving 
 the fresh corpse to take care of itself as best it might till to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 It was a ghastly tiling even for Sydney Chevenix, accus- 
 tomed as he was to sights and sounds of death, thus to lie 
 helpless, speechless, an«l motionless, side by side with that 
 pale dead man, whom ho had seen living and well in the full 
 enjoyment of perfect health that very afternoon, and the 
 cause of whose deatli was still to him a profound mystery. 
 He turned his head as far on one side as his open wound 
 
THE OTHER SIDE. 201 
 
 and tho cramping bandages would easily allow him. Ho 
 could see Lenyowski, lying there still, growing colder and 
 whiter as each minute passed, with tho coarse hospital hand- 
 kerchief tied horribly around his lantern jaw. lie could see 
 his eyelids like a marble statue, dropped motionless upon 
 those piercing eager eyes. Ho could see his fiico, no longer 
 grim and stern, so calm and placid in tho relaxation of death. 
 
 Oh, what would ho not give if he could change places now 
 with Stanislas Benyowski ! 
 
 Still the night wore on. Three ! Half-past three ! A 
 quarter to four ! He couldn't sleep for looking at Stanislas 
 and thinking of Maimie. A clean-shaven man like himself, 
 Stanislas ! Oh, if it had only been the other way ! If 
 Stanislas could have lived and he could have died ! Then 
 Maimie might have been been free to make herself happy. 
 
 Who was he that ho should dare to stand in tho way of 
 Maimie's happiness % 
 
 Well, well, he could live long enough to vindicate her, and 
 then — tho Thames after all was very handy. She should 
 have her way, and marry Adrian. 
 
 If only he could change places with Stanislas Benyowski ! 
 
 His head was running and reeling now in the wild vortex 
 of a feverish delirium. A great change had come over him 
 during the last half-hour. He felt the strain of that silent 
 agony was growing too much for him. His brain whirled 
 round and round like a giddy dancer's to two swiftly 
 alternating refrains — 'Maimie, Maimie, Maimie, jNIaimie !' 
 * If only I could change places with Stanislas Benyowski !' 
 
 Slowly out of this dizzy chaos of fevered thought a terrible, 
 indefinite, incoherent plan seemed to rise up and spon- 
 taneously frame itself. Sydney Chevenix hardly know how 
 or why the idea occurred to him ; but it did occur : a wild 
 idea, a mad idea, a feverish idea, but one that just then for 
 that passing moment took full possession of his entire nature 
 with absorbing vehemence — the strange idea of actually and 
 physically changing places with Stanislas Benyowski. 
 
 What was he, and what was Benyowski to the nurse and 
 tho surgeon ? A case, a number, a bed in tho accident ward 
 —that was all ; not a person or a reality. How could they 
 ever really discriminate one from the other] Impossible, 
 
202 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 impossible, llo knew what hospital practice was himself, 
 and he felt certain that No. 17 and No. 18 were cyphers, 
 cypiiers, less than nothing to nurse and doctor in their 
 ollicial capacity. 
 
 Besides, the second nurse would soon come on — at four 
 o'clock. If only he could take advantage of the change, 
 they would never know one man from the other. 
 
 But then the inipiest ! the identilication ! the necessary 
 formalities ! ^laimio or Jocelyn would bo called upon to 
 identify him — the corpse, that is to say — Benyowski's body. 
 How on earth would he ever get over that insuperable 
 difTiculty ? 
 
 If he had been sane and cool and collected as usual, the 
 hitch he thus immediately perceived would have sufficed at 
 once to quash fur ever the very idea of his foolhardy under- 
 taking. But lying there as he lay, feverish and delirious, 
 with the concentrated agony of that evening's terrors goading 
 and urging him on irrationally, he cared nothing for ulterior 
 consequences ; ho left them all to the chapter of accidents. One 
 insane desire alone possessed him now — to change places 
 with Stanislas Benyowski. 
 
 Presently, the second nurse came to the door, and 
 whispered a few inaudible words in the ear of the first one. 
 Then they walked together down the ward. Sydney, with 
 his senses now preternaturally sharpened and exalted by his 
 increasing delirium, could hear, as they approached, every 
 syllable they eaid to one another from the for end of the 
 long corridor. 
 
 * How are they getting along V asked the new nurse. 
 
 ' Oh, pretty well,' her companion replied in an off'hand 
 voice. 'There's another of 'em dead since the doctor left. 
 Down at the opposite end of the ward. New case, pistol 
 wound; No. 17 or 18 or something. There's a second 
 new one, exactly the same, right alongside of him. 
 Pistol case, too. Been some shooting going on down Maryle- 
 bone way. Foreigners, both of 'em ; got German names or 
 Eussian or something.' 
 
 Sydney strained his ears with hushed attention. Thank 
 God for that fortunate indefinite vagueness. If only ho 
 could gain a little time, all might yet be well for Maimie. 
 
THE OTHER SIDE. 203 
 
 Ho didn't exactly know what ho wanted or why ho wanted 
 it, hut in his own mind lio sonioliow felt that if only ho 
 could chan^'o places with Stanislas Benyowski, Maimio mii^ht 
 still bo saved and might marry Adrian, ^faimie, Maimio, 
 ^Maimio, ^[aimio ! — if only ho could change places with 
 Stanislas Benyowski ! 
 
 Thoy would think ho was dead. They would hold an 
 inquest upon him. Thoy would put his suicide in all tho 
 papers. If Maimio, Maimio, were even suspected, ho could 
 come forward and prove that sho had not munlered him. If 
 !Maimie, on the other hand, were not suspected — if the suicide 
 story went dov/n with tho jury — ho would cea>";o entirely to 
 bo Sydney Chovenix, and would become hencefori}i Stanislas 
 Benyowski. Yes, yes ; ^Maimio should have everything on 
 earth that was his, and he would Avatch over her r.nd care for 
 her unseen, and see that sho was happy with iho husband 
 sho had chosen. 
 
 A terrible plan — a mad plan — a feverish plan ; but still 
 the one that then and there implicitly commended itself to 
 Sydney CHievenix's delirious intellect. Impracticable, utterly, 
 in tho end, no doubt, but plausible enough at first hearing. 
 Only one great fundamental flaw in it : how on earth was ho 
 ever to get over tho difficult problem of identification % 
 
 Well, leave that to the chapter of accidents. The first 
 great point was now at stake, to change places with Stanislas 
 Benyowski. When that was once fairly accomplished, ho 
 could think afterwards about tho subsequent question of 
 identity and recognition. Perhaps Jocelyn Cipriani would 
 help him out ! Who l-nows ! Jocelyn was a philosopher, 
 and like other philosophers not over scrupulous ; and Jocelyn 
 was very, very fond of darling ^laimie. For wherever 
 Maimie's happiness was concerned, Sydney Chovenix unre- 
 servedly confessed to himself that right and wrong didn't 
 enter at all into his personal calculation of possible conse- 
 quences. In Maimie's case ho was frankly extra-ethical. 
 
 And all this time, Stanislas Benyowski's fresh white corpse 
 lay ghastly and lonely on its bed beside him ; and from 
 minute to m^'uute Sydney cast his dazed eyes across at it 
 ivith a hideous, hungry, unnatural yearning. 
 
 A fortunate thing, indeed, that Stanislas, too, was a close- 
 
204 ^^''OR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 shaven man, tlie same as lie liimself was. What mirse or 
 doctor would ever discriminate one close-shaven patient of 
 thirty-fivo from another beside him, lying in bed, the one 
 dead, the other living ? 
 
 Anyhow, if only chance should favour him, the attempt, 
 at least, was well worth making. 
 
 At a quarter-past four, the second nurse, now alone on the 
 watch, left the ward untended for a few minutes. Sydney's 
 lieart beat fast and quick. Providence itself was clearly 
 helping forward his terrible endeavour. Now for it ! Now 
 for it ! Not a second to be lost ! AVith a wild and fierce 
 effort, bandaged and tightly strapped as he was, he lifted 
 himself like a madman from his bed, and stepped out half- 
 naked, in his tight swathing-clothes, on to the cold floor of 
 the noiseless hospital. Then his brain began to reel frantic- 
 ally with the awful exertion, and he nearly swooned, as he 
 stood in the space between the beds, with excitement and 
 exhaustion. 
 
 With a terrible strain ho pulled himself together and 
 didn't fall. Come what miglit, he must carry iiis plan 
 through now. There was no possibility of turning back. 
 To do so would be flital to Maimie's happiness. Maimie, 
 Maimie, Maimie, JMaimie i He must change places with 
 Stanislas Leuyowski ! 
 
 He staggered across, scarce knowing what ho did, to 
 Benyowski's bedside. The corpse lay there, still and placid, 
 mocking with its unrufiled face the whirlwind of fever and 
 passion that was fast wearing away Sydney's Chovenix's own 
 reason. He bent over it, and caught it in his arms. Hush ! 
 hush ! was that the nurse coming back again 1 Were any of 
 the other patients looking 1 No, no. All asleep, asleep or 
 unconscious. All, all, except the man with the broken arm 
 at the end of the ward, who was lying on his side, turned 
 the other way, muttering and groaning feebly to himself in 
 pain and loneliness ! AVith one mad swoop he caught up 
 the corpse like a log from tlie bed, and, nerved by the 
 momentary strength of fever, raised it bodily up in his own 
 strong arms. Tliank God for his strength, if it saved Maimie ! 
 He lifted his ghastly burden easily across the little space 
 
THE OTHER SIDE. 205 
 
 between the two beds, and then stood, holding it irresohito 
 in his grasp for a moment, above No. 17 — his own till 
 that minute. Then ho glanced rapidly round. The nurse 
 wasn't yet returning. All was well. He wouhl still save 
 Mainiie. He laid the corpse down in haste upon the bed, 
 and arranged the coverlet neatly across it. The hand- 
 kerchief had slipped from the jaw with the movement : 
 Sydney Chevcnix replaced it carefully, and gazed at the pale, 
 cold face below him with horrible complacency. What did 
 he care now for that mysterious corpse, or anyone, or any- 
 thing, as long as he could make Maimie happy % 
 
 A little paraffin lamp, such as they commonly use in 
 hospitals, hung loose in a rack above No. 18 bed. Sydney 
 took it down in his fierce joy from its place, and, still 
 upheld by the strength of his delirium, calmly inspected 
 the corpse he had laid out, and pulled the edges of the 
 coverlet straight about the neck and shoulders. Then he 
 glanced with intense approval at the printed card by the 
 head of the bed. ' Xo. 17,' he read aloud: * ]Mr. Sydney 
 Cheveuix, 27, Beaumont Terrace, IJegent's Park, N.W.' 
 As he read, he chuckled to himself a fearful chuckle: the 
 fever was beginning now, in its course, to overcome him 
 utterly. 
 
 At last he laid down the paraffin lamp on the little deal table 
 that stood by the bedside. Once more he glared hurriedly 
 around. No, no ; nobody had seen or noticed the horrid epi- 
 sode. In another minute the nurse would be back, and the 
 change would have been effected — for ever and ever. Sydney 
 Chevenix would be lying dead- legally dead — in No. 17; 
 and Stanislas Benyowski would be alive again in the bed 
 beside him. He hugged himself with delight at the notion. 
 It held him so that he could hardly find strength after his 
 terrific effort to get back safely into his own bed — Benyowski's 
 bed — for he would be Sydney Chevenix now no longer. 
 
 A noise in the corridor ! A rustling ! A footstep ! The 
 nurse was coming ! Recalled to himself by the instant 
 danger, Sydney Chevenix sprang with a bound towards 
 No. 18. As he did so, he hit his arm sharply against some- 
 thing — he knew not what; but it stung him severely. There 
 was a rattling sound as of an object falling — no matter why 
 
2o6 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 — and a smart pain in his jarred elbow. Lut ho took no heed 
 now of either ; he only sprang back the quicker to the bed, 
 and falling on it, "with all his force spent and exhausted, 
 he swooned away in a dead faint from the manifold excite- 
 ments of that awful evening. 
 
 (CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SUSPENSE. 
 
 "When he came to again, some ten minutes later, as it seemed 
 to him, he was conscious first of a strange din and noise and 
 bustle on every side of him, voices shouting and praying and 
 cursing and screaming, and a loud commanding tone above 
 uU the turmoil, giving hasty orders which he did not for a time 
 fully understand, but which he felt to bo delivered with ap- 
 palling sternness. Then he was aware of a choking sensation, 
 as of smoke and gas suffocating him as ho lay there helpless and 
 immovable. Xext, a fearful glare struck upon his eyeballs even 
 through the eyelids, as though the whole room, wherever it 
 might be — for he had forgotten for the moment everything 
 that had passed — wore one great surging sea of liquid fire. 
 
 'Take that one first — Xo. 18,' the loud voice commanded, 
 with an air of authority ; and even as it spoke Sydney felt 
 himself lifted bodily out of the burning bod-clothes, for they 
 were all on fire, and rapidly rolled round in a big enveloping 
 rug-like blanket, and carried hastily in a porter's arms into 
 another ward of the hospital, As ho passed, he opened 
 his eyes vaguely, and looked behind him. Huge sheets of 
 flame were leaping wildly about the corridor on every side, 
 and a white corpse — Stanislas Benyowski's corpse . . . 
 
 Ah, yes ; ho remembered it all distinctly now. He remem- 
 bered the accident — the wound — the substitution ! But what 
 had happened % What had happened % And then, in a flash, a 
 clue occurred to him. The lamp ! The lamp ! The hospital 
 was on fire. Ho must have knocked it over. That was all he 
 knew. And he — why, ho was henceforth Stanislas Benyowski. 
 
 The flames were leaping anil dancing in savage glee about 
 the silent corpse. God ! God ! they would burn it 
 
SC/SP/iNSE. 207 
 
 to aslies, or, at least, disfigure it past all ivcorrnition. Great 
 Heavens ! what a chance ! "What an interpn ition of Provi- 
 dence ! Pure accident had helped him fairiy out of that 
 supreme difhculty, which no amount of clever contiivance or 
 deliberate arrangement could ever possibly have enabled him 
 to surmount ! It was wonderful ! wonderful ! but oh, how 
 terrible ! For there were many more patients still struggling 
 and crying plaintively in the wards, and the fire, perhaps, 
 would stifle all of them. And then it would be he, he who 
 was the murderer ! 
 
 Breathless with horror, suspense, and feverishness, Sydney 
 Cheveuix could still hear but a single tune ringing for ever 
 in his deafened ears, * Maimie, iSIairaie, ^Nlairaie, Maimie 1' 
 Come what might of it, he had saved Maimie ! 
 
 They carried him down into another ward, in another 
 wing, and laid him hastily on a bed prepared for him. A 
 hospital surgeon was there in attendance, and a nurse with a 
 pencil asked mechanically his name and number. 
 
 In a choking voice, Sydney Chevenix answered feebly, 
 'Stanislas Benyowski, jSTo. 18. From the accident ward.' 
 And then, at last, he collapsed utterly. 
 
 When he next became conscious, it was broad daylight, 
 and the fire, so far as he could judge, must have been quite 
 extinguished, for he heard no more running up and down 
 upon the stairs, and ho saw around him, in the neighbouring 
 beds, many of the faces he had observed the night before in 
 the room in which they had first laid him. 
 
 ' The fire ! the fire !' he cried to the passive nurse at the 
 bedside close to him. ' Is it out 1 — is it out 1 Is anybody 
 injured]' 
 
 The woman turned and glanced at him carelessly, 
 
 *0h, it's you,' she said ; ' the Russian — is it ? Yes, yes ; 
 the fire's out long ago, safe enough : only smouldering a bit 
 in the burnt timbers. iJon't you bo afraid for yourself any 
 longer. The fire's out, and it's all right again.' 
 
 ' But the others ! — the others !' Sydney went on eagerly. 
 * Are they hurt ? Are they killed 1 Is there anybody dead 
 with it V 
 
 * Don't you go exciting yourself on no account,' the woman 
 answered, with stolid indifference. ' Doctor's orders is, that 
 
2o8 FOR maimie:s sake. 
 
 you're to be kept as quiet and cool as possible, and not bo 
 allowed to talk to anybody. You've got to lie still, and not 
 excite yourself.' 
 
 ' But I shall be all the more excited unless I know,' Sydney 
 exclaimed in impotent anxiety. ' I shall worry and fret about 
 it all day lon^,', unless you tell me. Was anybody killed ? 
 Was anybody killed by it ]' 
 
 * Drat the man !' the nurse replied with some considerable 
 asperity. ' Law, now, what on earth does he want to know 
 whether they were killed or not for % You're safe enough 
 yourself, aren't you, eh % and that had ought to be quite 
 sufficient for you. You only came in here just last night, 
 and you've given us more trouble and bother already than 
 all the other patients we've ever had in the whole place put 
 together. It was you as upset the lamp yourself, and set fire to 
 the Accidents ; and now you want to know, as mild as milk, 
 whether any of 'em in the Accidents is injured by it? No; 
 there's none of 'em injured : not a soul of 'em injured. We 
 got 'em all away at a minute's notice, so you needn't fret about 
 it. It's all organization — that's what I call it. Lucky it didn't 
 spread to the Fever and the Infectious. I suppose you thought 
 you'd set fire to the whole wardful of 'em ! You'd ought to 
 be a dynamiter by trade, you had, to judge by the look of 
 you !' 
 
 'And Benyowskif Sydney asked, with- fevered lips, 
 forgetting himself for the moment in his eager anxiety. 
 'Benyowski? Benyowski ? The man in No. 17, you know, 
 beside me % Is he burnt % Is he hurt ? Is he dead ? — tell 
 mo.' 
 
 The woman looked at him with a wondering smile, and 
 a touch of ridicule. 
 
 * Benyowski !' she cried. ' Says you, Benyowski. You 
 must be wandering in your head yourself a bit, sure; deli- 
 rious, or something. Why, you're Benyowski, you are — ain't 
 you % and you've got to keep quiet, and not excite yourself, 
 by doctor's orders. So now lie round and take it easj'', Beny- 
 owski; I ain't going to answer you no more questions.* 
 
 ' But the other man,' Sydney cried in petulant despair ; 
 * the man who lay in the bed next to mine — the fellow that 
 one of you came over to, and tied up his chin with a hand- 
 
SUSPENSE. 2oy 
 
 kerchief, you know, Chevcnix, Chovenix— is ho burnt, eh ? 
 What's come to him V 
 
 ' Oh, him !' the nurse answered with a smile — a compas- 
 sionate smile. 'Him — Chevcnix — tlie one in Ko. 17, you 
 mean ! Oh, he was dead long before the fire began, bless 
 you! You set fire to his bedding finely, I'll warrant youj 
 but he ain't burnt up quite, though he's scorched terrible. 
 iS'ow, just you look here, you've got to mind mo ; don't you 
 go and ask no more questions.' 
 
 Sydney lay for a while in silent agony, wondering in his 
 own heart whether ho might venture upon the one final 
 inquiry that still troubled his unquiet soul; then he muttered 
 at last, in a quiver of excitement : 
 
 * Is he much disfigured % Do you think he'll bo known? 
 Can they recognize him? Can they recognize him? Do you 
 think they'll know him again V 
 
 ' AYhy, what the devil ails the man !' the nurse replied 
 testily. ' Why, in the name o' goodness, are you so par- 
 ticular anxious, I should like to know, about this 'ere patient 
 — Chevenix ? You didn't each of you shoot one another, 
 did you ? Patients is patients — and there's lots to spare of 
 'em. Well, his face isn't pretty to look at now, certainly ; 
 his own mother wouldn't know him from Adam, he's scorched 
 and burnt so. You've spoilt his beauty for him. But ho 
 was dead all right before the fire broke out ; and if there's 
 anybody blamed, it'll bo you that's blamed for it, so that's 
 a comfort. JS^ow, not another word for anything, I tell you. 
 Discipline's discipline. You're not the only patient in the 
 hospital, remember.' 
 
 For three long endless days and nights, Sydney lay there 
 in one continuous terror, writhing on his bed, not with 
 physical pain — for his wound was progressing favourably, the 
 surgeon said — but with devouring suspense for the ultimate 
 success of his perilous impersonation. Who would be sent 
 to identify the body 1 he wondered. How far was it disfigured 
 and how far recognisable ? AVould jNIaimie be called to see 
 it, and know at once it was not her husband's? H' so, would 
 sho lose her presence of mind, and say at tliat supreme 
 moment, outright, that it wasn't Sydney ; or would sho wait 
 and watch and unravel the mystery on her own account, 
 
 14 
 
2IO FOR MAIMIE'S SAk'E. 
 
 without disclosing unytliing of lier Joubts to anybody ? 
 Hour al'tcr liour, day alter day, and night after night, Sydney- 
 lay there tossing and turning feverishly, and torturing him- 
 self by asking over and over again those endless, hopeless, 
 unanswerable questions. 
 
 ]jL-nyowsld was about the same lieight and build as 
 himself — that much, at any rate, Avas in his favour ; but ho 
 was a somewhat thinner and wirier man, and that, on the 
 otiier hand, was in so much against him. ]]oth were beard- 
 less, but lienyowski's eyebrows were bushier than his own : 
 pray (iod the fire might have burned olf the eyebrows ! If 
 only lie could have asked anybody else about it — if only ho 
 could have trusted Jocelyn Cipriani, for example ! but no, 
 the secret must bo confided to no other living soul save 
 himself : quod tacituiii veils, ncm'uii di.a'ris. And yet, how 
 wearing was this long suspense ! If ho could but know 
 whether they suspected anything ! whether Jocelyn or the 
 servants had seen the body ! whether everybody thought tho 
 corpse was his and not Benyow\ski's ! Thank Heaven, nobody 
 would ever come and in(|uire for Benyowski : that was ono 
 blessing. Ilis Nihilist friends, who no doubt had murdered 
 him, would never take the trouble to step round and ask 
 whether he was dead or living, and give themselves up by so 
 doing into the hands of justice. 
 
 Of justice ! justice ! justice ! Sydney Chevenix had been 
 always hitherto accounted a just and upright and honest 
 man : what terrible abyss of crime and falsehood was this 
 into which ]\[aimio's act was hurrying him headlong 1 
 Benyowski had been murdered, foully murdered ; there could 
 bo very little doubt of any sort about that : and he, Sydney 
 Chevenix, by this false substitution of Benyowski's dead 
 body for his own living one, would be screening tho murderers 
 — Benyowski's murderers and his own also ! He Avould be 
 making himself an accessory after tho fact. How rapidly do 
 we sink when once we begin to play tricks with the truth, 
 and to palter with our consciences ! and yet what other 
 could ho possibly do ! Maimie, ]Maimie, ho must save 
 ]\laimio ! Was it to be endured by human flesh and blood 
 that a man should let his own wife — and that wife Maimie ! 
 — be branded for a murderess ! Hating and loathing him- 
 
SUSPENSE. 211 
 
 self in his own soul for Lis wicked act of deception against 
 the claims of justice, Sydney Chevenix could nevertheless 
 think but one eternal thought : * I must save Maimic ; I 
 must save Maimio ! ^laimie, Maimio, jNIaimie, ]\laimie ! 
 Whatever comes of it, I must save JMaimie !' 
 
 Your taciturn, self-contained, solitary Beuyowskis have 
 few friends — that was one comfort. oS'^obody would ever care 
 to hunt him up. His Nihilist comrades must have turned 
 against him, and his death would count for nothing with 
 anybody. 
 
 And then, slowly, as he lay on his bed, it began to dawn 
 upon S}'dney Chevenix's fevered soul that the way things had 
 now actually turned out was the very best way in the end 
 for Maimie — for Maimie. 
 
 If he had died, who could tell what unspeakable things 
 might finally have happened to 1m r? "What formless suspicion 
 might gradually have grown up , what chance might have 
 brought about a casual discovery ; what accident might have 
 revealed that the wound he had received could not really 
 have been self-inflicted? If he had died, Maimie, his own 
 Maimie, dear, beautiful, innocent, darling little jNIaimio, might 
 have been — oh, it was too terrible even to think of it ! Yes, 
 yes, if he had really died, all might have come out, and then 
 there would have been no hope of escape or of happiness for 
 Maimie. 
 
 But now, as things had actually turned out, all the advan- 
 tages of his being alive and of his being dead were combined 
 together with glorious incongruity. If ever Maimio were 
 suspected or accused, there he would be, alive and producible 
 to refute the calumny, and to say boldly, 'This is no 
 murder.' 
 
 If the worst came to the worst, and those meddling 
 police officers chose to proceed against his darling, his 
 precious one, for assault Avith attempt to commit murder, ho 
 could lie and forswear himself — for Maimie's sake — and 
 declare it was all the merest accident. So it was ! So it was — 
 the merest accident ! Dear, tender-hearted, innocent little 
 Maimie ! she would never willingly have hurt an insect. 
 She would never do harm to anybody or anything. 
 
 On the other hand, if nobody ever suspected the truth — 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 FOR iMALMIES SAKE. 
 
 if his supposed death was put down universally as an in- 
 explicable suicide — he would live on, always in readiness to 
 come forward and vindicate her, and would Avatch for ever 
 over ^laimio's happiness. ]\Iaimie herself, indeed, need 
 never know that ho was still liviuif ; tlmt would spoil all ; 
 that would prevent her, of course, from marrying Adrian. . . . 
 Por she must marry Adrian. . . . She would never be happy 
 unless she married Adrian. . . . They call it bigamy, those 
 fools of lawyers ; but Maimie would never know she was com- 
 mitting bigamy. ... It Avas with him, Sydney, that all the 
 blame would really lie ; he was the criminal, and for Maimie's 
 sake ho would bear it — he would bear it. 
 
 Yes, Maimio would be happy, and ho could watch over her 
 and ensure her happiness. He would be legally dead, and 
 she would inherit everything. Adrian, whom she loved, would 
 make her happier than ever ho had been able to make her. 
 
 So for those three endless days and nights, Sydney 
 Chevenix tossed and turned and thouglit over to himself the 
 doubtful chances, in suspense and agony- and all the time, as 
 lie knew full well, his wound was healing, healing rapidly in 
 spite of him. 
 
 The only thing that kept Xo. 17 back, said the hospital 
 surgeon, was the state of feverish anxiety into Avhich ho 
 had thrown himself. But for that, with his splendid con- 
 stitution, there could have been no doubt at all about the 
 fellow's recovery. These Nihilists and dynamiters always 
 do recover. 
 
 On the fourth day, the two nurses went out to the inquest 
 on the body described as Sydney Cheveuix's. AVhen they 
 came back they found * the man Benyowski ' almost dead 
 with eagerness and anxiety to hear the verdict of the coroner's 
 jury.^ 
 
 'Well,' the nurse said, in ansv.-er to his hasty reiterated 
 questions, ' the jury don't lay no blame on you, or no blame 
 on nobody, for tho accident Avith the paraffin ; they only 
 recommend that there should be no more of them there lamps 
 used in the hospital at all in future. So you see you're safe 
 out of it all any Avay. Whatever blame there is, is throAvn 
 on tho committee. And tho committee and the nurses is 
 ahvays at variance.' 
 
SUSPENSE. 213 
 
 ' But the body, the body — the dead man — Chevenix : what 
 did they say of him V Sydney gasped out excitedly. 
 
 'Ilim! oh, him,' the -vvoraan answered in her cook\st 
 manner; 'just the regular thing ! They brouglit it in suicide 
 ■\vliile in an unsound slate of mind, the same as always. Another 
 of your foreigners, a man with a pointed brown beard and 
 some crackjaw outlandish name or other ' 
 
 * Cipriani,' Sydney suggested tentatively. 
 
 *Ah, Chippery-Annie, that was just him,' the nurse 
 answered with a careless nod of the head. ' He went in and 
 identified the bod}' — not that there was much left fur him to 
 identify ; and the widow — a pretty little thing, no more nor a 
 girl, as the saying is — she came in crying lit to break her 
 heart, and taking on no end al)out him.' 
 
 Sydney's heart gave a sudden bound against his wasted 
 bosom. Then Maimie was sorry — sorry to have lost him ! 
 Thank God for that — that Maimie still loved him ! 
 
 'And they read a letter out from the man himself, saying 
 that he was going to commit suicide. And Amelia, she gave 
 evidence about the lan^p upsetting, and didn't attach no 
 blame to nobody. And the jury they returned a verdict that 
 he killed himself in a temj)orary insanity. So we're well 
 out of it. And they say the body's to be buried at "Woking 
 on Friday.' 
 
 Sydney Chevenix heard no more. He fainted on his bed, 
 and lay there fainting for many minutes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ALIA8 nENYOW.SKI. 
 
 Ox Saturday morning, Sydney begged hard for leave to see a 
 paper. The surgeon shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 ' You excite yourself too much, too much altogether,' he 
 said, ' Benyowski. You should keep more (juiet. Lut as 
 you evidently won't be appeased until you've seen one — well, 
 yes, nurse, you may send out for a Stundanl ov a Telegraph for 
 him. Don't read it longer than ten minutes altogether, 
 though, mind I tell you.' 
 
 When the paper arrived, Sydney turned eagerly to the 
 little paragraphs at the bottom of the fifth page columns. 
 
214 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 ffo knew ho would see the notice of the funeral there. Yes, 
 yes, he was not mistaken ; here it ran, ' Euneral of Mr. 
 Sydney Chevenix.' Great Heavens, how strange the contrast 
 of that long list of scientific names — half the best-known men 
 in London gone down by special train to his funeral — with 
 his own utter loneliness and desolation there by himself on 
 his solitary bed in Kegent's Park Hospital. And a little 
 leaderette upon his death, too \ the usual commonplaces of 
 regret and condolence — ' one of our most brilliant and promis- 
 ing young men of science . . . famous investigations on the 
 nature of explosives . . . overwrought brain completely 
 broken down with deep and exhausting chemical researches 
 . . . laid rash hands upon himself in a moment, apparently, 
 of unexpected failure . . . long scries of experiments 
 resulting at last in temporary discomfiture . . . sincerely 
 condole with his bereaved young widow in the sudden cutting 
 short of so valuable, so promising, and so blameless a life.' 
 Sydney Chevenix laid down the paper with a sigh of relief. 
 For all was safe and snug now, and Sydney Chevenix was 
 dead and buried. 
 
 Legally dead and buried, no dou1)t ; and next week, as he 
 learned not long afterwards, Jocelyn Cipriani and Henry 
 Donaldson, the two executors named thereby, duly proved 
 his will at Somerset House, and proceeded to hand over the 
 whole of his estate to his wife, Maimie, in accordance with 
 the provisions therein recited. 
 
 So tb.at was the end of Sydney Chevenix. 
 
 13ut on the low bed at Eegent's Park Hospital a man of the 
 name of Stanislas Benyowski lay fevered and anxious, repeat- 
 ing to himself in one frenzied delirium the name of 
 Sydney Chevenix's wife, * ]\Iaimie, Maimie, Maimie, Maimie !' 
 
 For three weeks he lay there still, and nobody came to ask 
 or inquire for him. Bound up in himself and in his own 
 thoughts, Sydney Chevenix seemed to grow as morose and 
 taciturn as the murdered man whose name and personality he 
 had taken upon him. The nurse or the surgeon sometimes 
 asked him curiously whether he had no friends or relatives 
 with whom he wished to communicate ; but Sydney always 
 answered curtly, ' Has a Polish refugee any friends or 
 relatives ?' 
 
A /.IAS nRN VOW'S k'f. 215 
 
 * You speak English woiulcrfiilly well for .a foroi ;tioi',' tlio 
 doctor said to liiiu once, lialf in joke aud half in earnest. 
 
 ' Wc Poles are all good linguists,' Sydney replied sharply, 
 M'ith a sardonic smile ; ' and, inJeed, I have lived so long in 
 England tliat I speak J'^nglish now better than Polish.' That 
 at least, he thought to himself bitterly, was no ftilsohood. 
 
 The police came, too, on a visit of in(|uiry. A row had 
 occurred among the jSlarylebonc refugees, and somebody had 
 been shot, though not fatally, and they wanted to get the 
 facts of the case from the man Benyowski. liut the man 
 Eenyowski could tell them nothing ; ho had clean forgotten 
 all about it, ho said; the last thing ho could distinctly 
 remember was his going away from the place where he 
 worked on the evening of the assault, and from that time 
 forth ho recollected nothing. He was so perfectly stolid in 
 sticking to this simple non-committing story that the police 
 with all their astuteness could worm nothing out of him. 
 
 'It's clear,' the iusi)ector said, shaking his head with an 
 air of profound but baflled wisdom, ' he's afraid to tell us 
 what he knows about the matter. lie's terrorized by the 
 others, that's the long aud the short of it. It's always the way 
 with these foreigner communist people. Even if you shoot 
 them, they won't peach upon one another. He thinks if he 
 tells nothing now, they may let him off this time with just a 
 bullet through his breast by way of a warning ; but if ho 
 confesses how it all happened, they'll kill him before long, as 
 safe as houses. And upon my word, if I were in his place, 
 I don't know but that I'd do as he does. It's a deuced 
 awkward thing to have a pack of those lawless communist 
 people down upon you in a regular body. AVe must keep 
 our eye upon this man Benyowski.' 
 
 At the end of three weeks, Sydney Chevenix, alias 
 Benyowski, was sufficiently recovered from the effect of his 
 wound to be allowed to rise and dress himself one morning. 
 As he looked in the glass for the first time since the fatal 
 accident, he was surprised to see how strange a change had 
 come over him in those three long weeks of doubt and terror. 
 It was not merely that he had lost flesh, that his face had 
 fallen in, that his brow was scored with deep lines, that his 
 cheeks were hollow and his oyes sunken ; but beside all 
 
2 if. FOR MA/Af/E'S SAKE. 
 
 these, a iliick growtli of stubbly beard, moustache, auJ 
 wliisker complotely obscured liis clear-cut, delicate, close- 
 ehaveu features. J le started as he caught sight of the curious 
 and unfamiliar face in the glass before him ; ho would not 
 have known himself for Sydney Chovenix. 
 
 Eenyowski's clotlies sat upon him like sacks ; but they 
 made him look oven less and less like his real self than ho 
 might otherwise have done. 
 
 In three days more, the surgeon permitted him to go for a 
 walk. Not more than ten minutes. 
 
 Sydney Chovenix knew ho must seize the first possible 
 opportunity to escape and lose himself among the outer 
 world. Every day spent at the hospital increased the chances 
 of somebody discovering that ho was not Benyowski. Ho 
 must try to get away at tho very first moment from this 
 strained position. 
 
 He walked down the great white hospital steps, and passed 
 the porter with a friendly nod. The porter knew him well 
 by sight. There was some suspicion of a mystery about this 
 foreign fellow Benyowski, and the hospital servants had heard 
 how the police examined him in vain, and couldn't discover 
 anything about the source of his accident. There is nothing 
 that attracts your London populace like a good mystery. 
 
 As he reached tho bottom of tho outer steps, and turned 
 the corner towards Eegent's Park, a foreign-looking man in a 
 seedy suit raised his hat and addressed him politely, with a 
 very marked German accent. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir, but I see you come from Eegent's 
 Park Hospital. Can you have the goodness to tell me 
 whether you happen to know anything about a patient in 
 the accident ward who goes by tho name of Stanislas 
 Benyowski V 
 
 Sydney Chevenix was thrown completely off his guard by 
 tho unexpected question. If ho had had time to think and 
 to frame his answer to the best advantage, ho would have 
 replied simply, ' I know nothing of him. Ho wasn't in the 
 same ward that I was.' For the one great deception of 
 personating Benyowski — for Maimic's sake — must inevitably 
 lead him into countless minor deceptions and subterfuges, if 
 he kept it up after leaving the hospital. 
 
ALIAS PENVOirSAV. 217 
 
 But as it Avas, lie was so completely taken aback by so 
 fitranfje a coinciJciico at such an untoward juncture, that ho 
 lost his presence of mind completely, and, anxious merely to 
 get away, answered in an unguarded moment the first thing 
 that came into his mind. 
 
 ' Stanislas Lenyowski — why, he was taken out and buried 
 over at Woking, some three or four days since, I fancy.' 
 
 Trapmanu looked at him with a keen glance of astonished 
 in([uiry. 
 
 ' Impossible !' ho cried aloud in German, * Day and night 
 we've watched the door by turns to see if he escaped, and 
 questioned every patient as ho came out. Xo, no ; im- 
 ])Ossible.' Then turning to Sydney, now pale as death with 
 fear and embarrassment, he went on in English : * That 
 cannot bo ; for only half an hour since another patient from 
 the same ward told me tho man was doing well and con- 
 valescent.' 
 
 Sydney's face blanched whiter and whiter still with 
 terror — for Maimie's sake — as ho answered lightly with 
 affected carelessness : 
 
 ' It may be so : I'm sure I don't know much about him ; 
 but I'm weak with illiiess, if you'll kindly excuse me, and I 
 mustn't stand talking here any longer.' And lifting his hat 
 — Benyowski's hat — he tried to move away in haste around 
 the corner. 
 
 In a second, Trapmann's experienced eye recognised at a 
 flash the clothing that Sydney was wearing ; and making a 
 hasty sign to a second ^Nihilist, tho ill-shaven Russian, who 
 was loitering about casually on the pavement opposite, to 
 follow and watch tho suspicious stranger, he ran rapidly up 
 tho hospital steps, now fully determined to put his head into 
 the lion's mouth, and boldly ask at the hall-door for the man 
 he had murdered. Your Nihilist is never tho sort of person 
 to deal on emergency in half-measures. 
 
 ' Is there a patient still here,' he asked without flinching, 
 
 * who goes by the name of Stanislas Benyowski ?' 
 
 ' Benyowski !' the porter repeated with some surprise. 
 
 * Why, that's him by tho corner there as you yourself have 
 just been a-speaking to.' 
 
 Without so much as waiting to raise his hat or thank tho 
 
2i8 FOR MALMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 porter, Trapmann darted down the steps again and round the 
 corner, in hot pursuit of Sydney ( 'hevenix. A plot ! A 
 plot ! He saw it all now, as clear as daylight. That 
 wretched traitor Eenyowski, to elude detection and escape 
 the ^Nihilists, knowing they would lie in wait for him, had 
 changed clothes and name with this other fellow, and was 
 lurking still uncaught in the wards of the hospital, meaning 
 to go out, no doubt, under some ridiculous disguise, and slip 
 away from England to America. But not beyond reach of 
 the organization — ha, ha ! Whatever happened, he must be 
 secured and gagged, by death or otherwise, lest he betray the 
 secrets of the Provisional Council to Alexander Alexandro- 
 vitch and his miserable mouchards of the Third Section. 
 
 One minute more, and ho had overtaken Sydney, who 
 shuffled, weak and panting, down a shabby side street in the 
 direction of the York and Albany, dogged close at heel by 
 the ill-shaven liussiau. 
 
 Trapmann came upon him suddenly from behind. 
 
 ' Liar,' he cried in a stern tone of reproach, ' Stanislas 
 Eenyowski is not dead, and you are wearing his coat and 
 hat this moment ! You have changed clothes and names with 
 him to cover a disgraceful villainy, and you are trying to 
 personate him for purposes of your own. Better tell the 
 whole truth right out at once, and come with us, or it will be 
 the worse in the end for you. I am a private detective.' 
 
 Sydney Chevenix trembled terribly. To cover a disgraceful 
 villainy ! A private detective ! It was all up, then ! They 
 had found out all — all about Mairaie ! A cold shiver ran 
 unheeded down his back, and he almost fainted on the spot 
 with dismay and weakness. 
 
 ' Call a cab,' Trapmann cried authoritatively to the ill- 
 shaven Russian. 
 
 Sydney supported himself feebly against the wall. 
 
 ' Where are you going to take me 1' he asked in a frenzy 
 of agony. It was all up : they were going to the Marlborough 
 Street Police Station, no doubt, and Maimie's happiness 
 would be ruined for ever. 
 
 * Is'^over mind w'here we are going to take you,' Trapmann 
 answered severely. * You may as well go quietly with us. 
 It will be better for you in the long run.' 
 
ALIBIS nEXYOlVSKL 219 
 
 For the first time in his whole life, Sydney realized the 
 utter helplessness of a man without a name or station, lie 
 was abjectly powerless in the men's hands. Ho could not 
 raise a single finger against them. Jlo must go without 
 protest wherever they took him. Even if ho had really 
 hnoAvn who they were, he dared not appeal to the police for 
 protection, lest the v/hole truth should come out — that ho 
 was not Stanislas IJenyowski, and thot the man buried at 
 Woking Cemetery as Sydney (Uievenix was really the Pole 
 of whom they Avere in search. I'etter risk going with them 
 blindly at once than rush upon that op^tain exposure and 
 defeat. 
 
 The cab drew up by the kerb, and Trapmann, nothing 
 abashed, bowed Sydney politely into the far corner. Then 
 he got in himself, with the llussian opposite him, and they 
 drove off, Sydney knew not whither, for some twenty 
 minutes. 
 
 When the cab stopped again, they were in a side street in 
 Soho j and the liussian, getting out first, rang the bell, and 
 inquired in French for Mdlle. Vera Trotsky. 
 
 Then Sydney knew where the men had taken him, and 
 what was the meaning of their strange proceeding. Thank 
 God, thank God, they were not detectives; they were not 
 policemen ; they were only Nihilists ! 
 
 A Nihilist to Sydney was just then a sort of unconscious 
 sworn brother. He could have seized Trapmann's hand in 
 his own in an access of wild joy and wrung it cordially, for 
 he felt sure these were the murderers of Stanislas Benyowski. 
 These were the murderers, and he could fraternize with them. 
 They would be every bit as glad as he himself was to escape 
 detection. They would bo pleased to acquiesce in his little 
 subterfuge. They would aid ^mA abet him in the disguise he 
 had adopted. 
 
 That they were banded assassins and common murderers 
 mattered less than nothing to Sydney Chevenix nowadays. 
 He had one fixed idea, and one idea only — to save i^Iaimie, 
 and to make her happy at whatever sacrifice. Besides, what 
 was murder now to him 1 Had not even Maimie — but no, no, 
 ho Avas still alive and well and in evidence, and Maimie's 
 character was stainless as ever. 
 
220 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 'AVatch Lira,' Trapmann said in German to his shabby 
 confederate, ushering Sydney and the liussian into a room 
 together. ' I go to speak to Fraiilein Trotsky.' 
 
 The man bowed silently, and Sydney, weak with illness 
 and distress, but now much reassured, since they turned out 
 to be only murderers, not officers of the law, sat calmly 
 down to await his reappearance. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour Trapmann returned, and 
 M'ith him came Mdlle. Vera Trotsky. 
 
 The moment the fair-haired secretary's eyes rested on 
 Sydney, she gave a sudden start, and a little hasty glance 
 of recognition. 
 
 ' I have met him before,' she said. ' I know who he is, 
 fiicnd Trapmann. It — it was from him I learned that 
 ]>enyowski was a traitor. . . . There is destiny in this. 
 The Unconscious has worked, in its own strange way, one 
 of its own mysterious purposeful coincidences.' 
 
 Sydney Chevenix rose and bowed to her courteously. 
 He did not understand what she said in Ivussian, but he 
 caught with preternatural acuteness at the name of Ben- 
 yowski, and he saw at a glance that she remembered having 
 talked with him at Sir Antony Wraxall's. 
 
 ' We have met before, mademoiselle,' he said eagerly in 
 French, their common language. 'You know who I am, 
 and I know who you are. We have each our own purposes 
 to serve. Let us be frank with one another, and strike a 
 bargain. You know that I am not the man I pretend to 
 be ; and I — I know for my part that you have between you 
 — let us say it plainly — conspired to murder Stanislas 
 Benyowski.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky, without moving a muscle of her face, or 
 betraying the faintest token of surprise or emotion, took 
 a chair herself, and beckoned Sydney into one. Then she 
 sat opposite him quietly, with her elbows on the table, 
 looking across at his pale, thin face with catdike watch- 
 fulncbs. 
 
 ' Well,' she said in slow and measured tones, * so far, good. 
 What else have you got to communicate, monsieur V 
 
 * Only this,' Sydney answered, emboldened by her calm- 
 ness, but knowing all the while that he was playing for a 
 
ylLIA S BEX YO 1 1 'SKI. 2 2 1 
 
 life-aiul-death stake with these desperate people : * Ben- 
 yowski is dead — dead and buried.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky and Trapmann exchanged hurried ghances 
 across the taljk\ 
 
 * How do you know \tV the fair-haired girl asked at last, 
 after a long pause, with breathless interest. 
 
 ' I will tell you very briefly the whole story,' Sydney 
 went on, sustained in spite of his weakness by the excite- 
 ment of the moment. ' I was taken to the hospital a few 
 weeks back with a serious wound, on the same evening as 
 ►Stanislas Benyowski. For reasons of my own, which I 
 need not disclose to you — you, monsieur and mademoiselle, 
 must surely know well that a man may often have his 
 private reasons ' — Vera Trotsky nodded impatiently, as 
 though the parenthetical statement were an obvious plati- 
 tude — ' for reasons of my own, then,' Sydney went on 
 more boldly, ' I wished to have it considered by my family 
 that I was dead and buried. Benyowski, who formerly 
 worked for me, as you know, was brought in wounded 
 shortly after into the same hospital. He occupied the next 
 bed to mine. For the rest, there was no chance of his ever 
 recovering. AVhen he died, I seized the opportunity to 
 change his corpse, in the absence of the nurse, into my own 
 bed. In doing so, I fortunately, though unintentionally, 
 overturned a paraffin lamp, which set rire to the bed where 
 Benyowski was lying.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' Trapmann interrupted shortly in English ; ' we 
 know all that. We watched the fire. We had our scouts 
 in attendance. And the body that the inquest was finally 
 held on — the body said to be that of a man Chevenix ' 
 
 'Was Stanislas Benyowski's. I am Chevenix, as you 
 know, mademoiselle. There you have the whole history.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky and Trapmann conversed quickly for a few 
 minutes together in Ivussian, and then Vera, turning to 
 Sydney, began again : 
 
 * What do you intend doing now V she asked simply. 
 
 ' I have no intentions,' Sydney answered with a sad smile. 
 ' My one wish is to be buried and forgotten. I have put off 
 my own personality altogether, and I desire to be lost in 
 the crowd and never more recognised. I am dead to all 
 
222 • FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 who ever know me ; I must go forth into the world another 
 person.' 
 
 ' You are really the man Chevenix, I sui)pose V Trapmann 
 once more interrupted suspiciously. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' Yera Trotsky put in at once, with a hasty 
 twirl of her bent forefinger ; ' that is the name. I met him 
 at Miladi's. I recollect it— I recollect it.' 
 
 It was impossible for Sydney to do otherwise than 
 coincide in the recognition. 
 
 The two Nihilists conversed together once more for a 
 few seconds, and then \'era Trotsky spoke again : 
 
 * It would save us a great deal of trouble and difficulty, 
 monsieur,' she said politely, 'if you were to continue to bear 
 before the world at largo the name of Benyowski. We 
 should have a ]3enyowski always en evidence then, to point 
 to in triumph in case we were ever rc([uired to produce 
 him. And tl;e ])olice, too, must have seen you and inter- 
 rogated you. That would certaiidy be very convenient.' 
 
 'As you will,' Sydney answered. 'Then it is a compact 
 between us. I will not betray you, and you will not betray 
 me 1 I do not wish my existence as Sydney Chevenix to 
 be even guessed at.' 
 
 'You will not betray us, monsieur! Why, you have no 
 evidence against us, surely V the girl answered with a 
 deprecatory wave of her small hand. ' There need bo no 
 compact. But, yes, if you wish it ; wo will agree to keep 
 each other's counsel. \\q understand these motives per- 
 fectly, we others. Is it not so, Trapmann V 
 
 There was a pause ; and then A'^era Trotsky asked once 
 more, in a business-like voice : 
 
 ' Where do you mean to sleep to-night, monsieur ? 
 Have you any money V 
 
 Sydney felt in his pocket for Benyowski's purse. He 
 opened it, and found in it a few shillings, and his own 
 cheque, still uncashed, given on the very afternoon of the 
 murder. 
 
 'I have this,' he said, showing it to the girl fearlessl3^ 
 He understood at once that these good honest Nihilists (red- 
 handed as he knew them to be) were no mere vulgar 
 robbers and cut-throats. . . . Why ... if it came to that, 
 
ALIAS BENVOlVSk'l. 223 
 
 it was he himself, after all, who was the robber. He was 
 robbing the dead Benyowski, his heirs, executors, and 
 assignees, of several shillings and a ({uarter's salary. . . . 
 but it was his own cheque . . . his own signature , . . his 
 own money lying at the banker's. It was all he would ever 
 take from iVIaimie's foitune. For was he not dead and 
 buried now? and the balance at the bank was all JMainiie'^. 
 
 Vera Trotsky glanced sidelong at the cheque, and noted 
 the signature. 
 
 ' Fortunately it is payable to bearer, not to order,' she 
 said, with perfect calmness. ' Otherwise there might have 
 been a difficulty in getting the money. This is your 
 signature, of course, M. Chevenix. Ah, yes ; I thought so. 
 Have the goodness, monsieur, to take this pen and write 
 your name here on this piece of paper.' 
 
 She spoke authoritatively, like one accustomed to com- 
 mand, and Sydney obeyed her at once without demur. 
 The girl compared the two signatures with a searching 
 glance, and then passed the cheque and the paper over to 
 Trapmann, who smiled and nodded. 
 
 ' I believe he may be trusted,' she said in French. 
 ' Benyowski is really dead. At any rate, we will test him. 
 And if he proves to be telling us lies ' 
 
 A significant gesture amply supplied the end of the 
 sentence. Sydney comprehended it with perfect case, and 
 frigidly bowed his sarcastic acknowledgments. She had 
 thrust an aerial knife with her delicate small hand into the 
 shadowy heart of an imaginary victim. 
 
 * Would you like monsieur to cash this for youf the girl 
 asked, waving the cheque toward Tra[)mann. 
 
 'I thank you, mademoiselle,' Sydney answered politely. 
 
 * Take it, M. Trapmann,' Vera Trutsky saiil, handing it 
 to him. 'Monsieur, you had better sto[) with us here in 
 this house for the present. It will be some little temporary 
 guarantee of your good faith in action. Your liberty will 
 not be in any way interfered with ; onl}^, you must not go 
 out unaccompanied. Shall I ask madame the proprietor 
 if she can spare a comfortable room for you V 
 
 ' Thanks,' Sydney answered with perfect frankness. Ho 
 was beginning now to enter with zest into the spirit of the 
 
224 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 situation. 'Nothing on earth could possibly suit me better. 
 I wish to have time to disappear from society ; to let my 
 beard grow longer; to alter my external appearance as far 
 as possible ; in one word, to assume altogether another 
 personality. "When I left the hospital just now, I had no 
 plans, and did not know where to turn in my utter help- 
 lessness. I thank you for your hospitality and your kind 
 introductions. It is possible that we may yet be useful to 
 one another.' 
 
 Mdlle. Vera bowed and laughed. 
 
 ' You arc a brave man,' she said. * For the rest, I like 
 you. You come among us, and you show no fear. And 
 yet, if we chose, at a moment's notice, do you know wo 
 could blow up all this house and every living soul that is in 
 \iy And she pointed carelessly to a singular row of little 
 cases that stood grim and gaunt upon the bookshelf opposite. 
 
 Sydney smiled. 
 
 ' An old pattern, mademoiselle,' he said calmly. * I know 
 them well. The same sort as the ones used in the attempt 
 on the Czar's life at the Jaroslav railway station. You 
 forget that I am not a man to be easily frightened by 
 dynamite and clockwork. I, too, am of the initiated.' 
 
 Mdlle. Vera started and showed her pretty teeth. 
 
 * I forgot,' she said. ' You are in the dynamite trade 
 yourself. But I like you all the better for it. Brave men 
 are always our brothers. I will arrange at once for tiic 
 room with madame.' 
 
 In half an hour's time, Trapmann came back with the 
 cash from the bank, and counted it out with scrupulous 
 accuracy to Sydney. 
 
 'They said the cheque was dated on the very day of the 
 suicide,' he observed, *and that it would probably be the 
 last they would ever cash for that signature. And I 
 explained that Mr. Benyowski had been suffering from an 
 accident, and had been unable to send it in for payment 
 sooner. Besides, they were evidently accustomed to cashing 
 similar cheques previously.' 
 
 So that night, Sydney Chevenix slept in the very midst 
 of the Nihilist conspirators ; and strange to say, for the first 
 time since the night of the accident — he always thought of 
 
E VEXL J ' MA TChlED. 225 
 
 it to himself as the accident — he slept as soundly and as 
 peacefully as a baby. Half the load was lifted off his mind 
 now. He believed at last he had really succeeded in saving 
 Maimie. 
 
 For now, at any rate, Sydney Chevenix was beyond all 
 doubt dead and buried, and he himself was nobody else, by 
 universal consent, but Stanislas Eenyowski. Even Beny- 
 owski's own friends and associates were prepared to come 
 forward and attest his identity. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIir. 
 
 EVENLY MATCHED. 
 
 For a week or two after the inquest, Maimie's nerves were 
 completely shattered, and Jocelyn Cipriani thought it best 
 that she should go away for a while to the sea-side for rest 
 and change, such as befitted her condition. Jocelyn sug- 
 gested a cottage at Silbury ; and Hetty cried out at him for 
 a monster accordingly. Go to Silbury, indeed, where her 
 poor fathf:'r had lost his life suddenly a year before, when 
 she was now suffering from the still more sudden and horrible 
 shock of her husband's suicide ! You men are always so un- 
 feeling ! You have no tact and no sympathy !' 
 
 And Maimie quite agreed with her. She would be 
 moped to death, she said, at Silbury. She wanted to be 
 taken out of herself, and to see new scenes and difierent 
 people. 
 
 So she went down to Brighton, while things were un- 
 settled, and Hetty went with her to take care of her and 
 keep her company. A drive on the King's Road daily, and 
 a first glimpse of that perpetual panorama of vulgar 
 ostentatiousness that unrolls itself for ever on the long 
 sea-front from Kemp Town to Cliftonville did Maimie good ; 
 it was her idea of life, the sort of thing she really relished : 
 and it helped to banish for awhile from her mind the 
 memory of that terrible accident of poor dear Sydney's. 
 For Maimie did not know what remorse meant ; she was 
 very sorry at the moment for what she had done, and very 
 
 15 
 
226 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 frightened at the possible consequences for a few clays after ; 
 but as soon as the coroner's jury had brought it in 
 temporary insanity — that cheap and insulting refuge from 
 the coarse barbarism of a practically obsolete law — her 
 luind was completely set at rest, and she felt in the simple 
 language of French Asseml)lies that tho incident of the 
 explosive was now closed. 
 
 Anyhow, she couldn't come backto Beaumont Terrace; that 
 was certain. The abiding associations of the place would 
 be too dreadful. She must take a new house somewhere else 
 in the neighbourhood, not very far from dear old Jocelyn's, 
 for herself — and Adrian. For of course JNIaimie took it 
 for granted now that Adrian would marry her. Poor dear 
 Sydney, how hapj)y he would have been (for he was really 
 fond of her) if only he had known that she would be comfort- 
 ably mairied, when he was gone, to dear Adrian ! 
 
 * Of course, darling,' .she said to Hetty, with a confidential 
 nod of her baby head, so quaintly and quakerishly pretty in 
 the incongruous head-dress of a widow's cap — ' of course, 
 darling, I shouldn't like to be very far away, you know, from 
 you and Jocelyn ; you have always been such dear kind 
 friends to me since I first knew you, and more than ever in 
 this terrible trouble : so if Jocelyn would just look'out a 
 house for me somewhere in the neighbourhood, and see 
 about selling all the old furniture, and getting somebody to 
 fit it up for me without any fuss or worry, so that I might go 
 backto the new house and find everything all straight and 
 proper — you see, dear, I don't understand business — I should 
 be so awfully obliged and gratefid.' 
 
 So Jocelyn, acting upon the rich young widow's very 
 vague instructions, took her a house in ^^'ilmington Cres- 
 cent, close by his own just round the corner, and sold up 
 all the furniture of the old home, and duly paid off 
 and dismissed the servants, including in the number Hannah 
 Gowland. Maimie didn't wish anything in the new rooms 
 to remind her in any way of the painful old ones. 
 
 ' Take nothing out of the house but my own clothes and 
 any little things that were quite my own, dear Jocelyn,' she 
 wrote to him candidly ; ' and sell up everything else from 
 top to bottom as soon as possible. I am so miserable !' 
 
E VENL V MA TCHED. 227 
 
 When Hannah Gowland unexpectedly received notice to 
 go, she felt as if a knife had been plunged into her heart. 
 Ihit she said nothing; she merely stood and curtseyed 
 respectfully ; and the round spot that always burned bright 
 red in the centre of her pale cheek deepened and widened 
 so fiercely and instantaneously that -locelyn Cipriani said 
 to himself: 
 
 'Poor gill ! poor girl ! Like all the rest of us, she must 
 have been positively in love Avitli our poor little IMainiie.' 
 
 At the end of six weeks Maimic came back to Wilmington 
 Crescent, to a new house and a new household, which 
 Jocelyn and the ujiholsterers had arranged between them 
 to her perfect satisfaction. And on that same day, dread- 
 ing a first evening alone by herself among the fresh sur- 
 roundings, she telegraphed to Adrian I'ym at Oxford, 
 'Come up at on^e. I want to speak with you.' 
 
 Adrian Pyni came up as he was bid, and reached the new 
 house at eight in the evening. jMaimie was sitting in the 
 drawing-room alone, waiting to receive him, with her 
 widow's weeds — too black and white, j)erliaps, to suit her 
 complexion — but with a little ])unch of subdued hot-house 
 llowers stuck carelessly into her bosom by way of relieving 
 tl.e dismal monotonv. As he entered she rose, beautiful as 
 ever, and held out both her hands, with a Hushing face, 
 to greet him eagerly. 
 
 ' Atlrian,' she cried, ' my darling, my darling ! I couldn't 
 wait one minute longer without you. I thought before this 
 > ou would have come to see me of your own accord. You 
 have (juite forsaken me — quite forsaken me.' 
 
 Adrian sat down on the sofa beside her, and kissed her 
 lips once as of old, unreproved. Then his hand stole quietly 
 and unobtrusively into hers ; and they sat there silent for 
 twenty minutes, in that mute society which is sometimes 
 far too eloquently expressive for any form of words 
 adequately to rival. 
 
 At last Maimie withdrew her fingers for a moment from 
 his grasp, and asked simply : 
 
 'How do you like the new house, Adrian?' 
 
 The strange question, so unexpectedly put, brought 
 Adrian back to himself suddenly. 
 
 15—2 
 
228 FOR MAIMIF:S SAKE. 
 
 ' I like it very mucli, Maimic,' he answered with a start, 
 gazing at her childish innocent face in something half-way 
 between wonder and admiration. ' It looks extremely 
 pretty, I'm sure ... as far as I've seen it.' 
 
 jNIaimio rose, and taking his hand once more, led the 
 way with girlish timidity into a small back room behind 
 the drawing-room, I'urnished as a library. 
 
 ' Look here, darling,' she said, gripping him still tightly 
 by the hand, as if afraid to lose her grasp of him; 'this 
 room I mean for your study, Adrian.' 
 
 * Whenever I come here X Adrian said interrogatively. 
 
 ' Whtn you come here,' jMaimie answered with emi)liasis, 
 ' AVhenever that may be, you will come to stop for alwnys, 
 I suppose, darling.' 
 
 Adrian gazed at her with a throbbing heart. 
 
 ' Maimie, IMaimie,' he cried, ' you are too delicious. So 
 it's all settled, is it % You've arranged this house, then, 
 for both of us, have you % My darling, my darling, you 
 are too good to me. Will you take me, Maimie ? Will 
 yon take me, my sweetheart V 
 
 JMaimie led him back again with a bursting bosom to the 
 big drawing-room. It was a terrible ordeal ; but still, she must 
 go through with it. Before she answered Adrian's question, 
 she must tell him everything — everything — everything. 
 Truthful to the last, she must not deceive him. She must 
 not marry him with that honible secret undisclosed between 
 them. For though she didn't often dwell upon it now — 
 except alone at night — and though all chance of detection 
 was fairly past — past for ever — it vns. horrible ; there was 
 no denying it. liesidc.?, perhaps Adrian, when he came to 
 hear how it all happened, mightn't care to marry a — well, a 
 girl who had accidentally shot her first husband. She 
 must have no secrets from dear Adrian, whatever came of 
 it— even if he rejected her, dismissed her, trampled her 
 under foot. She nmst have synipathy, sympathy from km. 
 She must not deceive her darling, her darling. 
 
 'Adrian,' she said, seating him beside her tremulously 
 upon the sofa, and leaning over towards him with a beseech- 
 ing look in her great brown eyes, ' the real question is not 
 that, but will ijou take im ? My darling, my darling, I have 
 
E VEXL V MA TCHED. 229 
 
 something to tell you first.' Tiieii in a friglitenod sol)l)ing 
 undertone, witliout preface or apology, without note or 
 comment, 'Adrian, Adrian, it was I — I — who sliot Sydney.' 
 
 Adrian seized her tenderly in his arms. 
 
 'Little pet,' he wiiispered, 'my b(;autiful, delicate, inno- 
 cent little Maimie, I ought to have told you long before 
 now that I knew it : I knew it, Maimie ; 1 knew it perfectly. 
 My darling, my darling, to thiidc that you should trouble 
 your sweet little head about breaking to me such a trifle — 
 a nothing — an accident. Of course, JMaimie, I knew you 
 shot him. . . . And I knew for whose sake, too, you did it, 
 my angel.' 
 
 'Then you don't hate me for it]' Maimie cried, half 
 aloud, flinging herself wildly upon the strong man's bosom 
 and letting her tears fall like summer showers. ' You 
 don't despise me ! You don't reject me ! You aren't 
 angry with me ! ]\ly darling ! my darling ! I love you ! 
 I love you !' 
 
 Adrian answered never a word, but soothed her hand 
 tenderly with his own, and let her cling to him and cry lu'r 
 heartful undisturbed. 
 
 By-and-by, Maimie raised her head a moment from his 
 shoulder and looked at him again. 
 
 'Adrian,' she whispered, 'darling Adrian, — I didn't do 
 it quite on purpose. It was half an accident, more than 
 half an accident. I'll tell you just how it all happened. I 
 was in the laboratory that afternoon wdth poor dear 
 Sydney ' 
 
 Adrian stroked her cheek fondly. 
 
 ' My darling Maimie,' he answered with a reassuring 
 caress, ' I need no explanation, no excuse, no shadow of 
 apology, no exculpation. I can read your dear little 
 womanly heart like an open book to the very bottom. I 
 understand exactly how you did it, every bit as much as if 
 I had seen you do it. I know it was a mere ini})ulse — the 
 impulse of a moment. And I know for whoso sake the 
 impulse came across you like a flash of lightning. I don't 
 want to hear any more about it. . . . Maimie, Slaimie- -it 
 may sound too wicked and too terrible even for you to 
 listen to — but I love you for it, my darling — I love you for 
 
30 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 it all the better. I know now how much you would do and 
 dure for me, ]\l;iimie.' 
 
 Maimie dniw Ijack from him, half terrified. 
 
 ' Adrian,' she said solemnly, peering deep into his eohl blue 
 oyos with a pien.-in;^- glance from her own big brown ones, 
 
 * 1 believe, my darling, you are even wickeder than I am.' 
 
 Adrian smiled a cynical smile. 
 
 ' Why, of course I am, darling,' he answered calmly. 
 
 • When a man of my abilities and intcilligenco is really 
 wicked, he's a thousand times wickeder in every way, I 
 suppose, than a dear little innocent girl like you could ever 
 possibly make herself, JMaimie.' 
 
 ' That's quite true,' Maimie replied, nodding sagely. ' I 
 did it in a moment of impulse, Adrian, and I was sorry for 
 it the moment I'd done it : whereas you — you justify it and 
 glory in it, my darling. . . . And yet, Adrian, I can't bo 
 sorry for it, for it's loft me free to marry you, after all, my 
 sweetheart.' 
 
 Adrian seized her once more in his arms. 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie,' he cried passionately, ' we're each 
 just wicked enough for one another, I would never marry 
 any other woman but you, Maimie. Our very faults are 
 exactly adapted one to the other. . . . Maimie . . . 
 Maimie . . .' in a very low hushed voice, Hhank you, my 
 darling, for shooting Sydney.' 
 
 * Oh, Adrian,' Maimie cried, drawing back in terror and 
 hiding her face awe-struck in her hands. ' You friifhten 
 me when you talk like that ! You're the wickedest of the 
 two ! After all, you're the wickedest !' 
 
 * That's well, little one,' Adrian answered with a calm 
 smile. ' Now I've made myself particcps criminis, as we 
 lawyers say : I'm an accessory after the fact, indeed, and as 
 such liable to be punished for the act every bit as much as 
 you are. So, if you like, and if it would relieve your poor 
 little heart, darling, you may tell me all about just how it 
 happened. I dare say you '11 feel all the better in the 
 end for making a clean breast of it once for all to a father- 
 confessor.' 
 
 So Maimie, leaning close upon his shoulder, and with 
 many sobs and tears and compunctions, began her story, 
 
E VKXL y .UA TCHED. 23 1 
 
 and tolil him word for word how it all came about, omitting 
 not a single item, or speech, or thouglit of her heart, in her 
 full, free, and eager confession. Adrian listened with a 
 conn)assionate smile playing abdut the clear-cut corners of 
 his mouth ; and when she had finished, he kissed her 
 tenderly upon the forehead once more, and waited to hear 
 wh.at else she had to say to him. 
 
 'Well, Adrian,' she whispered at last, in a terrified voice, 
 * then you won't be afraid even so to marry me ]' 
 
 ' Afraid, Maimie ! Afraid of you, my darling ! Afraid 
 to accomi)lish the one long wish of my heart for ever ! . . . 
 !Maimie, Maimie, listen to me, dearest. A man never loves 
 with all the force and fire of his nature save once in his 
 life, and once only. I have heard it said often, and I used 
 to think before it was a mere fiction of the novelists and 
 poets. But I know it now : I know it by experience. A 
 boy may fancy he has felt what love means — with his little 
 sentimental sighs and phrases ; but when a man has reached 
 my years, ^Maimie, he really knows : he knows and feels it 
 — he loves with all the stored-up force and passion of his 
 entire nature. Maimie, ]\Iaimie, I love you : I love you : 
 I have always loved you : I shall love you for ever.' 
 
 The beautiful girl played with his hand half uncon- 
 sciousl}'. 
 
 * And to think,' she said, with a meditative sigh, ' that if 
 they only ever found out about it, they would actually 
 hang me just for that, Adrian !' 
 
 Adrian gave a hasty deprecatory gesture. 
 
 'Don't talk of it, darling,' he cried with a shiver, looking 
 around him cautiousl}'. ' Don't let the very walls and 
 ceilings hear you mention it. But the English law — the 
 English law — I know it too well, too well, IMaimie — that 
 crystallized record of the follies and barbarities and puer- 
 ilities of our ancestors — the Englisli laAv does strange things 
 indeed and hideous in all these matters. I have seen a 
 strong brute of a hulking man sentenced to fourteen days' 
 imprisonment for kicking his wife within an inch of her 
 life with his hobnailed boots ; and a poor, shrinking, 
 slender, delicate girl, on the self-same day, sentenced to 
 death for preventing a senseless new-born baby from draw- 
 
232 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ing a breatli the very first moment of its poor little hopeless, 
 helpless lifetime. J)on't talk about it, ]\Iaiiiiie ; it's too 
 terribU'. The great, stolid, thick-headed British juryman 
 would have no mercy or pity in his dull heart even for you, 
 — for you, my darling. Before it came to that, Maimie — we 
 would die in our own way, I think, by ourselves together.' 
 'Adrian, Adrian, if it was only with you, I don't think I 
 should be afraid to face it.' 
 
 There was silence for a while, and then Maimie began 
 again. 
 
 'How soon do you think, Adrian, we might . . .' And 
 she looked at him interrogatively. 
 
 * Not certainly till after twelve months are well over,' 
 Adrian answered regretfully. 
 
 ' Twelve months, Adrian ! Must we really wait a whole 
 long twelve months, darling? Twelve dreadful, horrid, 
 weary months, Adrian ! AVhy, it '11 be almost as bad as 
 when you used to go away in September from Silbury, and 
 never come back again at all to see me till the next summer. 
 But, at any rate, you'll come and see me ur\j often this time, 
 won't you, Adrian? Every Sunday, and whenever else you 
 can manage to get away from Oxford. Promise me 
 darling.' 
 
 Adrian bent his head in silent acquiescence. 
 
 'Maimie,' he said, 'we're dreadfully wicked, both of us : 
 just about wicked enough for one another.' 
 
 Maimie nestled still closer to his side. 
 
 ' Well, that's a comfort,' she said, ' anyhow : for then we 
 shan't ever be shocked or horrified at anything either of us 
 may do or say, you know. . . . Adiian . . . darling ... do 
 tell me : don't you think six months would be quite long 
 enough ? . . . I shall be so lonely : so terribly lonely, without 
 either you or poor dear Sydney.' 
 
 Adrian jumped up, and paced the room wildly, with un- 
 controllable passion. 
 
 * Maimie, Maimie,' he cried in a frenzy of transport, ' it '11 
 be very foolish, very unwise of you, very compromising. 
 People will talk about it, you may be sure they'll talk 
 about it, if you do anything so rash and unconventional. 
 
A NEW MAX. 233 
 
 For your sake, I ought to say No firmly and at once to it. 
 But I'm like a cluld in your hands whenever I come near 
 you : I lose all my manliness and firmness and resolution. 
 You bewitch me, you enchant me, you cast some extra- 
 ordinary spell and witchcraft over me. Do as you will, 
 darling : do as you will. In six months — in six months 
 let it be, then.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A NEW MAN. 
 
 For two or three weeks, while still only convalescent, 
 Sydney Chevenix remained not uncontentedly at the Russia^ 
 lodging-house in the back street of Soho. Nihilist com- 
 panionship is better after all than absohite solitude; and 
 Sydney knew nowhere else to go, even if it had been 
 competent to him to go where he pleased at any minute. 
 The Nihilists, to be sure, did not interfere at all with his 
 freedom of action in most matters ; but he felt, for all that, 
 he was under surveillance. Still, he minded such sli^-ilit 
 restraint but very little. The Nihilists would soon find out 
 he was no traitor, and perfectly harmless, and then they 
 would let him go his way in peace to find his own level in 
 the great city. Meanwhile, he didn't wish to leave the house ; 
 walking about the streets of London would be very dangerous, 
 until his beard was well grown, and his appearance other- 
 wise somewhat altered. As to his future, he had as yet no 
 plans whatever; he only knew in a vague and indefinite 
 fashion he wanted to save Mahnie, and to watch always 
 over Maimie's hapjuness. 
 
 Slowly, however, the practical (juestion began to rise up 
 and frame itself vividly before him, how was he ever to 
 gain his livelihood henceforth, and procure the means of 
 watching over Maimie ? It is easy enough to resolve 
 heroically in a moment of emotion that you will give up 
 your all and begin life over again ; the real heroism conies 
 fairly into play when you try to carry your quixotic 
 resolution into practical action. Sydney Chevenix was 
 bravo enough and strong enough to pursue his resolution to 
 
234 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 the Litter end : but liow to set to work about it in the first 
 place jjuzzlej liim sorely. 
 
 To bo sure, he had IJenyowski's money— the dead man's 
 stolon money — to go onujion for the immediate present ; but 
 twenty live pounds Mon't last foi' ever ; and for the first time 
 in his life Sydntiy Chevenix began to retloct to himself that a 
 hundred a year had been really a very beggarly salary to offer 
 an accomplished chemist like Stanislas Benyowski. One 
 looks at these matters so very differently, to be sure, 
 according as one happens to be paymaster or recipient. It 
 had oddly happened to Sydney Ciievenix in the present 
 case to bo both together. Living is certainly not expensive 
 in the slums of Soho ; but, even there, twenty-five pounds is 
 IK) fortune. Then, again, when the wretched pittance was 
 once spent, he couldn't take a second time to surgery. To 
 be a surgeon, one must bo duly qualified ; and to be duly 
 qualified, ho must be Sydney Ciievenix, not Stanislas 
 BenyoM'ski. There remained, then, only that refuge of the 
 destitute — the jien. Literature or journalism, struggle or 
 starvation ; ho must try his hand at it, one way or the 
 other. If only he could earn just enough to keep himself, 
 all would bo well, and he would yet be -ble to watch over 
 jMaiinie. 
 
 At the end of a week or two, he asked Trapmann one 
 morning to bring him in a bottle of black hair-dye and 
 some stain for the complexion — a nice deep Italian olive- 
 brown, if any could be obtained at the shops in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Trapmann brought them — he was a frequent 
 visitor ; and Sydney was astonished at the sudden trans- 
 fornuition which he wrought upon hims(df in a few days 
 with these simple materials. His beard and moustache had 
 now grown to a considerable length, and when he had dyed 
 them deep black, and changed his skin to a rich Tuscan 
 brown, and cut his long fair hair short and swarthy like an 
 Italian waiter's, and otherwise altered his personal appear- 
 ance as far as possible, he could hardly even recognise 
 himself (in Bcnyowski's clothes) for the Sydney Chevenix 
 of a few wccdvs ago. His figure, even, was decidedly 
 didcrent. The trouble and anxiety of those long feverish 
 nights had bowed him visibly ; the bullet-wound had 
 
A Ml IV MAX. 235 
 
 caused liim to stoop in the back and to halt a little ; and 
 the efl'ect of cutting utV his lon^ hair, that used to cover his 
 neck to the coat-collar, had altered his look marvfllously 
 even from behind. He laughed to himself as he thought 
 ■with a grim pleasure that even Maimie, if she ever saw him, 
 couldn't p(»ssil)ly recognise him for her own husband. He 
 was no longer himself, even in outer show ; he was another 
 man, legally and bodily. 
 
 ' Why do you want to change yourself so V \'era Trotsky 
 asked him Avith suspicious curiosity, as he passed iier one 
 morning on his way down the narrow staircase. 
 
 Sydney looked at her for a moment in filtering hesitation. 
 
 ' Tenez, mademoiselle,' he said at last, taking her hand 
 and silently leading her into her own little sitting-room. 
 * You are a woman. You will understand me. I will trust 
 you with all. I will make a confidence of the entire history 
 to yon,' If he himself should ever die, ho thought rajjidly, 
 it would be better so — better for Maimie that somebody 
 should know the whole truth about it. 
 
 Vera Trotsky listened attentively while Sydney told her 
 in brief words and unvarnished the whole story of that 
 pathetic episode. Then she said in a very fnin and quiet 
 voice, as soon as he was finished : 
 
 * And for her sake, you mean to give up everything, 
 mon=''}ur? For her sake, you are willing to die a civil 
 death, and become nobody with nothing in your pocket I' 
 
 Sydney answered shortly, ' I am willing, mademoiselle.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky took his hand admiringly in hers with an 
 unwonted access of feminine softness. 
 
 ' ]\ry friend,' she said in very gentle accents, ' you arc a 
 brave man. You have made a noble sacrifice. I believe 
 every word of what you have said. I see it in your eyes. 
 It is impossible to doubt it. . . . You have suffered much. 
 I sympathize with you. . . . You are a strong man— a true 
 man — an earnest man ; you ought to have b(>en one of us ; 
 you ought to have been a Nihilist. You should have lieen 
 joined to one of us others, and not to the hlnglishwoman. 
 . . . ]\Iy friend, I admire you. C'ount upon me. If there 
 is anything I can do for you in any way, at any time, ask it 
 of me. . . . When would you like to leave this house, and 
 
236 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 what do you mean to do on leaving ? We are friends. I 
 can trust you. You will never betray us. Strong men and 
 brave women are friends and brothers all the world over. 
 A badge, a name, a part}', what is it ? Nihilist or com- 
 munist, nothing, nothing. But brave hearts, true tongues, 
 enduring spirits, they arc the genuine signs and tokens of 
 fraternity. I press your hand. It is friendship : it is 
 solidarity. . . . What are your plans and your ideas for the 
 future V 
 
 A woman's sympathy is always grateful to a man in 
 adversity, even though the woman herself who gives it be 
 an adamantine communist. Sydney told her his schemes — 
 such as they were — with frank friendliness. A'era Trotsky 
 listened, and sighed imperceptibly. 
 
 ' Hard work, hard work,' she said. * It will not be easy. 
 I hope from my heart you will prove successful.' 
 
 So that very Jay, in the shades of evening, Sydney 
 Chevenix ventured to prowl out to his old neighbourhood, 
 and there discovered, by careful side inquiry, that ^Maimie 
 liad taken a new house, and that Jocelyn Cipriani was 
 furnishing it for her. 
 
 He walked along to Maimie's future home, in Wilmington 
 Crescent, and there found, to his great delight, that a 
 lodging-house v/as situated exactly opposite it. He hugged 
 himself in silence. Providence seemed to favour all his 
 designs. He went in, and asked for apartments. A hard- 
 faced woman showed him a sitting-room on the second 
 Hoor. It was thirty shillings a week — an enormous sum in 
 these days ; but Sydney, fingering the money in his pocket 
 tremulously, agreed to take it. He would come in, he said, 
 to-morrow evening. Reference ? — no, he had no reference 
 in the neighbourhood ; he was a foreigner, a stranger, a 
 sojourner in the land (name, Benyowski) ; but if the land- 
 lady liked, he would pay the first week's rent in advance, 
 in lieu of references. Money is the best possible testimonial 
 to character in this realm of England; the strangely named 
 foreigner Avas a respectable man — he was in possession of a 
 gold sovereign and ten shillings. 
 
 Next day Sydney installed himself duly in his room ; and a 
 few evenings later, through the half-closed Venetians, dimly, 
 
A XEJr MAX. 237 
 
 he saw Maimio return from Brighton, and an unknown 
 man of very professional appearance came in a cab, by him- 
 self, to see her. 
 
 Sydney had never beheld him before, l)ut he knew from 
 the i)h()tograj)h in IMaimie's album that it was Adrian Pym, 
 the tutor of St. Boniface. 
 
 That was a hard hour indeed for Sydney ; but Maimie — 
 Mainiie — ]\Iaimie was happy ! He could see her shadow 
 against the blind now and then, and Adrian's too, in earnest 
 converse apparently with Maimie. Sydney had put his hand 
 to the ])lougli, and he would not turn back. Enough for 
 him if Maimie was happy — happy with Adrian. 
 
 So soon, so soon ! Then he was forgotten already ! A 
 bitter thought, but Sydney stiHed it. ]\raimie willed it so. 
 He must bow to Maimie. Thank heaven, at least the sense 
 of having killed him had not crnshed her. His whole being 
 now was merged and swallowed up in that single idea — how 
 to make Maimie happy. 
 
 The morning after, he sat down early at his little table, 
 and taking out a sheet or two of white foolscap that he had 
 laid in beforehand, he began to try his hand for the first 
 time in his life at literary labour, other than a memoir for 
 the Boyal Society. It was a short article for a TiOndon 
 evening paper — a little fancy sketch of a Bolisii dynamiter: 
 in fact, a portrait in character of the real IJenyowski as 
 he himself had known and seen him. He must do some- 
 thing in earnest for his livelihood now, for already he had 
 reached almost the last sovereign of the twenty-five inherited 
 from Stanislas IJenyowski. He had felt compelled to bring 
 in a little luggage, for a})pearance' sake, and to buy himself 
 a few changes of linen. There was hardly any small change 
 left now : and though A'era Trotsky had said to him at 
 parting, 'We are a poor folk, we Nihilists, my friend, but 
 at a pinch we can always lend a brother in difliculties a 
 spare pound or two,' he would have been loth indeed to 
 fall back in his last distress on such strange assistance. 
 
 He wrote carefully, and with great pains, for Maimie'.s 
 sake, as he did everything. 
 
 When he had finished the article and strictly corrected 
 it, he wrote at the top in his bold hand, * Stanislas Beu- 
 
23S F(y^ MAIMIIi'S SAKE. 
 
 yowski, 42, "Wilmington Crescent,' iind sent it oft' by the 
 next post to tlic office of the paper. It wns with some tre- 
 pidation tliat lie awaited the result, lie mii.st manago to 
 make a livelihood somehow, or else what was to become of 
 Miainie? 
 
 Next evening's post brought him a short letter from the 
 editor, enclosing a cheque for three guineas. ' Your article 
 is admirable,' it said briefly. ' Send some more in the 
 same line. 1 shall be glad to hear fidin you as often as you 
 are idjle.' 
 
 Tliree guineas is a great sum. It will pay two weeks' 
 rent, and leave a cou}>le of shillings or so over. But that 
 was not all. It was })rospective wealth : it was a profession, 
 a career, an ()})cning, a liveliiioud. Sydney Chevenix 
 took heart of <;ra<.'e once more. He miu;ht beiiin his 
 life in earnest over again. After all, things in that way 
 were not much worse than before he inherited his rich 
 uncle's estates and money. He could still i)Ush his way in 
 the world. Ihit he had nothing to ]>ush it for lujw, to be 
 sure, save that one thing — to watch over Maimie's hap- 
 piness. 
 
 The mine of wealth thus unexpectedly discovered did not 
 prove in the end to l)e a deceptive one. In a few days 
 more Sydney had sent in three articles, all of which the 
 friendly editor had immediately printed. Not only so, but 
 after a week had passed, he wrote to ask whether ]\Ir. 
 Benyowski would care to review a parcel of books, forwarded 
 herewith, which offer Sydney rightly interpreted as e<|uiva- 
 Icnt to an irregular engagement on tlui statF of the paper. 
 So now the question of bare livelihood was easily and 
 satisfactorily settled, beyond the utmost dreams of Sydney 
 Chevenix's modest avarice. After all, when man has but 
 himself to pro\ ide for, man wants but little here below, nor 
 wants that little long. It is the pressing necessities of wife 
 and children that drive us all to worship sordidly at the base 
 shrine of hateful Mammon. Ships sail the sea, and railways 
 score the country-side, and merchants go daily down into 
 the dull city, and men toil naked underground in stifling 
 mines, and a vast commercial ])other and turmoil fills the 
 giddy world with its hum and bu:stle, and all for what ? — 
 
A XFAV MAX. 239 
 
 for the wife and child who sit at homo in tht'ir ease 
 and comfoit, and know iiotliing of the throes by which 
 it is provided for them. So Sydney Cheveuix wontKred 
 now what a man conld ever find to do with money, 
 who had no wife, and no deciire to discover a new ex- 
 plosive. 
 
 For the explosive, too, was dead and buried, like 8ydn(!y 
 Clievenix whose brain had conceived it. Sydney had dis- 
 covered at that one trial how dangerous an engine of pos- 
 sible crime he was putting into the hands of the merest 
 baby. If dear little harndess ]\Iaimie herself could bi? 
 tempted into murder by so easy an instrument, what would 
 be the effect of the noiseless exjdosive upon the hardeneil 
 natures of the really wicked 1 To Sydney Clievenix tlie ex- 
 plosive had been like a petted child, and to give it uj) was 
 to give up everything. But he had given up everything for 
 Maimie's sake ; and so long as only JMaimie was happy, he 
 could let the explosive and all the world go to rack and 
 ruin, and never care to reckon his loss in it. 
 
 So Sydney stopped and settled down at peaceinthe Crescent 
 lodgings, working away honestly as a journeyman journalist 
 for a precarious wage, and spending much of his leisure 
 time in sitting at the wiiulow, btdiind a muslin curtain, 
 watching Mainiie — Mainne and Adrian. He seldom ventured 
 out in the daytime, disguised as he was, for fear she should 
 recognise him ; but when he did, he followed Maimie 
 at a great distance, tracking her out along the street as a 
 dog tracks the footsteps of his mastci', and grateful even for 
 those slight transient glimpses of her beautiful presence. 
 Twice he passed her openly in town by accident, and then 
 ho trembled violently lest Mainiie should know him. Ihit 
 IVIaimie, with a placid smile of total unconcern on her sunny 
 little face, looked u\) at the dark strangt'r and caught his 
 eyes dreamily for a second, and then passed on unmoved by 
 a moment's suspicion. Sjalney lived on the memory of 
 those unconscious smiles for whole long days and sleepless 
 nights afterward. 
 
 liy-and-by that lonely gloomy taciturn man, sitting by 
 the window at the lodgings opposite, noticed strange pre- 
 parations taking place at Maimie's new house across the road. 
 
240 FOR MAJMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 He knew what they betided, but he tried hard not to think 
 about them ; he tried to shirk his own unhappy scruples 
 about the part he was playing in that strange tragedy. At 
 last one morning came when an unusual stir was visible 
 betimes at Maimi<^'s home ; and then Sydney felt sure in 
 his own heart that Maimie and Adrian were going to be 
 married. His wife — his darling — was going to be married ! 
 
 He had not the heart to watch himself supplanted, or to 
 learn the truth for very certain ; so he turned with an 
 aching head to his desk, resolutely avoiding the window 
 toward the Crescent, and wrote in sheer desperation of soul 
 a long review of a silly novel. 
 
 Next morning, however, he could not help discovering by 
 several signs that Maimie Jiad gone away for a short trip ; 
 and when she returned in another month, it was abundantly 
 clear that the house opposite had got a new master. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE WORLD SITS IN JUDGMENT. 
 
 If it had been anybody else but Maimie, all the world would 
 have been surprised and horrified. Gossips would have 
 gone about from drawing-room to drawing-room, hinting 
 unuttered scandal and innuendo about that shocking — 
 shocking precipitate marriage. Her poor dear husband 
 only dead for just six months — and such a dreadful death, 
 too, you know — shot himself, my dear ; positively shot him- 
 self in his own house, because he couldn't succeed in some 
 absurd chemical experiment or other he was trying in his 
 laboratory. At least, so tliey said ; all hushed up in public ; 
 not a word anywhere about his wife's conduct or the life 
 they used to lead together. And now she goes, you see — a 
 gay young widow with a fortune of her own — and, before 
 half a year's over, marries this old Oxford Hame of hers, 
 who has been mod assiduous in his attentions, indeed, ever 
 since poor Mr. Ohevenix's death, they tell me. For my 
 part, my dear, my own opinion in the matter is and so 
 
THE WORLD SITS L\ JUDCMEXT. z\\ 
 
 forth, and so fortli, ai injinituni, with the usual charity of 
 tlio immaculate iniddle-aged British matron — the charity 
 tliat tliinketh all evil. 
 
 Ijut as it was only Maimio — bright, innocent, baby-faced, 
 soft-eyed little Maiinie, with her widow's cap and her deep 
 crape, and lier shrinking, childish, conliding manner, tliat 
 disarmed criticism, and charmed by its friendly nata'td 
 even the immaculate middle-aged matron herself — why, as 
 it was only JMaimie, everybody said and thought it was 
 really the most reasonable and sensible thing she could 
 possibly do, under the circumstances. That sweet little 
 Mrs. Chevenix, you know ; she felt it so terribly, and was 
 so alone in the world ! Her father — a naval captain, very 
 well connected somewhere down in A\'ales, I believe — 
 drowned, you remember, out yachting, under her very eyes, 
 shortly before her marriage ; and then, when she'd hardly 
 been settled in her new home quite a year, that great surly 
 old bear of a husband of hers (you recollect him — the man 
 with the long hair who used to stand in a corner as if he 
 were dazed, and never could take the slightest interest in 
 anything on earth except dynann'te), well, he nuist go and 
 blow his own brains out, it seems, out of mere picpie, 
 because he couldn't invent some horrid explosive he was 
 always trying to copy from a Russian Nihilist, and leave his 
 poor, dear, heart-broken little wife — a sweet creature — 
 absolutely without a friend in the world. The dear child ! 
 she was terribly cut up about it ; shattered, I assure you — 
 quite shattered ; positively mutilated ; for a time, I was 
 really afraid the shock was going to deprive her entirely of 
 her reason. But she bore up bravely — she's as brave as 
 she's sweet, dear soul 1 brave as a lion, you know ! a grand- 
 daughter of one of Nelson's heroes — and we all did our 
 very best to take care of her. Fortunately, the wretched 
 man left her most comfortably provided for — which is 
 always something — and she went away to the seaside, and 
 tried to forget the blow, or rather to deaden it, as well as 
 she was able. And now, that delightful Mr. Cipriani, the 
 E.A., who's an old friend of hers — he painted her, you 
 recollect, as Lucrezia Borgia, or some other of those 
 fashionable Renaissance ladies, in that lovely thing of his 
 
 16 
 
242 FOR MAIM It's SAKE. 
 
 in the last Academy — ]\Ir. Cipriani has very wisely per- 
 suaded her to yield to her natural inclination, and overcome 
 her natural scru})les, and marry that charming, handsome, 
 gentlemanly Mr. Pym, wliora we met, you remember, dear, 
 at the Fergusons' garden-party, down at Surbiton. Poor 
 dear little Mrs. Chevcnix was dreadfully averse at first to 
 anything of the sort — she's such a sweet, timid, blushing 
 litth) creature, in spite of her bravery — and was all for 
 waiting at least two years for him. But Mr. Cipriani most 
 ])roperly insisted that for a vcrii young and attractive widow 
 like iierself — she's quite a child yet, you know — it would 
 be wiser in every way to marry at once, and not let a long 
 engagement drag on foolishly all for nothing, especially as 
 she had no relations of her own of any sort to go to. 
 Everybody quite approves of the arrangement, I assure 
 you. You see, this Mr. Pym had been devotedly attached 
 to her, before the horrid Olievenix man ever proposed ; but 
 being a perfect gentleman, with such nice honourable feel- 
 ings, he withdrew at once from the implied attachment as 
 soon as i\lr. Chevenix began to pay her marked attentions, 
 because he felt it would be (piite wrong of him, as a much 
 poorer man, to stand in the way of her worldly advance- 
 ment. So nice of him, wasn't it, now, really ? However, 
 all's well that ends well ; and as it turns out, the dear 
 child's free at last to marry him — a most suitable match 
 from every point of view ; so that, after all, it's better as it 
 is ; for of course that horrid, dull, stupid Chevenix man 
 was totally unfitted for a girl like her — a perfect stick, a 
 mere dummy — and would have huug like a millstone round 
 her neck as long as he'd lived, if he hadn't fortunately gone 
 and shot himself and so released her. It was a mariage de 
 conrenancc, the first one, of course — that's the simple truth 
 of it ; dear Mrs. Cipriani arranged it all beforehand, just to 
 provide for the poor girl ; but this, I understand, is quite 
 an affair of affection on both sides j for Mr. Pyra was 
 desperately in love with her, and she with him, when 
 they hadn't got a penny between them to bless themselves 
 with. 
 
 And Adrian and Maimie were happy together ; passion- 
 ately happy, in spite of everything. If you think wrong- 
 
THE WORLD SITS IX JUDGMENT. 243 
 
 doers are always miserable, pray in what iiiuversc have you 
 been brought up % Shallow people, had they known the 
 whole circumstances of the case, would have said two such 
 wicked wretches as those two could never, by any possi- 
 bility, be happy ; they must have been stung by remorse, 
 and chilled by disillusion, and goaded ))y distrust of one 
 another. Such reasoners woidd only have been committing 
 a very common psycliological error ; they would be reading 
 their own average emotional nature into the wholly unlike 
 and diverse characters of Adrian Pym and Maimio 
 Llewellyn. Adrian, for his part, felt no remorse and no 
 distrust ; because remorse was beneath him, and because he 
 understood Maimie toe well to distrust her. Maimie, lor 
 her part, felt none either ; because remorse was above her ; 
 she was too childisli and too superficial to feel it, and 
 because she profoundly loved and worshipped Adrian, and 
 revelled in the joy of full possession of him. As they 
 themselves had said, they were just suited for one another, 
 and such people can truly love, as well as the best of us, 
 though there may be nothing in either of them that seems 
 at all lovable to other people differently constituted. 
 
 They did not hate one another, as conventional moralists 
 would tell you they must have done, as soon as the first 
 ardour of their passion had burnt itself out. On the con- 
 trary, they lived a life of (j[uiet and profound affection, 
 exactly like any two ordinary married people, with no such 
 ghastly phantom at their l)acks to dog and terrify them. 
 Adrian had always been Maimie's real choice, and if only 
 she could have married him at the first outset, she would 
 have settled down from the very beginning into a pretty, 
 pleasant, cai)tivating little matron, with no more exciting 
 or tragic history than ninety-nine out of a hundred among 
 the wives around her. Now that she was married to Adrian 
 at last, the result was exactly the same in the long-run ; 
 everybody said, and said with truth, how sweet it was to 
 see two married people so thoroughly and ideally suited to 
 one another. 
 
 Besides, she had made a sacrifice for her present husband ; 
 she had given up the chance of becoming my lady ; for 
 Adrian, at least, would never be knighted. There is 
 
 lG-2 
 
244 P'OR MAIM if: S SAk'E. 
 
 nothing to ensure your loving anybody at all equal to 
 making sacrifices for them. 
 
 And Sydney Ciievetiix, sitting ever with his o})era-glasses 
 unseen at tlu; window opposite, could not help admitting to 
 liiinself with a mixed sigh that Maimio seemed to be per- 
 fectly ha[)py. 
 
 If only tile truth could never leak out, no harm might 
 come of it after all, except that his own life was sacrificoil. 
 And what is the sacrifice of one's own life to any one of us 
 — even the snudlest-souled — compared with a single woman's 
 hajipiness 1 
 
 To what heroic heights of self-devotion the worst among 
 them can raise the very lowest of us ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 DANCIKK LOu:MS. 
 
 As the months went round, and autumn came again, Sydney 
 Chevenix found his money positively accumulating ; he 
 earned so much, working hard the livelong day to keep his 
 mind occupied, that he didn't know in the end what on 
 earth to do with his superfluous earnings. He had nothing 
 to spend them on, except in watcliing over Maimie's hapi»i- 
 ness. So he took a second room, as a study he said, in a 
 house round the corner, nearly opposite the Ciprianis' ; 
 for between the two he could help to watch over Maimie's 
 life even better than from his solitary lonely place in 
 "Wilmington Crescent. Thence he dogged them in and out 
 l)erpetually like a distant shadow, never attracting their 
 attention at all by his sequacious habits, but keeping always 
 close to Maimie and Adrian. 
 
 He liked Adrian — positively liked him in a strange, 
 vicarious way ; for did not Maimio love him passionately, 
 and was he not obviously kind to darling ]\laimie 1 For 
 that, Sydney could have forgiven him anything. Nay, 
 more, he even recognised with a terrible remorseful aching 
 in his poor torn heart, that Adrian made jMaimie happier 
 than he, Sydney, could ever have hoped to do. Though 
 
DAXGER Looyrs. 245 
 
 Sydney would have died before admitting the fact, the 
 les.ser man came nearer to her V\\\A. 
 
 J low little he had done to make Mainiie hapi»y in the old 
 days ! How often he had ne^hicted her for the laboratory 
 and the explosive ! How seldom he had realized the needs 
 and wants of a bright, sunny little angi;! like that ! How 
 absorbed he had been, for all his love of her, in his own 
 pursuits and his own ideals ! Ah, well, he would try to 
 make up for it now ! He would grudge nothing, so Maimio 
 was happy. 
 
 Before 8)'dney had long had possession of his second 
 room, he noticed at times a tall, pale woman with a dark 
 shawl and a purple flower in her bonnet, often hanging 
 about both houses, especially frequenting the neighbour- 
 hood of the Ciprianis' Avheii Maimie and Adrian were 
 calling on Hetty. He had observed the same woman many 
 times before in Wilmington Crescent, passing up and down 
 in front of his window in an aimless fashion ; but there 
 were so many people who regularly hung about the 
 Crescent — from the dog's-meat man to the professioiuil 
 beggars — that Sydney thought nothing of the single circum- 
 stance. Now, however, that he had taken the room near 
 Jocelyn's house, the coincidence of the woman's reappear- 
 ance there, too, struck him so forcibly that he determined 
 to keep a sharp eye upon her. Sitting one day with his 
 opera-glass in his hand, close to the window, he observed 
 the tall, pale stranger pass again, talking earnestly and 
 eagerly this time to a man whom Vera Trotsky had long 
 since pointed out to him as a well-known detective of the 
 vulgarer order. His curiosity was at once excited, for the 
 detective was an officer specially employed in looking after 
 tlie group of dynamiters and anarchists who congregate in 
 the alleys of Marylebone and Soho. He raised his opera- 
 glass, and focussed it on the woman. Her features were 
 somehow strangely familiar to him, and yet he couldn't, for 
 the life of him, at lirst recover her personality. 
 
 Then, with a sudden flash of recollection, the face came 
 back to him. It was Hannah Gowland's. 
 
 Hannah, too, must be watching Maimie. That much was 
 evident. But watching her, why % What terrible suspicion 
 
246 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 could the girl be harbouring ] Did she know ? — yes, yes — 
 too true — he saw it now ; she was there in the kitchen on 
 that terrible evening. Sydney Chevenix's li[)s quivered 
 with horror ; and though it was broad daylight, and he 
 seldom went out excejit at night (at least, when Maimie 
 was at home), he determined to go down boldly into the 
 street, and follow Hannah, to catch, if possible, some scraps 
 of her mysterious conversation. 
 
 As he drew near her and saw her more distinctly, he 
 Avas no longer suri)riscd that he had failed at first fully to 
 recognise his former servant. Hannah (.lowland had 
 changed terribly. The bright red spot in the centre of 
 her cheek burnt deeper and fiercer and redder now than 
 ever ; the high cheek-bones stood out thin and prominent ; 
 the pale blanched lips showed utterly bloodless ; and 
 Sydney detected at once with his keen professional eye 
 that the girl was lingering in the last fatal stage of a slow 
 consumption. She spoke with difficulty in a low, faltering, 
 laboured voice to the detective as she walked feebly along ; 
 and the detective listened to her, car by lips, with evident 
 attention. Sydney Chevenix thought to himself with a 
 horrid glow of cruel satisfaction that if Hannah Oowland 
 harboured any evil intent against his Maimie she hadn't a 
 very long span of life left in which to wreak it. 
 
 He dogged them patientl}', with a slow tread, till they 
 had reached the Park, and taken their scats upon an open 
 bench, backed l)y a shrubbery of aucubas and laurels. 
 Then he walked past them unheeded a little way, and 
 returned by the path on the other side, behind the laurels, 
 where he could stand and catch unobserved himself some 
 fragmentary snatches of their conversation. Hannah 
 Gowland's voice was almost inaudible, but though the 
 detective too spoke low and soft, Sydney Chevenix, with 
 his quick ears, could catch distinctly nearly every word the 
 man uttered. 
 
 * And what became afterwards of this fellow, Benyowskif 
 the detective was asking in an insinuating voice of Hannah 
 Gowland, just as Sydney braced up his hearing to its 
 utmost pitch to catch the scattered scrapsof their whispered 
 colloquy. 
 
DAXCER LOO.US. 247 
 
 Tlio answer soundoil only on his cars like a faint mnr- 
 mur. Its words were separately (juite in(listinguishal)le. 
 
 'And that was the last you ever saw of liini I' the man 
 Avent on with a cheerful .show of comi)lete inditl'erence. 
 
 Hannah Gowland evidently answered in the affirmative. 
 
 ' Well, well, keep your ey^ s oi)en,' the detective con- 
 tinued, * wherever you go, and try to run down this man 
 Benyowski. /can't find him. I don't understand it. I've 
 been told by parties that know him well he's grown a 
 beard and moustache since I (u)dged him last ; and you 
 must make allowance for that, of course, if you go adooking 
 for him. A beard and moustache will sometimes make no 
 end of a difference to these close-shavers. IJut for all that, 
 / can't find him. He i)retends to be in London, I know, 
 and ho writes for the })apers ; but at the offices where he 
 sends his things they never sec him, and they don't know 
 where he lives, even ; for I've watchdl the addresses they've 
 give me, and can't never catch sight of him- -no, nor of 
 nobody like him neither. There's another man gets his 
 letters — a tall fellow with a black beard, but Benyowski 
 himself is not producible. As the lawyers says, " non est 
 invented." Them communist fellows are terrible cards for 
 hiding and skulking. I'd sooner run in half-a-dozou 
 ordinary thieves and vagabonds any day than one blooming 
 communist.' 
 
 Hannah Gowland asked something in a tremulous voice, 
 which Sydney could hear was broken with anxiety. 
 
 'Well, I don't mind telling yon,' the detective said with 
 an expansive burst, ' though it h against orders. The 
 rule is to ask questions, but to give no answers. How- 
 ever, you're on the scent yourself, and you're game to 
 help us. There's a reward going to be offered. He's 
 wanted in connection with a murder, that's (ill — nothing 
 more, ma'am.' 
 
 * A murder !' Hannah Gowland cried aghast, so com- 
 paratively loud and clear this time that Sydney could 
 distinctly overhear every word she uttered. ' A murder, 
 Mr. Curnock ! Oh no, don't go and say it was a murder ! 
 She never murdered him ! She never meant it ! She never 
 did ! It wasn't a murder T 
 
24S FOR MAIM if: S SAKF, 
 
 The dcctective Avliistlcd a long low 'whew.' Then ho 
 paused and reilcctod a nion\ent. 
 
 ^ Hhe V he said, in a very quiet sug<,'C.stive voice. ' "Who's 
 &h\ I'd like to know, miss ? I haven't heard nothing about 
 any ahc in the matter. It strikes me, if it comes to that, 
 young woman, that you've got more to tell about this here 
 dynamiting case than you care to let on to me, and that's 
 my candid opinion. We don't know nothing about any 
 she. Abe's the fox this time. It's Benyowski himself «r 
 put it all down to.' 
 
 *What? what?' Hannah fJowland cried. ' Put all what 
 
 down to % Mr. C^hevenix's ' 
 
 ' Mr. Clu^venix's how much ?' the detective asked 
 quickly. 
 
 With a sudden change of voice Hannah Gowland con- 
 tinued, ' Mr. Clievenix's assistant.' 
 
 *No, no,' the detective answered in a knowing tone. 
 ' You weren't a-going to say that, you know. You were 
 going to say, " Mr. Clievenix's MURDER." Wo all know 
 very well Benyowski was this party Clievenix's assistant. 
 That's neither here nor there, I take it, and ain't got any- 
 thing to do with the point at issue. Don't you go and 
 pretend not to understand. You're a sharp one, you are ; 
 but I'm one too deep for you, young woman. Chevenix, 
 it's well bcknown, went and shot himself in his own labora- 
 tory, leaving a letter behind on the talde to say he done it. 
 There ain't nothing in all that to criminate Benyowski. 
 Yoti're trying to seem too innocent in this business ; but 
 it don't do — it don't deceive me. You know as well as I do 
 myself, ma'am, that what we want this fellow Benyowski 
 for is not Clievenix's affair at all, but just that little matter 
 of the CJuildford murder. You'd better tell me the truth 
 outright, and save j'our own bacon anyway.' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed,' Hannah Gowland protested in a low 
 voice, so faintly that only Sydney Clievenix's intense 
 interest could enable him to catch tlie words as she uttered 
 them,' I didn't know that was what you wanted him for. 
 
 I thought you suspected ' 
 
 * Suspected what X 
 
 ' That somebody had . . . shot . . . Mr. Chevenix.' 
 
/'///•; .V 'A ) A\ J / ( 7 A T//ERS. 249 
 
 For a momont Sydney waitod in breatliU'ss suspense. 
 Would the detective with professional acutcne.ss follow up 
 the clue so plausibly sujrgested to him ? If so, it might 
 indeed be a terrible thing for poor Maiiuie. The pause 
 seemed endless — a brief eternity of suffering. Next instant 
 the man's answer came short and sharp. 
 
 'Pooh ! pooh ! That was all straight and even, my girl ; 
 don't you fear nothing about that. Chcvenix shot himself 
 and confessed he'd a done it. Coroner's jury found it 
 tempor'y insanity. The thing we want this man Ucnyowski 
 for ain't that ; it's the murder of a liussian fellow down 
 at Uuildford.' 
 
 CHAPTEIi XXXVII. 
 
 THE STORM (JATHERS. 
 
 Sydney Ciievenix went home that night doubly relieved. 
 The detective <lid not suspect Maiiiiie ; niul whatever 
 Hannah Gowlandniight fearoriniagine, it was clear, first, that 
 she half believed Benyowski had fired the shot that wounded 
 him ; and, second, that she was on INIaimie's side rather than 
 against her. It was ai)})alling to think anybody suspected 
 anything in the matter ; but perhaps, hnppily, this (Juildford 
 mystery (of which he knew nothing) migiit iielp to distract 
 the atteJition of everybody concer/iod from the IJeaumont 
 Terrace business till it was all fairly passed away and 
 forgotten. 
 
 And then a curions idea suddenly struck him, an idea 
 which he liad wholly overlooked before, so absorbed was 
 he in his hopes and fears for Maimie's safety, so forgetful 
 of himself aiul his own dangers or personal difliculties. 
 Stanislas Benyowski was wanted, it seemed, for a murder at 
 (tuildford. Nothing more likely : Stanislas Benyowski was 
 sure to have blown up somi? treacherous fellow-Nihilist or 
 other. Sydney knew from all Ik; had seen at Vera Trotsky's, 
 as well as from all Benyowski himself hatl told him, tliat 
 the refugees were by no means puritans in tlu; matter of 
 what they called political executions. No doubt Benyowski 
 had really killed some Russian at (Juildford, exactly as he 
 
250 FO/^ MAIM lies SAKE, 
 
 himself liad been afterwards killed in turn by some un- 
 known Nihilist. Jhit if so — and this was really serious — 
 then he himself was now llenyowski, and therefore by clear 
 implication a murderer. In takin^j upon himself Beny- 
 owski's personality, he had also taken upon himself the 
 responsibility for all Benyowski's past actions. 
 
 Yes, this was really serious. Not of course because if 
 they find you guilty of a murder, they take you and hang 
 you by the neck till dead — Sydney Clievenix hardly ever 
 reflected to himself upon that purely personal and incidental 
 disadvantage of the situation — but l)ecause if he were once 
 arrested and tried as IJenyowski there would be a great 
 danger of his being confronted with witnesses, many of 
 whom might possibly fail or refuse to identify him; and 
 then the whole trutli would perhaps ooze out, and there 
 would be an end of jNfaimie's ha})piness. In itself, to bo 
 sure, being hanged as JSenyowski would no doubt prove a 
 very good way out of the false position : after a man is once 
 duly banged, nobody ever begins to suspect his identity 
 with another person already comfortably dead and buried. 
 With Sy<lney Chevenix lying snug and silent in Woking 
 cemetery, and Stanislas Benyowski satisfactorily hanged 
 out of the way for murder, Maimie's life might be con- 
 sidered absolutely secure from further troul)le. Only the 
 great difliculty stared iiim full in the face, wonJd they hang 
 him for Stanislas Benyowski ? But no — even to attempt 
 such a plot as that would be too risky. If the thing 
 depended only on Vera Trotsky and the other Nihilists, to 
 be sure, he could confidently count upon their swearing to 
 anything and everything he wished them to swear to, 
 especially as it would suit their own jmrpose to have him 
 piit out of the way legally. His identification with Beny- 
 owski was an integral part of their own programme ; it 
 was absolutely essential to their own safety. But there 
 were others to reckon with besi(U's the Nihilists — the 
 detective, and the ])olice, and the world generally. In 
 order that lie should continue to pass for Benyowski, it 
 was imperatively necessary that he should never be con- 
 fronted with anybody who knew anything about the real 
 owner of the name ho bore, except Vera Trotsky and the 
 
'/■///•; .s7V)AM/ CATHJ'IRS. 251 
 
 other iSilulists. Kveii supposinj; lio were not at once 
 rucogniscil as himself, Sydney ('hcvenix, yet if ever a 
 ])assing doubt were raised as to his jxTfect ith-ntity with 
 the dead man whose ])ersonality he liad usuriied, some sort 
 of inquiry would surely be set on foot, and it would be all 
 u]) with JNIainiie's secret. 
 
 To avoid his own ariest as Bcnyowski was therefore a 
 matter of the first importance. 
 
 How absurd if the police were to follow up Hannah 
 CJowland's obscure hint, and arrest him as IJenyowski for his 
 own murder ! 
 
 While Sydney Chevenix was thinking over these things 
 by himself in his own room, and trembling at this new and 
 double menace against Maimie's safetj', the detective for his 
 part was reporting to a superior at SciAland Yard the 
 result of his interview with Hannah (Jowland. 
 
 ' So you couldn't get anything further out of tliis woman, 
 Curnock I' the superintendent said, when the man had 
 finished his short story. 
 
 ' Not a word, sir ; not a shadow ; not a hint of any sort. 
 Except that that I told you, that she slipp."d out so sudden 
 and umiwares like, about there being a woman in the caso 
 somewhere. However, I don't attacii no importance at all 
 to that. The day Komissaroft' was drownded, as 1 well 
 know, nobody went with him to the waterside except 
 ]>enyowski. That's clear from what all the Guildford 
 boathousc pcoi)le gives in evidence when I went down to 
 inquire about it. There was a woman at the bottom of it 
 all, of course — that there Madamazell Trotsky as they call 
 her; she's mostly at the bottom of all this here devilry, I 
 take it. She was at the bottom of Benyowski himself 
 getting wounded, I don't deny it. Only you can't never 
 catch her. She's too smart for that : she never does any- 
 thing except through her people. It's IVnyowski himself 
 as give Komissaroff the loaded cigar ; nobody l»ut him went 
 down to the boats with him. And it's IJenyowski we've got 
 to catch, and try, and swing I'or it.' 
 
 'It's very fortunate,' the superintendent nuirnuired 
 reflectively, * that we happened to dredge up that end of 
 
252 FOR MAIM if: S SAKE. 
 
 cigar stuck into the mouth. If he h!\<ln't been smoking it, 
 so, in a Iioldor, and if tlie lioMor hadn't been driven right 
 tiirougli tlie ])alato the way it was, we shoulcbi't liave had 
 anything tangiltle to go upon to show it was anytliing more 
 than an onb'iiary boating accident. Of course, tlie circum- 
 stances wouhl have been very suspicious — very sus})icious ; 
 Itut tliere'd liave been nothing really damaging or convincing 
 to go to a jury,' 
 
 * Got the analyst's report upon the end of the cigar yet, 
 sir X the man Curnock asked curiously. * Any trace of 
 dynamite, now, about it]' 
 
 * Well, no. It isn't that. The Professor says there 
 wasn't any dynamite. Some other explosive that he can't 
 determine. ]>ut an explosive, he's suiv, from the nature of 
 the jagged edge of the cigar: there's his report upon it. 
 Something new in the way of an invention, he seems to 
 fancy; some fresh nitrogen-coni[)ound, no doubt, from that 
 man Clicvcnix's private laboratory — the fellow who was so 
 much mixed \\\\ with Ik'uyow.ski, you know, and who shot 
 himself becau.se hi.s la.':'t exixiiments all turned out such 
 fearful failures. Oh yes, it was his house, of course ' — 
 turning over some i)apers — * that this woman Gowland was 
 actually living in when she first came in contact with our 
 man lienvow.ski.' 
 
 'It w;!.s liis house,' Curnock answered, nodding. 
 
 'It's very odd,' the Supeiintendent went on, still glancing 
 at the pajjcrs, 'that you who know IJenyowski by sight so 
 well, and who are accustomed to every sort of disguise a 
 human being can possibly adoi)t, shouldn't be able to track 
 him down — a man whom we know to be now in London, who 
 actually contrihutes under his own name to respectable news- 
 papers, who still gt'cs regularly to Mdlle. Trotsky's, and ^ ho 
 apparently makes no sort of elfectual attempt in any way 
 to conceal or hide himself I can't understand it. I can't 
 fathom it. In the whole course of my professional experi- 
 ence, Curnock, I never remember any case like it. ^\'e'ro 
 balUcd, ballled— utterly ballled. It's a disgrace to the 
 department, I say; a di.sgrace to the department.' 
 
 ' They're such slippery people to deal with, that's where 
 it is,' Curnock replied apologetically, twisting liis finger 
 
THE STORyi CATIlllRS. 
 
 -3J 
 
 Up and down before liini in gnipliic inut:ition of the track 
 of a serpent. ' Tlioy play such a l)h)oniing lot of tricks 
 npon you all together, and back one another up so, and 
 deceive yi)U time and again that cunning, and niuki? such 
 reguiai' game of the executive and the force all along, you 
 see, sir. A dozen's the times I've been taken somewhere 
 or other of a wet night to see IJenyowski —he don't never 
 come out at all hanlly by daylight ; and (svery time, when- 
 ever I got there, it wasn't lienyowski a bit they showed me, 
 but some other fellow not the least like him ~-a big bl.iek- 
 bearded man with a totally diU'erent sort of features. I'eny- 
 owski's about; that's certain. lie was discharged from 
 hospital with the ])ullet-wound cured, or, at least, he takes 
 himself away as soon as ever his legs '11 carry him, atul ho 
 goes straight olT back to Madamazell Trotsky's, and he's 
 been seen and spoken to since by plenty 1 know of, nurses 
 and others; but / can't never get a sight of him somehow, 
 bless you. It's most singular, most unaccountable.' 
 
 And he nodded his head like a nonplused ollicial. 
 
 'It's curious, too.' the superintendent went on in a 
 meditative tone, ' that after these people tried to nuuder 
 him ho should go back to them as if nothing at all unusual 
 had happened, and fraternize freely, and be on such friendly 
 terms with them again the same as ever. I can't understand 
 it. It's extremely peiplexing.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's all right enough, you bet,' Curnock answered, 
 smiling, ' as soon as you know as much about the habits 
 and manners of the animals as I do, sir. They don't think 
 nothing of a shoot, Lord blessyour heart, they don't! -that's 
 only done in the way of [ilayfulnes.s. Kincl of a warning 
 like, as much as to say, ".lust you mind how you behavt; 
 yourself in future, and don't ycm go a-talking imprudent 
 al)out us on no account to nobody." He's as thick as thieves 
 with them now, anyway ; and they're all every bit as anxious 
 as he is to keep him out o' the way, comfortable, and pre- 
 vent \is all from getting so much as a stray look at him,' 
 
 'Well,' the superintendent .said wearily, 'you must keep 
 a sharp look-out, that's all, Curnock ; and if he's in London, 
 as you say you're sure he i^, so(»ner or later you must 
 knock up against him suuiewhcro or other, for certain.' 
 
251 J'V/i MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 * If I don't,' the detcctivo answered witli brisk confidence, 
 
 * why then my name ain't Samuel Percy Curnock, Constable 
 of the Criminal Investigation Department. That's just 
 about the long and the short of it.' 
 
 On the Thursday after, Vera Trotsky called in un- 
 expectedly at Sydney's lodgings. 
 
 * My friend,' she said, after a hurried greeting, * you 
 must be very cautious. The mouchards are looking out for 
 Stanislas Lenyowski. We have put them off the scent, 
 but not for long. If you don't avoid them you will be 
 taken up. Tiiere's a M'arrant out for you — that is to say, 
 at least, for IJenyowski.' 
 
 * I know it,' Sydney answered with a sinking heart. 
 
 * My poor little wife ! The net seems somehow to be 
 closing tighter and tighter around her. If ever it's dis- 
 covered that I am not really Stanislas lienyowski, all will 
 be up with her. It's too terrible.' 
 
 Vera Trotsky looked at him with tears in her eyes. 
 
 ' Always her,' slie said softly. * Never yourself, my 
 friend. And she threw you away, llow could she ever 
 do it ? ^^'itll such a man as you to ludp and strengthen 
 her, M'hat might not any woman in this sad world hope to 
 rise to !' 
 
 CHAPTELi XXXVIII. 
 
 THE STURM lUlEAKS. 
 
 One dull morning, a few weeks later, Hetty Cipriani was 
 sitting alone by the drawing-room fire, while Jocelyn 
 worked hard as usual at his new Academy picture of 
 Palder Dead in the studio behind, when the servant 
 entered with a twisted note, written on a rather dirty scrap of 
 blue pai)er, and folded irregularly l)y fingers evidently quite 
 unaccustomed to the polite and learned art of letter-writijig. 
 Hetty took the shabby little missive mechanically from the 
 old massive silver waiter, and glanced at the handwriting on 
 the outside without much pretence or show of interest. 
 The note was written in pencil in a huge, round, shaky, 
 uneducated hand ; and Hetty started a little to herself 
 
THE STORM HREAKS. 255 
 
 wliGii she saw its contents ran after this very strange and 
 unexpected fashion : 
 
 *Deaii Madam, 
 
 ' Will you cunie round and st'»' me before I die has 
 I has something about Mrs. Chevenix that is to say Mrs. 
 Pym waying upon my coushense which I cant tell to a 
 clergiman or any body only to you. For Gods sake <lont 
 negleck this has 1 cannot die without confessing it. Siiow 
 this letter to nobody not even your husband from your 
 obedient servant 
 
 'Hannah Guwland.' 
 
 Hetty felt her face flush suddenly crimson as she looked 
 up from perusing this extraordinary communication. 
 
 * It isn't dated,' she said in haste to the housemaid, 
 trembling with surprise from head to foot. 'The girl 
 doesn't say where she's living or where I'm to go to. ^^'llo 
 brought it I Is the messenger waiting? Run quick and 
 tell her not to go till she lets me know where the woman 
 is who told her to biiiig it.' 
 
 * The young person is waiting in the hall, if you please, 
 ma'am,' the liousemaid answered denuirely. ' I told her to 
 take a seat till you saw whether an answer was recp.iired or 
 not, ma'am.' 
 
 Hetty rushed impulsively out into the passage. 
 
 'Who sent you X she cried eagerly to the girl. ' Where 
 is she] What does she want me for \ Do you know any- 
 thing about this Hannah Rowland T 
 
 'if you please, ma'am, the girl in the hall answered, 
 rising and curtseying timidly, ' Hannah's my sister, and it's 
 her as used to l)e cook a year ago at Mrs. Chevenix's that 
 was, in Ijeaiimont Terrace the same that's now Mrs. Pym, 
 if you please, ma'am: aiul Hannah, she's at the Kegent's 
 Park Hos[)ital, and she's dying of the consum])tion, ma'am, 
 and she's got something dreadful on her mind that she 
 can't tell to nobody but you \ and she can't die in peace 
 until she's told you.' 
 
 Hetty was pale as death now. S'ue couMn't imagine 
 what on earth could be the matter ; but she knew it was 
 
256 FOR MAI MIL'S SAKE. 
 
 somc'tliin.ic ilnadful about Mainiie ; and in spite of every- 
 thing,', ^lainiic, uitli her ■wondcrrul power of winnin<^ hearts, 
 liad made Hetty ( 'ipriani love lier (U-arly, as soon as that Httle 
 ei»isode with .locclyn was fairly dead aiul buried in forjret- 
 fulness. AViiat on earth eould this dindy renieinbi^ri'd 
 servant of the Chevenix household liavo to tell her about 
 dear Maimie ? It must be something' very alarming: if 
 not, it couldn't weigh so heavily at such a moment on tht- 
 soul and conscience of a dying woman. 
 
 * Jocelyn, Jocelyn,' she cried in a tone of unspeakable 
 alarm, bursting into the studio to the complete confusion of 
 the fair-haired model girl sitting for the figure, for a 
 Scandinavian goddess, 'look a moment, will you, at this 
 letter ! A girl's just brought it from the Kegent's Tark 
 Hospital ; and she says tlie person who wrote it is her 
 sister, and she wants to sec me at once because she's dying.' 
 
 Jocelyn took the dirty scrap of paper carelessly, and 
 glanced though it in haste with a nonchalant expression, 
 which deepened as he read into a sudden Hush of vivid 
 crimson. Then he crumpled it up tight in his hard-pressed 
 hand, and flung it angrily into the studio fireplace. 
 
 *lf 1 were you, Hetty,' he answered after a moment's 
 pause, in reply to his wife's mutely ajtpealing look, ' I 
 wouldn't go to see her : I'd take no notice of it. Whatever 
 the secret she's got may be, it's better a thousand times it 
 should die with her than that anybody else should know a 
 word about it. Why should you want to bui'den your own 
 heart with it? Why should you want to hear any foolish 
 confidences she may have to make to you against our sweet 
 Maimie?' 
 
 'But Jocelyn, Jocelyn!' Hetty cried imploringly— * a 
 dying woman, darling !— a dying woman !* 
 
 Jocelyn i)ulled his board with meditative deliberateness. 
 
 'Poor creature,' he said in liis .soft clear voice, unmoved 
 to pity ; ' I'm sorry for her, Hetty, extremely sorry for her. 
 The weakness of women is very depressing. The coneys 
 are indeed a feeble folk. They can never keep their own 
 coujisel. l»ut you mustn't go, darling. She must die 
 unshrived by herself for all tluit. What does she want to 
 put you against poor little Maimie for now, I wonder ] If 
 
THE STORM BREAKS. 257 
 
 you take my advice, you won't go, Hetty. Nothing but 
 harm can possibly come of it. Suspicion, at any rate : 
 perhaps dislike, anger, positive estrangement. The world 
 is not too full of friends, you know, sweetheart. We can't 
 afford to lose our one little Maimie.' 
 
 * IJut, darling, must the woman die with this thing uncon- 
 fessed and rankling in her conscience ?" 
 
 Jocelyn stroked his Vandyke beard once more with 
 nervously twitching fingers. 
 
 ' She's probably making a mountain out of a molehill, 
 Hetty,' he answered at last, evasively, 
 
 ' ])Ut for Maimie's sake, Jocelyn : for Maimie's sake ! 
 Surely for her sake I ought to go and hear it ! Consider, 
 darling; if this woman doesn't tell me — if I don't go and 
 listen to her story — she'll probably tell somebody else : a 
 clergyman or somebody — you see she talks in her note 
 about a clergyman : and if she really knows something or 
 other against dear Maimie ' 
 
 Jocelyn smarted. It was a start of sudden recognition. 
 Then he waited and gazed at her silently, while one might 
 count a hundred. At last he opened his mouth slowly. 
 
 * You . . . had . . . better . . . go . . . Hetty,' he whispered 
 in a soft voice, with a cautious side glance towards the too 
 suspiciously attentive model : 'you had better go, darling, 
 now I come to think about it ; but prepare yourself for the 
 worst : you may have to liear something that will shock 
 you terribly. 'The world isn't all made up of women like 
 you, my little guileless pure-hearted wifie. There are 
 things done in it — and by those we all love dearly, too — 
 that would make your sweet innocent blood run cold within 
 you if only you knew all about them, Hetty. . . . Prepare 
 yourself for the worst. You will have need of preparation. 
 'This may mean a terrible crisis. IJut for Maimie's sake, as 
 you say, you certainly ought to go and see her. You are 
 wiser than I, sweetheart ; you are wiser than I. You 
 women jump ot things always so much quicker than we men 
 do. You saw at once the weak point of the policy of 
 abstention. . . . Friiulein ' — to the fair-haired model, in 
 German — ' I shall not need your services any longer to-day. 
 Excuse my dismissing you. I go out with my wife on 
 
 17 
 
258 FOR MAIMIE^S SAKE. 
 
 unexpected business. Wait a minute for me, Hetty darlin^i;. 
 Ivun up and put on your jacket at once, tliere's a good girl, 
 ■while 1 wash this paint and stuff here ofV my fingers. I'll 
 walk round with you as far as the hospital, and wait for you 
 below while you go up and sec this dying woman. (Con- 
 found her ! what does she want to go and die for now, ar.d 
 rake up charges on her death-bed like a fool against ])oor 
 little Maimie 1 Couldn't she go and die quietly somewhere 
 on her own account, or live and hold her tongue like other 
 sensible, reasonable people?) You'll need my arm when 
 you conic out, perhaps, darling. Nerve yourself up for the 
 worst, and be prepared to hear something terrible.' 
 
 ' Oh> Jocelyn, do you know something terrible against 
 ]\Iaimie, then, yourself already, that you talk so dread- 
 fully ]' 
 
 •I know nothing, Hetty,' Jocelyn answered, soothing her 
 quietly ; * absolutely nothing : so far as I can tell, there may 
 be nothing to know, l^ut I know the field of the possible is 
 always infinite, and I'm ready to believe anything about 
 anybody — except you, darling.' And he kissed her 
 tenderly, a soft light kiss upon her pale, white, anxious 
 knitted forehead. 
 
 Hetty turned away trembling, and went upstairs with 
 uncertain knees to put her jacket on. As she did so, 
 Jocelyn slipped quietly oflf to the dining-room sideboard 
 and filled a little pocket flask to the neck with old brand3\ 
 
 ' She may need it before she gets back,' he said to him- 
 self with a gentle smile. ' Dear little Hetty ! It will all 
 come out now, and shock her inexpressibly ! This is a bad 
 job, indeed, for poor Maimie. Why the dickens couldn't 
 this wretched, unfortunate Gowland woman, if she knows 
 the secret and has kept it so long, keep it still a little 
 longer. Just ready to die, and she needs must die with 
 Maimie's condemnation on her dying lips I . . . This base 
 fear of death ! this miserable craven crouching and cower- 
 ing before the bare prospect of a physical dissolution ! — 
 what a vile thing it is ! How I despise it ! how I hate it ! 
 In her slavish terror about her own soul, her own poor sordid 
 scullery-maid's soul, that abject creature will go and wreck 
 the whole happiness and the very life of our dear, bright, 
 
THE STORM nRE/Jk'S. 259 
 
 Leaiitifiil little IVfaimio ! The miscrablo coward ! I've no 
 pity for her. I haven't got such a thing as a soul at all 
 myself, thank goodness ; but if I had twenty of them, all as 
 dear to me as that wretched woman's is to her this morn- 
 ing, I'd gladly give them all a thousand times over to 
 eternal perdition to save a moment's trouble to Hetty or to 
 Mainiie. But these people are utterly craven — scltish and 
 craven, the whole cringing lot of them. They stand aghast 
 at the hell they have conjured up for themselves out of 
 their own fancy, and would sacrifice all the world beside to 
 keep their own precious S(|ualid little souls from going 
 down quick into it a minute earlier.' 
 
 When Hetty rejoined him, he had his coat and hat ready, and 
 they walked round hurriedly together to the Kegent's I'ark 
 Hospital in utter silence. There Jocelyn Cii)riani waited 
 below in a little anteroom, while Hetty went upstairs in 
 fear and trembling to sec the sender of the strange letter. 
 Profound forebodings seized on the painter's soul as ho sat 
 there idly, twirling his moustache and inspecting the bare 
 ceiling, in dire expectation of the result of the visit. The 
 last time he had sat in that blank little room was on the 
 evening . . . well, on the evening of the murder, when ho 
 came there alone, in doubt and hesitation, to ask whether 
 Sydney Chevenix's condition M'as improving or otherwise. 
 Jocelyn Cipriani was by no means a superstitious man ; but 
 the omen certainly did not seem a particularly lucky one. 
 
 JMeanwhile, Hetty had mounted alone the long white stairs, 
 and been duly ushered by the attendant sister to Hannah 
 Gowland's sick bedside. 
 
 ' The woman can't live out the week,' a nurse whispered 
 low in rejdy to Hetty's inquiring glance: 'slie seems to 
 have got something on her mind, very particular, and as 
 she wouldn't tell it to anybody but you, ma'am, the house- 
 surgeon said we might send her sister round to fetch you.' 
 
 Hetty approached the bed, trembling irresistibly. A pale 
 thin woman lay breathing hard and thick upon the proppcd- 
 up pillows, with a deep red spot, burning bright as tire, in 
 the very centre of her white cheek, and a feeble light 
 flashing fitfully in her great, sunken, black-ringed eyeballs. 
 At sight of her pitiable condition Hetty's womanly heart 
 
 17—2 
 
26o FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 melted instantly, and she forgot at once her terrors and her 
 misgivings in the presence of that pale-faced dying woman. 
 
 ' You wanted to see me, didn't you, Hannah X she said 
 in her gentlest and most sympathetic tones, as she bent over 
 the bedside. ' You have something troubling you that you 
 want to tell me. Let me know what it is, dear, and I'll 
 try to help you as far as I'm able ; though, my poor girl, 
 my poor dear child, I'm afraid it's very little indeed that 
 such a one as I can possibly do for you.' 
 
 The woman clutched the sleeve of Hetty's jacket hard in 
 five pallid long fingers, and drew her face down closer to 
 the pillow with the wild energy of a last convulsive dying 
 flicker. 
 
 * Come nearer,' she whispered in a hoarse undertone, 
 half choked by the evident tightness of her breathing, 
 ' come nearer, Mrs. Cipriani. I know you. I knew you'd 
 come. I knew you were a friend of hers. If you don't 
 hold your head quite close down here by my ear, they'll all 
 overhear what it is I'm saying to you ; and then she'll bo 
 hanged, the angel, the darling, the beautiful pet, the sweet 
 little innocent ! Come nearer ! — come nearer !' 
 
 For a moment Hetty imagined the woman must bo 
 wandering in her mind with fever, and speaking with the 
 mere random force of wild delirium; but Hannah read at 
 once in her eye the unspoken thought, and only clutched 
 her all the tighter, pulling her down till lips and car almost 
 met, and whispering yet lower and hoarser than ever to her 
 frightened listener : 
 
 * I'm not beside myself,' she murmured heavily. ' I'm 
 not raving, Mrs. Cipriani. I'm as sane as you are — quite 
 clear and collected like. But I couldn't die with the secret 
 on ray soul, and I couldn't tell it to any other living 
 creature except you, and ruin my darling ; so I couldn't 
 rest until I'd sent for you. You won't tell upon herl 
 You won't let them know about it % You'll keep it locked 
 up in your own heart as long as you live, just as I've done; 
 and when it kills you, as it's killed me — burning and 
 heaving so within me, like — you'll confess it all to somebody 
 else you can trust to keep it, and not die with the weight 
 of it burdening your soul in the very churchyard i' 
 
THE STORM BREAKS. 261 
 
 A vague, indefinable horror seized on Hetty, as the 
 woman looked at her with her big, hollow, yearning eyes — 
 hungry eyes that seemed to be positively consumed and 
 devoured by the terrible secret they had kept so earnestly 
 — and she strove half ngainst her will to break from the 
 fierce clutch of those skinny fingers ; but Hannah CJowland 
 held her still tighter and tighter, and muttered in deep 
 tones, close to her face : 
 
 'You won't betray her! You won't inform upon her! 
 You'll keep the secret the same as I have done !' 
 
 'Inform upon whom?' Hetty answered, pretending not 
 to know of what she was speaking. ' Whose secret is it 
 you want to tell me f 
 
 'Hers!' the dying v/oman answered eagerly, looking 
 back into Hetty's lialf-averted eyes with terrible earnestness ; 
 * hers ! My sweetheart's ; my darling's ; my angj-l's. Von 
 know who I'm talking about as well as 1 do. lilrs. Chevenix's, 
 the darling, the angel, the sweetheart, the innocent lamb, 
 (iod bless her !' 
 
 Hetty's blood ran chilly within her. 
 
 ' And what is it you have to say about her 1' she managed 
 at last to gasp out feebly. 
 
 ' You'll not betray her ? You'll not use it against her 1 
 Oh, for Heaven's sake, say you'll never desert her ! Tromiso 
 me on my dying bed, Mrs. Cipriani, you won't ever tell a 
 single living soul about it !' 
 
 ' I promise,' Hetty answered slowly, with a shudder. 
 
 ' Swear it by the throne of God Almighty,' the woman 
 persisted anxiously, with the hungry eyes fixed full upon 
 her. ' iSwear that you'll never say a word of it as long as 
 you live to her or to no man,' 
 
 'I can't swear,' Hetty answered, tremulor , d.j,\ving back 
 a little. 
 
 * You shall,' the woman cried, clutching her arm Avith all 
 her bony fingers deep imprinted, and pulling her di^vn 
 again till their faces actually touched one another. ' You 
 nuist ; you're bound to. If you don't, I'll choke you ! 
 Swear, 1 tell you : swear to mo by (Jod, as I'm a dying 
 woman.' 
 
 'I swear,' Hetty murmured in a very low tone, compelled, 
 
262 FOR MAIMIES SAKE, 
 
 as it wore, to that unwonted phrase by the woman's fierce 
 maf^netic energy. 
 
 Hannah Gowland smiled feebly and relaxed her hold a 
 little for a single moment. She fell slie had triumi)hed, 
 and the triumph rendered her (piite inarticulate for the 
 time, till she could catch her breath again, after the terrible 
 effort. Presently she went on, low and hoarse once more. 
 
 ' I'll tell you what it is, then, Mrs. Cipriani. The night 
 poor Mr. Sydney Chevenix was murdered ' 
 
 Hetty started. 
 
 ' Murdered !' she cried aloud. ' ^Murdered, did you say 
 then ? ^lurdered ! How terrible ! ]>ut Mr. Chevenix 
 wasn't murdered. He shot himsolf in his own laboratory, 
 and left a letter behind to say he'd done it.' 
 
 The woman let her head drop back .loni its constrained 
 and straining attitude flat upon the pillow, and shut her 
 lank-jawod mouth with hectic firmness. 
 
 ' If you're going to let the whole hospital overhear what 
 it is we two are talking about,' she whispered doggedly, 
 after a short interval, 'I won't say another word to you or 
 to any living soul on earth about it. I'll go down uncon- 
 fcsscd into my grave with the sin of murder clinging like the 
 winding-sheet in the coflin around me.' 
 
 Hetty's heart beat violently. 
 
 ' Oh, go onl' she cried, with a look of horror at this awful 
 foreboding. ' Tell me all about it ! I'll be very (juiet. 
 Don't die with this terrible, terrible secret weighing so 
 Jieavily on your poor conscience.' 
 
 * On the night when poor Mr. Chevenix was murdered,' 
 the woman began again, in the same set voice, as if she were 
 repeating a familiar formula, ' Lucy and me — Lucy was the 
 housemaid — was sitting in the kitchen close by the door of tiio 
 passage that led into the laboratory. StainislasBenyowski — 
 he was the assistant — became from thelaboratory thatevening 
 early, and then he went out and did not come back again. 
 After that Mr. Cipriani and a friend called in, but they didn't 
 stop long, and they soon went off too. IJime-by Mrs. Che- 
 venix — God bless her, I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head— 
 the innocent darling — she came in, and began laughing and 
 talking as usual — she was always such a one for laughing — 
 
THE STORM BREAKS. 26 
 
 J 
 
 witliMr. Sydney. Presently I heard sho'dleftolT laughing, and 
 as well as I could make out, she seemed to nic to be crying 
 dreadfully. But I didn't say nothing at the time to Lucy about 
 it, because I didn't want her to know Mrs. Chovenix had 
 got herself into any trouble. Soon after that the door 
 opened again, and Mr. Chevenix, he came out, as white .as 
 a sheet, with his handkerchief pressed over the bosom of his 
 ulster, and walked, tottering like, right up the passage ; and 
 Mrs. Chevenix, she was in the room then ; I could see her 
 quite distinct in her dress and bonnet, but Lucy couldn't, 
 for I was sitting so as I looked out through the crack of the 
 kitchen door, and saw into the laboratory. And there was 
 blood, too, blood in great swimming pools lying all over 
 the lloor of the room there. If Mr. Chevenix shot himself, 
 Mn;. Chevenix was in there with him when he did it ; and 
 that never came out at the inquest, because 1 was the only 
 one that knew, and I didn't say a word about it when I 
 gave my evidence. But Mr. Chevenix iWdnH shoot himself, 
 and that I know mvself for certain ; for I swear before Cod 
 I overheard just one word she said to him a miiuito before 
 as she sat in the laboratory, — "Sydney, Sydney, I knew I 
 was shooting you ! I did it intentionally ! I meant to 
 shoot you !" ' 
 
 Hetty's face blanched with horror, and she clung for 
 supi^ort to the iron bedpost, but she didn't llinch in a single 
 muscle of her face as Hannah tJowland reached this awful 
 climax of her terrible story. She only looked upon the 
 woman and prayed inaudibly, with muttering lips, 'Have 
 mercy upon her! have mercy upon her]' As to Hannah 
 Gowland herself, v/orn outwitli the cllbrt of so long a speech, 
 wrung slowly from her throat between the gasps, sentence by 
 sentence, she sank back once more exlrausted upon the 
 pillow, and whispering hoarsely, 'My side! my side!' seemed 
 incapable for a second of speaking I'urther. 
 
 They faced each other there in silence for many long 
 miuutes, those two pale women, Hannah Gowland scowling 
 l)ainfully in fear and. remorse for poor ^Laimio, and Hetty 
 Cil)riani murmuring still with blanched lips her inarticulate 
 prayer to pitying Heaven ; and then at last Hetty broke the 
 awful stillness with a searching (piestion, ' If you knew all 
 
264 FOR MAlMIiyS SAKE. 
 
 this was trno, my poor woman, why did you never say a 
 word to anybody about it till tiiis vory niinuto V 
 
 * Why r tho woman cried, liftinf; herself half u|) in bed 
 with fearfid earne.stness, and peerini; at Hctly from her 
 bloodshot eyes like a hi><!;;^ar'.l nianiae : * Why ? do you ask 
 me ? why, indeed, says she ! I'll tell you why, then 1 He- 
 cause I loved her ! Yes, I loved her ! She nev(M' cared for 
 me no movvi than to know that T was the cook in her kitchen. 
 Ihit I loved her — I loved her with all my heart and soul, 
 like everybody else that ever came across her. She has tho 
 loving eye to cast over one, somehow, as witches havo 
 tho evil eye to bewitch one. I loved her, and I lovo 
 her still, and I'd always lovo her, if she was twenty 
 times a miserable murderess. I love her with all my 
 heart and soul ; and when I was sent away from her 
 I never came back to see her a^'ain, because the secn^t was 
 buniin«^ into my heart, and I was afraid .slui'd notice; me 
 and lind it out, and know she was discovere<l — the darlinj;, 
 tlu; an^el. It's burned into me, and burned me out, and 
 that's why I'm lyinj,' here now, Mrs. C'ipriani. It's for her 
 sake — for Mrs. Chevenix's sake — for Maimie's sake — in my 
 own heart, thou<;h she's a lady and I'.n a jservant, I always 
 call her Maimig — everybody always calls her Maimie : and 
 if I'd ^oi to die a thousand times over for Maimie's sake 
 I'd not be afraid of it — for Maimie, for Maimie !' 
 
 She shuddered terribly even as she spoke, and the fiery 
 red spot in the centre of her cheek grew redder and iiercer 
 every mimito. Hetty looked at her, now speechless with 
 terror, incapable of thiidung even of Maimie, and wholly 
 absorbed in contemplation of the dying woman's unuttcr- 
 jiblc energy. 
 
 Hannah Gowlaiul in return looked \\\) at her suspiciously 
 from her deep eyes once more. 
 
 ' You won't tell on her f she cried i)iteously, pressing her 
 pale lingers deejier and deeper than ever into the bare tlesli 
 of Hetty's arm above tlie wrist. * You won't tell on her I 
 Y'ou won't let them hurt a hair of my darling's head, my 
 ang(d, my perfect one, my belovcid, my sweetheart. She 
 might kill him, if she would. Who could forbid her ] 
 ^\ ould they hang her for that — with a rope round her 
 
THE STORyr BREAKS. 265 
 
 sweet neck, the an^i;!, the innocent ? 1 lo was her husband : 
 she might liave killod inc a lumdied times over, and willing 
 too, that was oidy her kitchen-maid. Swear to nio you 
 won't tell on her. Swear it again, swear it this minute ; 
 swear to mo by the throne of (Jod in heaven that you'll 
 
 never ' 
 
 A hideous gurgle choked the rest. Hetty, looking down 
 at the woman in unspeakable alarm, saw that her sheet and 
 night-dress were covered with blood, and blood was 
 spurting rapidly in sudden jets from her mouth and 
 nostrils. 
 
 * Quick, quick,' she cried, to the hospital nurses. ' There's 
 .something the matter. She's dying ! — she's dying ! TiOok, 
 look at tho blood ! Oh, what can be the matter, what can 
 be the matter with her !' 
 
 The hos[)ital nurse stole up cautiously on noiseless feet 
 and looked at the awful sight with critical calmness. 
 
 * It's no use troubling yourself any more about her,' she 
 said coolly, feeling the pulse with her hard fingers. ' The 
 woman's dead already. She's burst a blood-vessel. Slu^ 
 wasn't hanging to life by more than a thread, and the ex- 
 citement's killed her. She's dead this minute. She wouldn't 
 be satisfied until she saw you, and now this is the end of it. 
 I told her how it 'd be. I'll go and get the house-surgeon 
 at once to look at her rij-ht off, and certify the cause of 
 death before there's any doubt about it.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 lIKriT THINKS FOR 1IKI5SRLF. 
 
 Sl'KKcHLKS.S and awe-struck, Hetty rt;(!led and staggered 
 down the lospital stairs, and grojK'd her way blindly out 
 into th(^ little anteroom, where .locelyn was waiting for her 
 with bated breath. As she reached the door, lu-r trembling 
 knees fairly gave way beneath her, and she stumbliid rather 
 than sat down upon the rude rush-bottomed chair that 
 tJocelyn hastily thrust beside her on her entrance into tho 
 anteroom. Her cheeks were white and ghost-like as death, 
 
266 FOR MAIMIF:S SAKE. 
 
 and her pallid lips scarcely moved in answer to Jocolyn's 
 rajJidiy natorated and eaj^'or in(|uirios. I'\)r a minute or 
 two her husband thouj,dit she would have fainted outright ; 
 but the brandy which ho poured out hurriedly into the 
 little wicker cup on the flask he had brought with him, 
 and forced down her throat half against her will, revived 
 lier consciousness somewhat after tiie Hrst few minutes, and 
 she sat there swaying herself uj* and down in deadly horror, 
 but unablo as yet to bring forth a syllable of the fearful 
 scenes she had just passed through. 
 
 ' Well,' Jocelyn said at last, his own haiuls ((uiverlngand 
 trembling violently with excitement as he held the wicker 
 cup with dilliculty to her lips, * so the worst has come. 
 The woman has confessed to you. And what did she tell 
 you after all, darling ? The miserable coward, what did 
 she tell you, iletty]' 
 
 M)!i, Joci'lyn,' Hetty cried, hastily i)Utting her white 
 hand up in horror and deprecation to his bloodless lips. 
 •Don't talk so. Don't call her a coward. Don't say it, 
 darling. The poor creature's dead ! di;ad, dead, dead, this 
 miimte. She burst a blood-vessel before my very face — 
 now — here — just as she was speaking to me.' 
 
 A sudden gleam of hope flashed unexpectedly from 
 .Tocelyn's eyes as ho echoed excitedly: 
 
 'J)ead! dead! dead this minute 1 Then did she die 
 before she had time even to tell you what was this dreadful 
 secret of hers, 1 letty V 
 
 ' No,' Hetty answered, with a convulsive effort, 'she tohl 
 mo her secret, and it killed her — killed her, Jocelyn. She 
 died just as slie was making me swear I would never tell it 
 as long as I lived to you or to anybody. The blood — oh 
 tht^ blood ! Oh Jocelyn, darling, it broke from her njouth 
 aiul face— such great spurts of it — oh, it was too horrible, 
 too horrible ! It makes me .sick still even to think of it.' 
 
 Jocelyn laid his white hatid upon her still whiter cheek, 
 and tried to soothe her feebly with a gentle pressure. 
 
 ' And she told you all,' ho asked in a low voice, ' before 
 she died, did she, Hetty 1' 
 
 'Yes, Jocelyn dearest, she told me everything, every- 
 thing, everything. And oh, my darling, you can't think 
 
HETTY THIXKS FOR HERSELF. 267 
 
 liow teiriblo it was. It can't bo true. It can't be possible. 
 I can never, never bolicvo it of Maiinie.' 
 
 Jocelyn wliistled to himself a long, low, doubtful, ominous 
 whistle. 
 
 'She told you everything?' ho repeated slowly in a 
 nervous undertone. ' Confoiuul the woman, why couldn't 
 she die first? what right had she got to tell you everything? 
 If she was going to die at all, why couldn't she have 
 managed to dit; ten minutes earlier. And so she told you 
 the whole truth, yon say, Hetty V 
 
 Ilctty shrank back from him in evident alarm. 
 
 * The whole truth, Jocelyn,' she echoed in a bewildered 
 whisper. ' AVhy, what on earth can you mean, darling ? 
 Did you know all about it before, yourself, then, and never 
 say a single wor .1 to me of it I' 
 
 ' Never, llet .y, never ; I knew nothing. I know nothing 
 now. I'm as ignorant as you are of it. I had a susi)i(ion 
 — a more vague, floating, forniless suspicion — baseless, 
 baseless — absohitelv baseless — about which it wouhl have 
 been wicked to say anything to anybody — even to you 
 yourself, dear little wife.' 
 
 ' What was it, .locelyn ? Vou must tell mc !' 
 
 .locelyn hesitated. 
 
 ' ^^'ell, you know, Hetty,' he whispered fearfully at last, 
 casting an anxious glance around him as he spoke, * tliat 
 letter that Sydney wrote the night ho . . . killed himself 
 . . . you remember — the letter to say he had committed 
 Riiicide ' 
 
 ' Well,' Hetty cried, breathless with anxiety. * It . . . 
 it wasn't a forgery, was it, docelyn I' And tlu-n a suddeii 
 horror coming over her whole soul with one wild Hash of 
 vivid suspicion she a.sked again in a terrified whisper, 
 *()h, Jocelyn, surely it couldn't have been that Adrian 
 I'ym forged that letter, did he ?' 
 
 In spite of tiu^ awful solemnity of the moment, .locelyn 
 Cipriani smiled his <|uiet ])hilosophic smile in prompt 
 acknowledgment of the curious felicity of that passing 
 suspicion. 
 
 'No, Hetty darling,' ho answered, smoothing her hand 
 with his owu confidingly. ' How i^uick you women are in 
 
268 FOR MAIXTTE'S SAKE. 
 
 jumping at a conclusion. lUit you'n! wrong for all that. 
 He didn't forge the letter. It wasn't a forgery at all, I'm 
 certain. It was in Sydney Chevenix's own handwriting ; of 
 that I'm confident. Ihit, Hetty, 1 helieve it was written 
 
 after the mur I mean, after Sydnc^y had really shot 
 
 himself. There was a drop of hlood u[)on it; you know we 
 hoth noticed it, and, ilarling, I saw in a miiuite with my 
 litthi ])ocket lens that the blood was there' hcjovo. \\\v. letter : 
 the \\\V was written straight acro.ss it. He nuist have sat 
 down to write that letter immediately after the bidlet went 
 right through him. I tell you this for fear you should 
 thirdc I know more than I do know. Ihit I know very 
 little. That's absolutely all I've guessed about it.' 
 
 Hetty shuddered. 
 
 •Well, docclyn,' she said firmly, with an effort to bo 
 calm, 'the reason he wrot»* that letter after ho was sliot 
 was just because of this — oh, darling, I can hardly speak it 
 out, even to you ; but surely she wouldn't lie to me with 
 her dying breath, would she, .loeclyn ? — it was just l)ecause 
 of this- I must tell you- ' dropping her voice to a terrified 
 whisper — * Alaimie shot him.' 
 
 .locelyn held her hand tenderly in his and sootlutl 
 it with his own a »lozen times over before ho ventun-d 
 cautiously to answer. Then he muttered very low, twice 
 or thrice together : 
 
 'Maimie shot him ! Maimie shot him ! I . . . I thought 
 she had shot him. I'm not surprised at it. But, Hetty, 
 how on earth did this wretched woman come to know of 
 iti' 
 
 ♦ She saw the blood on the floor, Jocelyn — pools of blood 
 lying in the laboratory ; and she saw Maimie sitting in the 
 room after the — the accident; and she heard her say, 
 "Sydney, Sydney, I did it on purpose!'" 
 
 ' Hut why did the woman never tell anyone about it 
 before, Hetty]' 
 
 'Jocelyn! she loved her I She loved Maimie! — .she 
 loved her devotetlly I Everybody loves Maimie, somehow, 
 .Jocelyn. I love her myself. In spite of ail, 1 lovo her 
 dearly.' 
 
 ' I know you do, Hetty ; I know you do, my darling. . . . 
 
HETTY TrnNKS FOR HERSELF. 269 
 
 Wc all lovo her. Everybody loves her. . . . Hetty, Hetty, 
 whatever comes, wo must never tell anybody of this 
 against ^laimio.' 
 
 ' liut, Jocolyn, Jocolyn ! it'll be so wicked— so voiy 
 wicked to keep it secret.' 
 
 * Hetty, if we breatlu! a word of it ever to anybody, I'll 
 tell you what they'll do to poor Maimie. They'll tako 
 Mainiie, our dear little tender-hearted delicate iMaiinie, that 
 smooth-skinned, heautifid, lauj;hin^ little woman, and 
 they'll carry her off by main force to goal, and put her alone 
 in a gloomy cell the live-long night in the dark aixl 
 solitude to cry her lovely big brown eyes out ; ami they'll 
 hale her up next day before a stern faced judge, a hanl 
 lawyer with no comi)assion in his cruel nature, and twelve 
 .stolid, hard-hearted, Philistine jurymen ; and they'll try her 
 for her life ; and they'll tortun; her by (juej-tioning the 
 witnesses before her ; and they'll make great speeches to 
 show she did it; and they'll find her guilty; arul they'll 
 hang her, Hetty — think of that, my darling ; they'll 
 actually hang her — hang Maimie, our pretty, gentle, 
 womanly little Maimie. Oh, Hetty, Hetty, Hett}', my 
 sweetheart — you dear, compassionate, good little angtd— too 
 good for me, too good for me, my darling ; too good for 
 anybody — you won't help these horrid creatures to hang 
 little Maimie, will you, darling ?' 
 
 Even in tho public anterotmi there, with the hospital 
 servants passing to and fro before the open door, as .locelyn 
 whispered .so in his delicate voice persuasively and dranui- 
 tically into her listening ear, Hetty, utterly unstrung 
 by the day'n terror, bur.st at once into tears, Hung her- 
 self wildly in her weakness upon her husljand's shoulder, and 
 sobbed out aloud in heart-broken agony : 
 
 ' Never, .locelyn ; never, never, n(!ver, never ! For 
 Maimiii's sake, I'll never tell it; III keep it secret for 
 ever, for ever and ever.' 
 
 Jocelyn jiatted her head allectionately with his soft white 
 finger.s. 
 
 'That's right!' he whispered. 'That's right, Hetty! 
 That's a brave woman; a good little woman! Stick to 
 that, darling, and no harm can posisibly ever como of it. 
 
270 FOR MAIMIRS SAKE. 
 
 And, Hetty dearost, for Maimic's sake, you must never even 
 toll Mainiie.' 
 
 Hetty started back again one moment in a fresh access 
 of horror. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she cried, ' oil, darling Jocelyn, I mud tell her ! 
 I musf talk to her of it. 1 must beg her to pray — to pray 
 for forgiveness.' 
 
 The painter smiled a quiet smilo of superior com[)assion 
 for her feminine weakness. 
 
 ' If you «!(),' he said, 'it'll all come out at last, sooner or 
 later, and all will be u}) in the end with poor Maimie. No, 
 no, Hetty, that'll never do. You nuist lock up the secret 
 in your own heart and keep it inviolate for ever from 
 everyb(Kly. If two women talk a thing over together, they 
 might as well proclaim it openly upon th(^ very housetops. 
 IJut this is not the }>lace to talk it over with me even. Let 
 us go homo and arrange about the future quietly there, 
 Hetty.' 
 
 ' If I keep it locked up in my own breast and never tell 
 even Maimie, .locelyn, it'll burn nu' out as it burnt out that 
 poor woman that's lying dead on her bed ui)stairs this 
 minute, and I shall never know another hapj.y hour as long 
 as 1 live in this world, darling.' 
 
 docelyn took her reluctant hand tenderly in his and led 
 her gently, without another word, out into the vestibule. 
 Her eyes were very red with crying, and her whole look 
 was shattered and broken down. 
 
 ' Will you call a hansom for me, ]»lease, porter?' Jocelyn 
 said to the big man at the door in his authoritative mannej-. 
 * My wife has come to see a dying patient, and has been 
 much agitated ]»y seeing her burst a blood-vessel here before 
 her. J)ear up a minute longer, Hetty darling; bear up a 
 minute longer. I'd better get you home at once safely. 
 You'll be much easier when we'n; onco at home again, and 
 can talk it over (piietly at our leisure with one another 1' 
 
 As Jocelyn helped his wife into the cab at the steps of 
 the hospital, a slinking, shadowy, dark-bearded figure, loung- 
 ing in the gloom about the pillars of the portico, followed 
 them down with a stealthy tread a!id shut the doors of the 
 hansom behind them. Jocelyn glanced at him curiously 
 
HETTY THINKS FOR HERSELF. 27 1 
 
 for a moment. IIo seemed to recognize the features sonuv 
 how : likely enough, some model he had seen somewhere or 
 other at a hrothcr-artist's. The fellow had exactly the cut 
 of a motlel — the model who poses for your Italian brigand ; 
 and yet he had a broken-down gentleman air about him 
 too, as of a man who had once been somebody distinguished. 
 And these things ])assing rapidly through his preoccui)ied 
 mind without much consideration, docelyn C'ijjriani leaned 
 back at his ease, trembling, in the hansom, and thought no 
 more in his own soul about the shadowy, shabby, dark- 
 bearded stranger. 
 
 Ihit Sydney (Jhevenix, scanning closely those two familiar 
 faces in that singlemonient — he had tracked them steadfastly 
 thither with his usual dogged detectivedike persistance — 
 saiil to himself in his heart as they faded out of sight, 
 * \'e8, yes ; the worst has come. There can be no more doubt 
 about it. They have been to see Hannah (Jowland. She 
 came to die here at the hospital last AN'ednesday. Hannah 
 Gowland must have known it all, and kept it till to-day f(»r 
 love of Maimie. Now Hannah's dying or dead, and Hetty's 
 been to see her and heard the truth of it. I could see she 
 ha»l learnt it all by her deathly face and haggard eyelids ! 
 This is a terrible new danger, indeed. What can I do now 
 to make IMaimie happy ] — to make Mainiit^ happy ! Mainiio 
 hapi^y ! ALiimie — ^laimie — Maimie — Maimie ! I must do 
 something to make Maimie happy.' 
 
 CIIAPTEU XL. 
 
 HETTY ACTS. 
 
 Al.L that night, Hetty lay awake on her bed, tearless, with 
 her face bv.ricd deep in her pillow, and her heart within 
 her burning fiercely, in the first fresh horror of that un- 
 speakable secret. Slio hardly uttered a word to Jocel}!), 
 and Jocelyn hardly uttered a word to her ; as they lay 
 there silent side by side, both were too full of their own 
 thoughts and their own fears for the terrible future, but 
 each knew the other was awake, and each felt in his own 
 heart what it was the other was thinking of so intently. 
 
272 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 Early next morning, Hetty rose ; she couldn't lie in bed 
 any longer, tossing, with that awful weight of care pressing 
 upon her breast ; and she dressed herself hastily and care- 
 lessly in whatever came uppermost. Jocelyn rose, too, 
 without a word, and put on his working suit of velvet; 
 and they went downstairs together as of one accord, and 
 out instinctively into the glaring studio. There Jocelyn 
 made two cups of coffee in his little etna, and silently, with 
 a kindly husband-like gesture, made Hetty swallow hers as 
 well as she was able, though it burned her parched throat as 
 if it were molten lead, so dry and feverish was she with 
 pent-up horror. 
 
 * Well,' Jocelyn said at last, as he stood, palette in 
 hand, before his Academy canvas and pretended to be 
 busying himself with a few unimportant minor altera- 
 tions, ' why have you got up so very early this morning, 
 Hetty V 
 
 Hetty looked at him and burst into tears. It was an 
 immense relief, after the long strain of the night-watches, 
 that one good cry, and Jocelyn didn't attempt in any way 
 to prevent it. On the contrary, he flung down his palette 
 hastily, laid her head on his shoulder with gt itle solicitude, 
 and whispered at her ear in his softest and most soothing 
 tones : 
 
 * Cry away, darling ; cry away, little one. It'll do you 
 good. There's nothing like it. When a woman can't cry, 
 it's all the worse for her. 1 knew you were longing to cry 
 all night, and couldn't find a tear to shed in all your eyes, 
 pet. And I — I, too, could cry bitterly, Hetty. I could cry, 
 darling, as well as you can.' 
 
 And as he spoke, the tears rose dimly to his own eyes, 
 and trickled down, one after another unreproved, upon his 
 brown cheek and pointed moustaches. 
 
 Presently, Hetty left off crying a little, and walked 
 towards the hall as if to get down her cloak and bonnet. 
 
 ' Where are you going to V Jocelyn asked, following her 
 closely. 
 
 ' I'm going to Maimie's,' Hetty answered with unwonted 
 firmness. ' It's not the least use talking to me about it, 
 DOW, Jocelyn. I can't help it. I've made my mind up. 
 
HETTY ACTS. 273 
 
 I must go. I can't wait any longer without speaking to 
 her.' 
 
 Jocelyn saw at once she was fully detcrmineJ, and didn't 
 for a moment attempt to thwart her or to argue witli her in 
 any way. He knew by experience that if Hetty was quite 
 sure she was doing right, she would do it boldly, and brave 
 tlie consequences, whatever he might think or wish or say 
 to her. 
 
 ' Very well, darling,' he replied, slowly and remorsefully. 
 ' I'm sorry for it — very sorry ; it's a terribly dangerous card 
 for you to play. The less said about such matters the 
 better. We ouglitn't even to talk it over by ourselves 
 together. There's only one really safe and certain course in 
 all such cases — absolute silence. But if you've cjuite made 
 up your mind you must speak to Maimie, why, of course 
 you must, and there's an end of it ; though I'm very, very 
 sorry for it.' 
 
 Hetty looked at him inquiringly from her red eyes. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she said, ' isn't it terrible — incredible — horrible 
 — inconceivable — to think that our dear little beautiful 
 innocent Maimie is a murderess — a murderess ?' 
 
 * Hush, hush, darling !' Jocelyn cried eagerly, clapping his 
 warning hand, with a look of wild alarm, upon her tell-tale 
 lips. ' You mustn't whisper it even to your husband in the 
 dead of night, sweet. You know, Hetty dearest, walls have 
 ears ; to be overheard is deatli to Maimie !' 
 
 * I can't believe it,' Hetty moaned ; * I can't think it ; I 
 can't imagine it. And yet I don't know what else to think. 
 I can't rest till I've gone and asked Maimie herself for an 
 explanation.' 
 
 ' Hetty,' Jocelyn said slowly, after a minute's silence, 
 * will you just wait awhile till after breakfast ? Will you 
 just consent to put it off a little longer, for appearance 
 sake, merely to keep things quiet? If you go now, the 
 servants at Maimie's will know all about it — at least, they'll 
 know there's something dreadful the matter to bring you 
 there with such red eyes so early in the morning ; and, of 
 course, there'll have to be a regular scene ; and Maimie 'II 
 cry and get hysterical ; and Adrian '11 say we're going to ruin 
 them ; and unless you put it off till ten at least, there'll be 
 
 18 
 
274 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 a mystery — an obvious mystery — which is the worst thing 
 possible under the circumstances. If tliere's really anj-- 
 thing at all in the cook's story — which is more than doubt- 
 ful — what we ought above all things to try to avoid is to 
 excite attention at all in any way.' 
 
 Hetty paused and hesitated for a second. A little respite 
 was in itself a relief; she dreaded the explanation more 
 than the suspense even. Then she said in a tone of half- 
 consent ; ' As you like, Jocelyn. Perhaps, as you say, for 
 Maimie's sake, we ought at least to wait till after break- 
 fast.' 
 
 They waited in the studio till breakfast was ready, and 
 then walked, with as much appearance of carelessness as 
 they could well command, into the adjoining dining-room. 
 The breakfast was a mere dumb show, of course — food would 
 have choked them ; and as soon as the maid had left the 
 room, Jocelyn solemnly rose and wrapped half the bacon 
 and chicken cutlets on their plates in a piece of newspaper, 
 to hide the fact that they had eaten nothing, but merely 
 tasted their cup of coffee. Then he put a little gravy on 
 the two forks, and dabbled about the knives a bit in the 
 dish to make them look as if they had been eaten with. 
 
 After this show of breakfast, they started off together to 
 go to Maimie's. 
 
 In the rooms nearly opposite^ a dark-bearded eager 
 stranger stood watching them closely with a powerful opera- 
 glass, from a safe distance inside, behind the curtains ; and 
 as they turned out into the street the dark-bearded stranger 
 went down to the door, and walked noiselessly along the 
 pavement just behind them, keeping always at fifty or a 
 hundred yards' distance. The scent was lying close now. 
 It was clear those two were bent on mischief for poor little 
 Maimie. 
 
 They walked straight towards "Wilmington Place. Sydney 
 Chevenix following quietly behind, and, looking unobtru- 
 sively into shop-windows, with a casual glance as they 
 turned the corners, let himself in to No. 35, just as they 
 were going up the stairs indoors at Maimie's opposite. 
 
 Adrian was out, but Maimie came into the drawing-room 
 gaily to receive them — a neat little figure, beautiful as ever, 
 
HETTY ACTS. 275 
 
 in a pretty morning gown and linen collar, so fresh and fair 
 and innocent and charming, in her careless household dress, 
 that Hetty felt her belief in Hannah Gowland's story utterly 
 sliaken, and said to herself in a burst of remorse, * How 
 wicked of me ever to have even thought it possible ! Surely, 
 after all, she can never be a murderess ! Our dear little 
 simple childish-hearted Maimie !' 
 
 ' Why, you darling Hetty,' Maimie cried with girlish ten- 
 derness and anxiety, as she looked at the pale and red-eyed 
 face before her, ' Avhat on earth can you have been making 
 yourself so miserable about % You dear old t, ling ' — and she 
 flung her arms affectionately around her — 'you must come 
 at once to me to be comforted. Whatever can Jocelyn 
 have been saying or doing to you to make you so unhappy, 
 I wonder?' 
 
 Hetty's heart fluttered violently as she spoke, with a new- 
 born hope. Surely, surely, Hannah Gowland must have 
 been raving mad or wild with delirium ! That sweet little 
 ]\Iaimie could never, never, never have fired the fatal pistol ! 
 It was impossible, incredible, utterly inconceivable ! And 
 yet — and yet even Jocelyn seemed to think it might pos- 
 sibly have been so. But now that she stood ftice to face 
 at last with darling Maimie, after all her tossing night of 
 feverish horror, she hadn't the heart even to tell that sweet, 
 bright, affectionate little woman that she had ever harboured 
 such a terrible thought in her heart about her. 
 
 She drew the plump little figure over to the low, long sofa 
 by the bow window, and seated her down upon it gently 
 beside her with a remorseful tenderness. Then she laid 
 her head timidly on Maimie's breast, and sobbed aloud in 
 bitter gxief as if her heart would break within her. 
 
 Maimie, patting her cheek and stroking her hair silently 
 for a time, began at last to grow alarmed. 
 
 * Why, what is it, Hetty V she cried after some minutes, 
 in a little crisis of rising terror. ' You and Jocelyn haven't 
 fallen out with one another, have you ? — you who used always 
 to be so happy together ! Don't tell me, darling, that you've 
 quarrelled with one another. I always thought you a sort 
 of model irreproachable wife and husband.' 
 
 Hetty could hardly falter out the faintly spoken words : 
 
 18—2 
 
276 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 ' No, no, Maimie darling, it isn't that, or anything like it. 
 It's something about you — about you, ray darling ! Some- 
 thing so terrible that we've heard about you.' 
 
 Maimie rose, as if pierced by her words, and stood looking 
 blankly and fearfully at her, fixed to the ground by some 
 invisible power, in speechless agony. For the first time 
 since that awful day when Sydney Chevenix (as she 
 firmly believed) was safely buried out of sight and mind in 
 AVoking Cemetery, the dread and horror of her deadly crime 
 and its possible punishment rose once more in all its vivid 
 and hideous details visibly before her. She clasped her 
 beautiful round neck instinctively with her two white hands, 
 in half-unconscious pantomime, as she gasped out convul- 
 sively, * About me, Hetty 1 About mk, did you say, darling 1 
 Oh no, Hetty, don't say it, don't say it ! Tell me it isn't 
 true, Hetty, my Hetty ! Tell me they haven't been telling 
 you anything terrible against me !' 
 
 With a fearful shudder Hetty noticed that strange 
 instinctive gesture of Maimie's hands around her statuesque 
 neck, and drew the terrified little woman down to her 
 again in an agony of fear, laying her head tenderly upon 
 her own shoulder, in spite of her horror. She couldn't 
 exactly say why, but she knew now that Maimie had really 
 done it : there was something in her sudden access of 
 terror that said as plainly as words could say it, * I have an 
 awful secret, and I think you have discovered it.' And 
 yet she loved her ! In spite of all, she still loved her ! In 
 her own heart, Hetty Cipriani thought hastily to herself, in 
 an undertone of feeling, that she ought that moment to be 
 repelling that wicked woman instinctively from her side 
 with awe and loathing — a murderess ! a murderess ! — 
 instead of which she was drawing her tenderly down to her 
 own soft bosom, and caressing her as usual with a half- 
 motherly, half- sisterly caress of affectionate soothing. 
 Hetty couldn't understand it in the least herself ; but one 
 thought only was uppermost now in her soft-hearted little 
 nature — how to spare Maimie pain ; how to tell her the 
 truth with the least possible cost of anguish and remorse to 
 her ; how to let her know as quickly and as delicately and 
 as kindly as possible that there was no danger, that she and 
 
HETTY ACTS, 2^7 
 
 Jocelyn alone shared the terrible secret, that that suggestive 
 and horribly instinctive gesture was all unnecessary, all 
 uncalled for in any way. Every idea of righteous wrath or 
 of shrinking had faded away from her, now that she actually 
 stood face to face in Maimie's enthralling and fascinating 
 presence — every idea even of an appeal to conscience and to 
 the need for repentance and forgiveness from Heaven : one 
 absorbing notion alone remained — JMaimie was in trouble, 
 and Maimie must be comforted. 
 
 *My darling,' she cried, pressing hard the pale and 
 terrified girl upon her tender bosom, 'Maimie, my sweet- 
 heart, my darling, my precious one, don't be afraid : 
 there's nothing to b^ afraid of; nobody shall hurt you. I 
 know it all — Jocelyn and I — the one person beside wlio 
 ever knew has just told us ; but not a soul else on earth 
 knows it, and not a soul else on earth shall ever know it, 
 though we die for it ourselves, Jocelyn and I, my darling, 
 my precious one. You needn't be frightened, Maimie ; 
 you needn't be frightened' — soothing the sobbing girl's 
 head with her hands : ' the only other person who ever 
 knew is dead and gone, darling, dead and gone, Maimie; 
 and she whispered it into my ear, my pet, as she lay there 
 pale and white upon her death-bed, and nobody but our- 
 selves will ever know it.' 
 
 Maimie, in return, sobbed and nestled into Hetty's 
 bosom, and took the small, delicate hand childishly in her 
 own smooth, plump, round, soft ones. For a while she 
 sobbed away her terror inarticulately ; then at last, slowly 
 reassured by Hetty's gentle and regular pressure, she lifted 
 her head with a wondering look of infantile fear, and asked 
 between her sobs : 
 
 ' AVho is dead 1 "Who knew about it 1 Who told you that 
 I ever shot him, Hetty V 
 
 A cold thrill and a deadly shiver Avent through Hetty's 
 frame as she heard that beautiful, gentle, dainty little 
 creature utter so easily those naif and awful words of self- 
 implied accusation. 
 
 ' Hush, darling, hush,' she cried, with an involuntary 
 shudder, as she drew back half aghast for a moment from 
 the confessing murderess. ' For Heaven's sake, don't say a 
 
278 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 single word about it ! Don't whisper it ! Don't talk of it! 
 Don't dream of it, even ! Lock it up for ever in your own 
 breast, Maimie, ni}- Mainiie — or tell it only to God and to 
 me, pet.' 
 
 Maimie's sobs burst forth afresh more wildly than ever. 
 
 'Then you don't love me any longer,' she cried out 
 passionately, flinging herself away from Hetty with a wild 
 gesture of despair, and burying her face in the soft sofa- 
 cushion like a spoiled baby. * You don't love me any 
 longer. You hate me — you hate me ! Nobody '11 love me, 
 and everybody '11 hate me, just for a single moment's forget- 
 fulness — a little moment — a tiny moment. I didn't mean 
 it — I never meant it. It was an accident, an accident. 
 I swear to you, Hetty darling, it was almost an accident. 
 I hardly knew for a single second what it was I was really 
 doing.' 
 
 'The woman said,' Hetty answered quietlj-^, seized, she 
 knew not why, with a sadden avenging spirit, ' that she 
 heard you cry out, *' I meant to do it. I knew I was 
 doing it. Sydney, Sydney, I did it intentionally. I 
 wanted to shoot you !"' ' 
 
 At the unexpected sound of those long-forgotten bu!" 
 well-remembered words — delivered in a low clear voice by 
 Hetty, just as Hannah Gowland had repeated them to her 
 the night before, in Maimie's own very tone and manner — 
 Maimie's heart gave a single breathless bound, and then 
 stood still for a long space appalled within her. She did 
 not cry ; she did not sob ; she did not faint ; she did not 
 lift up her voice and pour out her soul in bitter agony : she 
 simply sat there, mute and spell-bound, incapable of speech 
 or thought or action, a living statue of unspeakable terror. 
 Her poor little brain whirled around feverishly, and she 
 knew nothing, and thought of nothing, save that she was 
 stunned, crushed, destroyed, and annihilated by that 
 terrible disclosure. 
 
 Hetty gazed at her once more in penitence and sorrow. 
 Whatever had she done to poor Maimie? Who was she 
 herself that she should venture so harshly and cruelly to 
 judge a fellow-creature ? What did she know at all about 
 the whole grave matter, save only the uncertain half- 
 
HETTY ACTS. 279 
 
 wandering evidence of dying, conscience-stricken Hannah 
 Gowland 1 Had her words struck Maimie dumb and 
 senseless for ever, she wondered"? So white, so pale, so 
 motionless, so marble-like she looked, as she sat there bolt 
 upright on the drawing-room sofa, horror-smitten and 
 numbed with speechless agony at that hideous reminder of 
 her one great tragedy. 
 
 ' Maimie, Maimie, speak to me, Maimie,' Hetty cried im- 
 ploringly, leaning forward towards her with her bloodless 
 hands clasped downward as she spoke, and ap})caling eyes 
 turned straining upon her. 
 
 * Hetty, Hetty, you will kill me, Hetty,' ]\[aimio an- 
 swered almost Avithout moving her lips, rigid and stiff as a 
 lifeless block of cold white marble. 
 
 Hetty gave a little involuntary cry of remorse and horror. 
 
 * Maimie,' she whispered, ' I love you — I love you. You 
 never did it. I know you never did it, 1 can't believe 
 you did it. The woman must have lied to me. She was 
 mad ; she was wandering. You can never, never, never, 
 never have . . . shot Sydney !' At the last words her 
 voice, low enough before, sank at once in her fear and 
 horror to an almost inaudible and inarticulate murmur. 
 
 All this while, Jocelyn Cipriani had stood still beside 
 them, hat in hand, without speaking a word or moving a 
 muscle, watching the two women in their varying emotions 
 and vivid attitudes as only a painter could possibly have 
 watched them at so terrible a moment. In spite of himself, 
 almost, he could not help noticing and marking the waves 
 and throbs that followed one another at first across 
 Maimie's full white throat and neck, or the rigid fixity of 
 her dilated pupils, when Hetty quoted at last those con- 
 vincing, damning, relentless words of Hannah Gowland's. 
 But now that the first burst of passion in both the women 
 had gradually worn itself out a little, he trusted himself, 
 with a man's timid diffidence in such a final crisis, to inter- 
 vene for a moment's diversion of the current of emotion. 
 
 'Maimie,' he whispered, coming forward suddenly and 
 touching her on the shoulder with his firm hand, so as to 
 wake her up rudely as it were from the momentary trance 
 into which she had fallen, 'Maimie, you mustn't let 
 
28o FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 yourself get so pale and white and cold, little woman. 
 You must rouse yourself bravely and hear the whole truth 
 of it from me or from Hetty. There's less harm done by 
 far than you imagine. The woman who told Hetty all this 
 was Hannah Gowland. Hannah Gowland has told nobody 
 else on earth but Hetty. Hannah Gowland kept it locked 
 up in her own heart till her dying minute. And Hannah 
 Gowland died safely yesterday evening at a London hos- 
 pital ' — he purposely avoided saying which hospital, lest he 
 should needlessly awaken the chord of terror once more in 
 Maimie's bosom. ' Not a soul on earth now knows any- 
 thing at all about it, except only me and Hetty. And we 
 are as safe and as silent as the grave — as safe and as silent 
 as the grave itself, Maimie.' 
 
 At the first touch of his strong firm hand Maimie gave 
 a sudden little tremulous start, and a cry as if of returning 
 consciousness, and then sat listening intently to his words, 
 with far-off eyes, like one who listens to some strange 
 ghost-story. 
 
 * Hannah Gowland f she repeated slowly, as soon as he 
 had finished — * Hannah Gowland? — Hannah Gowland ? Ah, 
 yes, I remember something about poor Hannah. She was 
 our cook, wasn't she, at Beaumont Terrace % I never liked 
 her ; but she seemed to be fond of me. I'm sure I hadn't 
 the faintest notion in the world that Hannah Gowland 
 knew anything at all any way about it.' 
 
 * She was in the kitchen,' Jocelyn went on quietly and 
 distinctly, in a low tone, but as calmly as though he were 
 describing to her any ordinary matter of everyday occur- 
 rence — ' she was in the kitchen on that last day when you 
 and Sydney were talking and laughing together in the 
 laboratory ; and presently she heard, or thought she heard, 
 you say something, just as Hetty repeated it now to you. 
 The laboratory-door opened soon after, and Hannah looked 
 out through the crack of the kitchen door, and saw Sydney 
 slipping out from the laboratory, and a pool of blood lying 
 on the floor there. . . . Listen to me carefully, and don't 
 interrupt me ! . . . "Without asking for an explanation or 
 waiting for you to give one, or inquiring into the state of 
 Sydney's mind, Hannah Gowland jumped at once, woman- 
 
HETTY ACTS. 2S1 
 
 like, at the absurd conclusion that you must have tlclibor- 
 ately shot Sydney. That conclusion is on the face of it, 
 put side by side with Sydney's letter, obviously incom- 
 patible with the fiicts as we know them. Sydney shot 
 himself, and himself acknowledged it : we have it on the 
 evidence of his own hand, given at the moment when he 
 was just about to die, and therefore not likely to commit 
 an act of gross deception ; and Sydney was a truthful and 
 upright man, whose evidence we ought to have no hesitation 
 in unreservedly accepting. If Hannah Gowland wasn't the 
 unconscious victim of some singular hallucination, you 
 must have been in the laboratory there with Sydney at the 
 moment he shot himself. . . . No, no, don't interrupt me. . . . 
 For some good and sufficient reason of your own, which it 
 would be impertinent and foolish of us to in^piire into too 
 closely, you didn't care, it seems, to let us know that you 
 were present at the exact moment when Sydney fired the 
 fatal pistol. I can easily appreciate the possible reasons 
 for so natural a reluctance on your part, Maimie. You 
 were agitated and terrified : you had just lost a husband 
 who idolized you, and whom you in return loved dearly : 
 you didn't wish to have to give evidence on so painful a 
 subject before a coroner's jury, and to have your actions 
 questioned and criticized by twelve unsympathetic thick- 
 headed Englishmen. Perha])s there had been — as there 
 often must be between husband and wife — some slight tilf 
 or misunderstanding between you and Sydney. Perhaps ' 
 — and he looked her hard in the eyes with persuasive 
 suggestion — 'perhaps in a momentary fit of vexation or 
 anger so aroused — possibly even under the influence of a 
 passing pang of remorse or of jealousy — Sydney took up 
 one of the little pistols that were always lying about loose 
 in the laboratory, and foolishly or thoughtlessly fired it ott" 
 against his own breast to frighten you or annoy you. 
 That the action was unpremeditated I have reason to know ; 
 that it was repented of afterwards I know too ; and I will 
 tell you why, Maimie. The letter in which Sydney stated 
 that he was going to shoot himself — a letter whose direct 
 and explicit terms are worth a thousand times more than 
 all Hannah Gowland's half-hearsay evidence — that letter 
 
282 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 was written after, not before, the moment wlicn he fired 
 the fatal shot, I feel certain, Maimie.' 
 
 Maimie gave a sudden involuntary start of surprise and 
 acquiescence. 
 
 * How on earth do you come to know that, Jocelyn ]' she 
 asked incredulously. 
 
 ' I know it,' Jocelyn answered in the same quiet, business- 
 like tone as ever, ' by a little bit of circumstantial evidence 
 which no painter could ever overlook, and which no thick- 
 headed British juryman would ever dream of taking any 
 notice of.' And then he told her in very brief terms how 
 he had discovered that the spot of blood on Sydney's last 
 dying letter lay not above but beneath the handwriting 
 which it ought to have splashed as Sydney shot himself. 
 
 * Xow, Maimie,' Jocelyn Cipriani went on, looking straight 
 into her face with eyes full of warning and pregnant suggestion 
 — he dared not speak to her more plainly before Hetty — 
 
 * I don't want to ask you how it came about that you and 
 Sydney happened to quarrel, or what it was that made him 
 shoot himself, or why he wrote that letter afterwards — 
 obviously to screen you from the evident chance of this false 
 accusation — or why you didn't wish to tell us all from the 
 very first, that you were in the laboratory with poor 
 Sydney when he fired the shot that made you a widow ; none 
 of these things matter to us or to anyone else the least in 
 any way. "We know you couldn't have wished or meant to 
 hurt Sydney. We know that Sydney really shot himself. 
 AVe know that even if you had fired the fatal pistol it must 
 have been by some terrible, unaccountable accident. We 
 require no excuse, no explanation. All we beg of you is 
 simply this : say nothing even to Hetty and me about it all. 
 I can trust you. Hetty can trust you. Show us in turn 
 that you can trust us, and say nothing on earth to us 
 about it.' 
 
 Hetty looked up timidly at her husband in wondering 
 amazement. How clearly Jocelyn could set everything 
 straight in a single moment ! He was quite right : of course 
 he was right : no doubt on earth of it. Yes, yes, there 
 had been merely a momentary quarrel, a family disagree- 
 ment — even she and Jocelyn disagreed sometimes — and 
 
HETTY ACTS. 283 
 
 Sydney, ■who was perhaps, at times, an impulsive, liasty, 
 quick-tempered creature (though she herself had never 
 tliougl.t him so), must have taken up the pistol angrily in 
 !Maimie's presence, and then and there incontinently shot 
 himself in the despair or jealousy of a passing moment ; and 
 afterwards, seeing what a terrible suspicion must hang over 
 Maimie unless he confessed it, had just had strength to sit 
 down and write that noble beautiful letter exculpating her 
 from all blaine, and then, no doubt, had bid her fly — Hy for 
 her life to her own room before they were discovered theio 
 together. Oh, yes, she saw it all (piite clearly now, and 
 Jocelyn — Jocelyn had read it all right immediately, as he 
 always did at once, with everything. In her own heart 
 Hetty hated herself terribly for having ever harboured such 
 wicked, base, unworthy thoughts about dear jSIaimie. As to 
 Hannah Gowland, she must have seized too eagerly upon 
 the half-truth, misled by Maimie's slipping from the labora- 
 tory, and putting two and two together, on the wrong scent, 
 she must have manufactured from her own excited fancy 
 those damning words she imagined she had heard Maimie 
 utter that evening in the kitchen. To Hetty's mind rJoce- 
 lyn's clever and clear-seeing intellect had at once exonerated 
 poor innocent little Maimie from all shadow of blame in 
 that terrible incident. 
 
 But as to poor little Maimie herself, sitting there with 
 her truthful eyes drinking in amazed Jocelyn's cunningly 
 suggested line of possible defence, she did not in the least 
 appreciate the necessity for so much concealment or so 
 clever an apology. To her Jocelyn seemed simply to be 
 going altogether upon a mistaken line, and she was anxious 
 at once to set him right, without at all understanding the 
 forensic skill of his carefully constructed hypothesis for her 
 strange conduct. 
 
 ' Oh no, Jocelyn,' she answered quite naturally, calmed 
 by his judicial tone, as a woman of her temperament is 
 always calmed by a man's cool and collected demeanour in 
 any great emergency. ' It wasn't at all like that, really. I'll 
 tell you just how it happened, if you'll only listen to me. 
 Sydney and I ' 
 
 ' Don't !' Jocelyn cried, holding up two fingers warningly 
 
284 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 before him, in solemn deprecation of her imprudent con- 
 fidences. * Never say a single word to anybody about it. 
 Never trubw it even to me or to Hetty. Never whisper it 
 below your breath to the walls or the curtains. Bury it 
 deep, whatever it may be, in your own soul. Say not a 
 breath or a syllable of it even to any living human crea- 
 ture.' 
 
 * Yes, do, dear,' Hetty cried with brave insistance, for tho 
 first time in her whole life venturing to differ openly in 
 opinion from her clever husband. * Tell me all about it. 
 Tell me exactly how it all happened. It'll ease your 
 conscience, darling. It will make you happier. Tell me 
 all about it, darling Maimie, conceal nothing. Tell it all to 
 me. I am strong enough to bear it. I will not shrink from 
 you, whatever dreadful, horrible thing you may have to tell 
 me, darling Maimie.' 
 
 *It was all an accident, Hetty,' Maimie cried passionately, 
 rising and facing her, full in front of the great bow window 
 — 'it was all an accident — almost an accident ; a moment's 
 impulse — a mere passing fancy — an irrational emotion. I 
 was standing up beside poor dear Sydney, out in the labora- 
 tory at Beaumont Terrace, and he was making me practise 
 at a target with his new explosive — his noiseless explosive, 
 that Adrian said I must never say a word about for tho 
 world to anybody — I hope Adrian won't think I've done 
 wrong now in telling you — and that afternoon I had met 
 Adrian accidentally on Primrose Hill, and talked to him 
 so nicely, and I thought to myself how much I loved him, 
 and that if anything were ever to happen to dear Syd- 
 ney ' 
 
 Hetty's face grew cramped with horror, and she gave a 
 little start of unspeakable astonishment at that strange con- 
 fession ; but Maimie hardly even seemed to notice it, and 
 went on without even so much as suspecting the depth of 
 the feelings her story aroused in the mind of her astonished 
 and horrified listener. 
 
 ' And then, you see, I happened accidentally to point the 
 pistol over towards Sydney ; and I said to myself, "If only 
 that pistol were to go off now, by any chance, Sydney would 
 fall down dead before me, and Adrian and I might bo 
 
HETTY ACTS. 285 
 
 happy together 1" And at that moment — I don't know how 
 — I can't imagine what happened to the trigger — but it 
 seemed to snap of itself somehow ; and the pistol went off 
 noiselessly, you know — that was the way, of course, with 
 poor dear Sydney's new explosive — and in a minute Sydney 
 was shot, and there was I, crying and sobl)ing and wringing 
 my hands, and falling on my knees, and clasping his feet, 
 and trying to recover poor dear Sydney !' 
 
 * Well V Hetty said, in a stony voice, recoiling from her 
 now, in spite of her promise, with instinctive awe. 
 
 * Well,' Maimie continued, acting it all out unconsciously 
 in pantomime before them as she spoke, after her usual vivid 
 excited fashion, 'poor dear Sydney cried out to me aloud, 
 " Why, Maimie, Maimie, what on earth have you done to 
 me T' And I said to him, rushing up to him and clasping 
 his knees, " Sydney, Sydney, my darling, my darling, I 
 have killed you ! I have killed you." And he said to me, 
 " Yes, my darling, you have killed me, you have killed me ; 
 and now if I don't recover they'll go and hang you for it, 
 my darling ^Maimie. Quick, quick, give me a pen and a 
 sheet of paper." And I gave them to him as quick as 
 lightning. And then he sat down and wrote at once the 
 letter you've heard about, saying, you know, that he'd really 
 shot himself, and that I had nothing at all to do with it 
 in any way. I've always thought, do you know, Hetty, that 
 that was such a very noble thing of poor dear Sydney.' 
 
 Before Hetty, stunned and bewildered at this sudden and 
 to her utterly unexpected revelation of the real, genuine, 
 inmost ^laimie, had time to recover from her first wild 
 astonishment sufficiently to frame some vague inarticulate 
 attempt at an answer, the door opened without the slightest 
 sign or warning, and Adrian Pyra, fresh from his morning's 
 turn in Kegent's Park, entered carelessly in his tweed walk- 
 ing suit, and gazed with a hasty look of astonished recog- 
 nition at the pale and haggard faces before him. At a 
 single glance he took the whole scene in perfectly, and knew 
 what the errand was they had come upon.' 
 
 * Then it's all up, is it,' he cried, ' Cipriani ? There's 
 nothing left for it, isn't there, then, but the Koman 
 remedy] You understand me !' 
 
286 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 And as he spoke, standing behind the two pale and 
 red-eyed women, he drew his hand significantly across his 
 tliroat, and threw his head back limp upon his shoulders 
 Avith a terrible look of utter despondency. 
 
 CHAPTER XLT. 
 
 THE TIME ARRIVES. 
 
 IMeanwiiile, at INo. 35 opposite, Sydney Clievenix, opera- 
 glass in hand as usual, had been following, from behind the 
 curtain, with painfully vague and gloomy forebodings, this 
 dramatic episode seen dimly scross the road and through the 
 big bow-window of the house in front of him. 
 
 On the table by his side lay a short note from Vera 
 Trotsky. It contained only a few words : 
 
 * My Friend, 
 
 ' Save yourself. To-night the police will call at your 
 rooms in company with Trapmann, and if they find you there, 
 on his indication, they will arrest you as Stanislas Beuyowski, 
 for the murder of Komissaroff. If you do not wish all to 
 come out at once, you must immediately go elsewhere. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 ' Vera.' 
 
 At any other time the note would have roused Sydney to 
 a pitch of terror for Maimie's safety ; but now it was far more 
 than outbalanced by his fear of what the episode he saw be- 
 fure his eyes might forebode of evil for poor little Maimie. 
 
 He knew, in some faint indefinite manner, what errand 
 Jocelyn and Hetty were bound on ; and he could guess pretty 
 well by their movements, their gestures, their looks, and their 
 attitudes, what sort of thiugs they were each in turn saying 
 to Maimie. Months of careful practice in watching from a 
 distance the actions of others had taught him, in fact, rapidly 
 to interpret with marvellous precision the very words and 
 ideas and emotions that the people he looked at were express- 
 ing to one another. 
 
 As they first entered the long front drawing-room, he could 
 see Maimie — darling Maimio — how his heart always bounded 
 
THE TIME ARRIVES. 287 
 
 at the very sight of her ! — opening the door in her pretty 
 flowered morning gown, and the simple little linen collar 
 around her beautiful full white throat. He could see her start 
 in sudden surprise at the first glimpse of Hetty's pale face 
 and black-ringed eyes ; and then the two women sat down 
 together timidly on the sofa, and Hetty laid her head, sob- 
 bing, upon Maimie's bosom, and looked up straight into 
 Maimie's face, as if she somehow expected Maimio to comfort 
 her, instead of herself comforting Maimie. Terhaps, after 
 all, he might be mistaken. It might possibly bo on some 
 other errand that they two had come that morning to 
 Maimie's. 
 
 Uy-and-by, however, ho saw quite distinctly that Maimie 
 was alarmed at something they had said to her. She jumped 
 up from her seat with clasped hands, as if smitten by a sudden 
 access of terror, and stood like a statue right in front of Hett}', 
 now grasping her beautiful neck with her two white hands, 
 and looking like a terrible living presentment of utter help- 
 lessness and wild despondency. 
 
 At that dreadful sight Sydney's heart stood still within 
 him. 
 
 * Maimie ! Maimie ! my darling Maimie !' he cried to him- 
 self, in audible language. ' Hetty is terrifying her ! Hetty 
 is threatening her ! Hetty is telling her she has killed her 
 husband ! Ah, how dare she ! How can she ! How dare 
 she do it ! The cruel, wicked, heartless creature, to frighten 
 my Maimie ! my darling ! my angel ! Look — look at her 
 now — look there at Maimie, clasping her sweet neck with her 
 two dear hands ! — the darling ! the darling ! Oh, what can 
 Hetty ever bo saying to her ? It's too terrible — too terrible 
 altogether. I can't stand it ; I can't stand it any longer. I 
 must break silence at last. I must break silence, for Maimie's 
 sake : for Maimie's sake I must come out and reveal myself ! 
 If all is up, I must come out and save her.' 
 
 His heart stood still, as ho looked, within his breast, and 
 great cold beads of chilly sweat gathered slowly and clammily 
 upon his bloodless forehead. 
 
 Presently Hetty advanced again across the room to ^[aimio, 
 and folded her tenderly in both her arms. It was Maimio 
 now who sobbed upon Hetty's consoling shoulder, and Hetty 
 
288 FOR MATMIBS SAKE. 
 
 who seemed to be soothing and calming her with womanly 
 solicitude, 
 
 * Then Hetty at least is not against us/ Sydney Chevenix 
 thought bitterly to himself with a sigh of relief. ' Hetty at 
 least doesn't misunderstand my darling Mairaie. Hetty 
 knows it was the merest accident — the impulse of a second — 
 a slight misunderstanding — a girl's mad fancy. I was a cruel 
 fool ever to think I could deserve such a prize amoug women 
 as my Maimie ; and I have had to pay dearly for my own 
 folly. I have had to pay for it, and I don't complain of it.' 
 
 He wiped the big drops hastily from hin brow^ and stood 
 once more intently watching them. 
 
 What can Hetty have said to her now % What blow can 
 Hetty have struck so suddenly at poor, tiuy, soft little 
 iuDocent Maimie % Look at her ! — look at her ! Terrified ! 
 thunderstuck ! smitten visibly to the eye with horror, and 
 awe, and remorse, and misery ! Oh, how could he stand it, 
 how could he endure it, how could he face it any longer? 
 
 * Maimie ! ij ly Maimie !' he muttered to himself, writhing in 
 his agony, * they will kill you ! they will kill you I How dare 
 they 1 how dare they ! My precious one ! my angel ! my 
 darling ! my Maimie !' 
 
 Next, as he watched, it was Jocelyn in turn who stood 
 forward a little, and began to speak to them in measured 
 language. Jocelyn was a man : a man can always under- 
 stand these matters so much better than a mere woman. A 
 man knows how to make due allowance for girlish impetuous- 
 ness ; a man feels for a pretty woman, and takes her little fads 
 and fancies, as they ought to be taken, in a wide-minded spirit. 
 Jocelyn was speaking calmly and dispassionately. Jocelyn 
 was temperately quieting their womanly fears, and suggesting 
 a plausible natural explanation. No ; more than that even, 
 Jocelyn was clearly altogether exculpating Maimie. How 
 coolly and soberly and judicially he spoke ; how cleverly ho 
 humoured them j how Hetty seemed to listen, and weigh, and 
 be convinced by his cogent, clear, and forcible logic ! Thank 
 Heaven, all might yet be well. Jocelyn had broken the force 
 of the adverse case and summed up distinctly and favourably 
 for Maimie. 
 
 Then Maimio herself once more arose and faced them 
 
THE TIME ARRIVES. 289 
 
 openly, as if at bay before them. Standing as she did full ia 
 front of the big bow window, Sydney could see distinctly from 
 where he sat every movement of her arms, every wave of 
 feeling that passed across her face, every quiver of her lips, 
 her eyelids, her throat, her delicate, dainty, round white 
 fingers. It was terrible thus to follow from a distance that 
 mute tragic pantomime, to watch and spell out the signs of 
 emotion as they succeeded one another rapidly on Maimie's 
 speaking features, decipher slowly the very words she was 
 uttering, almost, from the motion of her lips and the quivering 
 of her tremulous sensitive nostrils. Sydney, who knew her 
 every muscle so well, could tell by her face exactly what each 
 sentence was meant for, and he leaned forward and watched 
 with breathless attention, all absorbed for the hour in the 
 one fatal and final question — would Maimie foolishly answer 
 and criminate herself ? 
 
 She stood there, speaking low but excitedly, right in front 
 of him, going in action through the whole story exactly as it 
 happened — an unconscious actress, with supreme art — the art 
 of unconsciousness. She was telling them now how she came 
 into the laboratory on that awful evening, and how Sydney 
 in mere wantonness made her practise at the target with his 
 new explosive. And now she was explaining hastily how 
 Sydney happened to turn his back upon her, and how she 
 pointed the pistol at him, half as a joke, in pure unthinking 
 childish playfulness. There, there, her hand dropped. The 
 pistol had exploded, and she was running up and clasping 
 her arms wildly around him, and begging him to live, and 
 confessing it all, and calling him her own dear husband, her 
 darling Sydney, and telling him how she had come to fire at 
 him. Was she confessing it all, he wondered to himself, in 
 the very worst and most self-condemnatory possible fashion — 
 making too much of it — misrepresenting herself, pretending 
 in her remorse that she really did it deliberately and in- 
 tentionally] He turned his gaze for a moment to Hetty. 
 Yes, yes, she was. No doubt of it ! — no doubt of it ! It was 
 all up. The secret was out. He read at once in Hetty's 
 face amazement — horror — distress — loathing. There was 
 only one thing possible now to save her ; only one thing to 
 save her from the name of murderess. He must come forth 
 
 19 
 
290 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 once for all and reveal himself and then — then be silent 
 for ever. 
 
 Thank God, thank God, she wasn't a murderess ! They 
 ■were all judging her harshly, untruthfully. He was living 
 still : he stood there, the actual Sydney, visibly before them. 
 There was yet one chance to stifle the lie, to choke the 
 reproach, to kill the calumny. He was able still to make 
 JNfaimie happy — Maimie, Maimio, Maimie, Maimie ! Thank 
 God, he lived, and Maimie would be happy ! 
 
 He flung down the opera-glasses idly on the ground. The 
 glass broke. Well, what did it matter 1 He had no further 
 use for glasses now — for them or for anything ! Maimie, 
 Maimie, Maimie, Maimie ! Thank Heaven, he had 1' ved to make 
 Maimie happy ! The perspiration dropped, dropDed, dropped 
 silently in great round drops from his clammy forehead upon the 
 floor of the parlour. He brushed it away hastily with his sleeve, 
 and hurried ofi" with a burning soul into the little back bedroom. 
 
 A dressing-case lay upon the table by the window. Sydney 
 Chevenix opened it quick with trembling fingers, and took 
 from it, very tenderly and lovingly, a pair of disused and 
 rusty razors. He ran his finger lightly along the edge. It 
 was sharp enough still to cut a man's throat with. He took 
 out a pair of tiny nail-scissors. They were Maimie's present, 
 they and all the rest of the leather dressing-case — an unlucky 
 present, Maimie had said, a pair of scissors, and she made him 
 give her a penny in return, in pretended payment, super- 
 stitious little soul ! to avert the supposed unpropitious omen. 
 He smiled a little smile to himself as he thought now of that 
 foolish episode of their early married life together. Never 
 mind, lucky or unlucky, the scissors would help him now at 
 least to save Maimie. They had come in useful after many 
 days. He had saved the dressing-case from the wreck of his 
 house as it seemed to some purpose. It had lain on the 
 dressing-table at the old home on the day of the sale, and he 
 had ventured to go in and buy it quietly, for Maimie had sold 
 it — sold it with the rest — and had thought nothing of selling 
 it either. And so happy was he at the chance of possessing 
 it that he never even cared to blame Maimie for her heartless 
 action in letting any casual stranger buy her present to her 
 dead husband, as she must have thought it. 
 
RESURRECTION. 291 
 
 CHAPTEE XLII. 
 
 RESURRECTION. 
 
 Adrian Pym stood moodily with his two arras folded hard in 
 front of him, bolt upright, and pale as death, the very image 
 of a strong man utterly bafHed and reduced by plain facts 
 there is no gainsaying to the uttermost depths of blank 
 despair. 
 
 * It's all up,' he repeated once more, in a hard cold voice, 
 as Jocelyn told him, in few words and short, the whole 
 story of their visit to the hospital last evening j * it's all up, 
 and there's no good our trying to conceal it any longer. 
 When four people together know a secret, and two of them 
 women, at that, into the bargain, it must all come out sooner 
 or later ; there's no denying it. As long as only Maimie and 
 I knew anything of it, there was just some hope still of 
 keeping it quiet. Maimie's not like other women, thank 
 Heaven. She knows no remorse, or shadow of turning, 
 because she's a child, and forgets altogether everything that's 
 happened, as long as nobody talks to her about it. And I 
 know none, or very little, because I'm a man, and can live 
 superior, to it — can press it down deep in my own silent 
 bosom. And we two had quite sufficient reasons of our own 
 for never blabbing about it in any way to anybody. But 
 when four people together know a secret, and two of them 
 women, at that, into the bargain, it can't help leaking out 
 sooner or later, as sure as gospel — and a great deal surer.' 
 
 Jocelyn walked up and down the drawing-room, pulling his 
 beard gloomily and silently. At last he spoke, in the same 
 calm and quiet musical voice as always : 
 
 * The less said about this thing even now the better,' he 
 murmured slowly. * The two women in particular should 
 never talk it over with one another, no matter where they 
 may be, or how strong the temptation. Walls have ears, and 
 we ourselves are wrong this morning to have spoken so much 
 about it here to one another. The prudent man doesn't 
 even whisper to the reeds by the river-side the secret of King 
 Midas's ass's ears. But there's no need after all, if one 
 comes to face it, for such profound despair as you imagine, 
 
 i9— 2 
 
293 FOR MAIMJE'S SAKE. 
 
 Adrian. You and I spoke of this business once before 
 together, and once only, and all these months we have since 
 kept silence. AVe may still keep silence for years and years 
 the same as ever.' 
 
 Adri.in Pym turned round upon him fiercely with wither- 
 ing scorn. 
 
 * You fool !' he cried, hicning through his teeth, and 
 forgetting, in his utter despondency, the decent restraints of 
 conventional language. * You and I are man and man, and 
 we two might keep a secret together for ever and ever. But 
 do you think that woman there' — and he pointed his fore- 
 finger contemptuously at Hetty — * will keep her tongue still 
 for a whole lifetime, when she knows she's the confidante of 
 a murder ! a murder ! and might let it all out by merely 
 wagging it. Yes, yes, I irill speak, Cipriani ! I will speak if 
 1 choose to ! They call it a murder ! — the fools ! the 
 idiots I' 
 
 At that moment, the door of the drawing-room opened 
 suddenly, without a knock, without a pause, without a sign 
 or warning of any kind, and Sydney Chevenix, alive and 
 erect, stood as of old in the flesh before them. 
 
 The black beard and moustache and whiskers were gone, 
 and the dark dye had been washed out carefully with a 
 detergent acid from the slight eyebrows. Clear-cut and close- 
 shaven, no longer muffled and screened and hidden by that 
 luxuriant growth of concealing hair, Sydney Chevenix's 
 delicate features stood unmistakably revealed before all eyes 
 in their old manly handsomeness and vigour. The brown 
 complexion had not all completely disappeared from his 
 cheeks, and his face looked thin and haggard and careworn 
 yet, compared with the face they had known in the old happy 
 days at Beaumont Terrace; but still it was Sydney, un- 
 deniably Sydney, older, and paler, and browner, and more 
 harassed-looking than of yore, yet still Sydney, the re-risen 
 Sydney, alive and not dead, himself and not another, whole 
 and not murdered. Even Adrian Pym recognised him at 
 once from his old photographs. For a moment nobody 
 started, or moved, or uttered a word : they only sat or stood 
 
RESURRECTION. 293 
 
 and gazed at him in blank surprise and wonder and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 At last Mainiie found breath the first for a long loud cry — 
 
 * Sydney ! Sydney ! Sydney ! Sydney !' 
 
 If Sydney had only yielded that moment to his own 
 natural inmost impulse, he would have sprung forward 
 instinctively, then and there, at the sound of that thrilling 
 tremulous voice, and folded Maimie wildly in his arms in one 
 long embrace, Adrian or no Adrian, overcome by the force 
 of his pent-up passion. But with a mighty effort he sternly 
 repressed himself. She was Adrian's now, by his own act, 
 by his own will, by his own design, by his own contrivance ; 
 he had handed her over himself to his rival, he had put them 
 into that false position of his own accord, and he must abide 
 by it for ever, come what might of it. So he drew himself 
 up, cold and irresponsive, and only answered in a hard dry 
 voice, husky with concealed emotion : 
 
 'It is I, Maimie— Sydney Chevenix.' 
 
 Slowly Adrian Pym came forward from the group, and 
 stood confronting him, incredulous and critical. He had seen 
 Sydney Chevenix but once before, as he believed, dead and 
 mangled at the Regent's Park Hospital. But that was a 
 phantom, a double, a substitute : for the first time in his life 
 he beheld him now in very truth, the man whcse place and 
 wife he had usurped ; he beheld him now, returned to life, 
 standing like a visitor from another world, erect and silent, 
 gazing straight before him at the awe-struck group, and 
 waiting long for them to ask for an explanation. 
 
 Adrian was the first rudely to break the death-like silence. 
 
 ' We thought you were dead, Sydney Chevenix,' he said 
 simply. 
 
 Sydney bowed his head in solemn acquiescence. 
 
 * So I was, Adrian Pym,' he answered back in hard dry 
 tones — ' legally dead, dead and buried. You have inherited 
 my house, my land, my position, my money. You have 
 inherited my wife ; you have inherited everything. I do not 
 grudge them to you. I have planned it myself. You shall 
 lose none of them — not even her. Do not fear it. I had 
 but one wish — to make Maimie happy.' 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake explain, Sydney,' Jocelyn Cipriani 
 
294 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 cried, coming forward eagerly towards the pale slim figure, 
 and laying his firm hand upon Sydney's shoulder, as if to 
 convince himself by actual touch of his real identity and 
 material existence, * Who was it that was dead and buried 
 in your place at Regent's Park Hospital ? How have you 
 come to life again so suddenly? Where have you been 
 spirited away meanwhile ? And why have you concealed the 
 truth so long from us ?' 
 
 ' For Maimie's sake,' Sydney Chevenix answered slowly 
 and solemnly. * And for Maimie's sake I have come to lite 
 again this morning on purpose to tell you. I saw from the 
 window of the house opposite what was taking place between 
 you to-day. I knew that Hannah Gowland must have 
 blurted out everything. I knew that Maimie must be living 
 in fear of her life for the consequences of the murder she had 
 never committed. I knew that nothing else could possibly 
 have relieved her from her terror and suspense except my 
 coming here bodily this morning. So I came, I came at last, 
 in spite of everything. I chose the lesser of two evils. 
 Better Maimie should know I am still living, than suffer any 
 longer the anguish and torture of supposing she had really 
 and truly killed me.* 
 
 ' Sit down,' Jocelyn said, setting him a chair, * and explain 
 to us all the mystery of your disappearance.* 
 
 ' I will net sit down,' Sydney answered quietly but firmly. 
 * I have not come here to stop and terrify Maimie. I have 
 not come to make her bright little life any more unhappy. 
 I have come for a minute only — for a short explanation — to 
 set things all right again between everyone of you, and then 
 to disappear once more to where I came from, for ever and 
 ever. I will not sit down. I will stand and explain to 
 you.* 
 
 Awed by his voice — his strong, calm voice — they answered 
 nothing. Indeed, there was a terrible hollow ring in it, as of 
 a message that sounded from beyond the grave ; and they 
 listened to it breathlessly in solemn silence, as though it were 
 in truth the dead and buried Sydney who had risen from his 
 coffin to unravel the mystery for them, and to make Maimie 
 happy. As for Sydney, he did not dare to trust himself to 
 look towards Maimie, or towards Adrian : he addressed all 
 
RESURRECTIOy. 295 
 
 his explanation direct to Jocelyn Cipriani, and to him 
 only. 
 
 *The man who died, and was burnt at the hospital that 
 night,' he began calmly, with just an imperceptible tinge of 
 deadly tremor in his faltering voice, 'was not rae, but Stanislas 
 Benyowski. After the accident — the accident in the labora- 
 tory — when the pistol went off quite unexpectedly in Maimie's 
 hands (she didn't mean to do it : at worst it was an accident) — 
 after the pistol went off, Cipriani, I wrote that letter, the 
 letter you heard read at the inquest, just to explain matters ; 
 and then I staggered out alone into the road, and drove in a 
 cab to the Eegent's Park Hospital. There you yourself came 
 and saw me. Shortly after I arrived, as I lay half insensible, 
 Stanislas Benyowski was brought in, shot also through the 
 body, and they laid him in tlie bed next to the one that I 
 was occupying. I have learned since, by inquiry among the 
 people with whom I now associate, that Benyowski was shot 
 that evening by his Communist friends on a real or mistaken 
 charge of having betrayed the secrets of their cause to the 
 Russian Government.' 
 
 He paused a second to catch his breath, and stole a passing 
 glance sideways at Maimie. She sat on the sofa, looking 
 timidly towards him, but with her head half leaning for 
 support upon Adrian Pym's shoulder. He had done it him- 
 self: he could not complain. If she was happy, it was 
 more than enough for him. 
 
 • In the course of the evening,' he went on drily, in the 
 same hard, cold, mechanical tone as before, barely inter- 
 rupted every now and then by an occasional faint tremor 
 in the trilled consonants, * Benyowski died, in the bed beside 
 me. It occurred to me then, that if I could only change 
 places with Benyowski's corpse, it would make matters very 
 much easier for Adrian and Maimie. I felt as if I were 
 certainly going to recover ; and I was sure that after what 
 had already happened — for reasons which Maimie will at 
 once appreciate, but which it is needless for me to explain to 
 you in full, Cipriani — my recovery would probably cause 
 an immense deal of unnecessary distress and inconvenience 
 to poor Maimie. So almost before I knew what I was doing, 
 I got out of bed — at the time, I believe, more or less de- 
 
296 FOR MAIMIE'S SAKE. 
 
 lirious — and dragged across Benyowski's corpse into the bed 
 which bore my name at the bed-head. In doing so, I acci- 
 dentally upset, so far as I can make out, a paraffin lamp that 
 stood upon the table ; and the lamp set fire to that ward of 
 the hospital. The flames rose up at once and caught the 
 bedclothes around lienyowski's body, and so disfigured it 
 that you and others quite honestly believed you recognized 
 it as mine when callec' in to identify it on the morning of 
 the inquest. So the body that lies buried at Woking 
 Cemetery is not really Sydney Chevenix's, but Stanislas 
 Benyowski's.* 
 
 That was all — that bald, concise, cold narrative of the 
 facts, without one passing hint of the terrible emotions and 
 volcanic throes of internal feelings by which they had been 
 accompanied in his own bosom. Sydney Chevenix sup- 
 pressed all that : he was not there to magnify his own con- 
 duct, or to pose as a great romantic hero, but merely to explain 
 to Maimie's satisfaction his sudden disappearance and con- 
 tinued existence. Yet to himself, who knew what the bare 
 facts really meant of underlying heroic struggle and prolonged 
 endurance, the simple recital was in itself an inexpressibly 
 painful one, and he wiped the cold sweat hastily from his 
 brow with feverish fingers before he went on to tell them, in 
 a trembling voice, the rest of his wonderful, terrible story. 
 
 ' After that,' he continued once more, ' I remained at 
 the hospital until my wound was cured, and then I went 
 out again into the world, taking the name of Stanislas 
 Benyowski. I let my beard grow while I was convalescent, 
 and as soon as I got out I dyed it black, and cut my hair short, 
 and altered my complexion, and wore clothes made by a 
 foreign tailor, so that nobody who knew me could easily 
 recognize me. Then I came and took the rooms opposite 
 Adrian's house here ; and I have spent my time ever since 
 in trying to watch over Maimie's happiness.' 
 
 Adrian gave an involuntary start. 
 
 * Then you were the man with the black beard/ he cried in 
 astonishment, ' at number thirty-five !* 
 
 Sydney nodded in silent acquiescence. 
 
 ' I was,' he answered, looking not towards Adrian Pym, 
 but still only towards Jocelyn Cipriani. *And from the 
 
RESURRECTION. 297 
 
 room opposite I watched you all over here this morniDg, and 
 saw there was mischief brewing for Maimic.' 
 
 ' But your money — your house — your property — every- 
 thing ]* Jocelyn cried, bewildered. ' What on earth can you 
 have done, yourself, for a living 1 AVhy on earth did you 
 give them up without a word for somebody else's benefit V 
 
 Sydney smiled a bitterly contemptuous smile, and waved 
 his hand aside gently as he answered with curling lips : 
 
 * It was all Maimie's, I gave it to ^laimie. I had no wish 
 but to make Maimie happy. For myself, have I not a pair 
 of hands to work with ] Am 1 more helpless to earn 
 my own livelihood than — than any comm^^u journeyman 
 mechanic V 
 
 ' Chevenix,' Jocelyn said in a low voice, drawing back 
 abashed, and gazing at him in solemn surprise and astonish- 
 ment, ' no words of mine can ever express the depth of the 
 admiration and wonder and awe I feel at such grand heroic 
 conduct. I will not attempt it. It is not for such as me. 
 We have no common measure. I am ashamed to speak to 
 you.' 
 
 There was a long pause, and Sydney was just beginning to 
 think he had said enough, and might go his way at last with 
 safety, when Maimie suddenly and unexpectedly broke the 
 silence, in her childish voice, with a curious question. 
 
 ' Then, after all, Sydney,' she said plaintively, ' Adrian and 
 I are not properly married to one another V 
 
 For the first time since their one short greeting, Sydney 
 ventured to turn again and look straight at her. 
 
 'No .... Maimie . . . .* he answered slowly, as their 
 four eyes met. 'Adrian and you are not properly married. 
 But the fault is mine — the fault is mine .... Maimie.' 
 
 'Oh, Sydney !' Maimie cried half querulously, 'you ought 
 never to have put us in such a false position. You ought to 
 have let us know from the very first that you were living, and 
 that we couldn't be rightly married to one another.' 
 
 Jocelyn gazed at her in blank amazement, and the colour 
 rose at once into his cheek, in a natural blush, called forth 
 sympathetically by the sight of so much human insensibility ; 
 but Sydney only shook his head sadly, and answered with a 
 sigh : 
 
298 FOR MAIMIFJS SAKE. 
 
 ' I did it for the best, Maimie ; I did it for the best. I 
 tried to act in the way that I thought would make you 
 happiest. If I acted wrong, I am very sorry for it. But 
 you must forgive me. I have suffered a great deal — a very 
 great deal — on your account, Maimie.' 
 
 That was the only time he permitted himself to allude for 
 a single moment to all that he had endured for Maimie's 
 sake ; and he was sorry for it the second ho had uttered it. 
 
 There was another slight pause, and then Sydney looked 
 round again. 
 
 * It will not bo for long, Maimie,' he went on quietly. * I 
 shall not trouble you now much longer. You and Adrian 
 may be happy together. I don't doubt you will soon be really 
 married. I have told you everything I have got to tell you. 
 I think you all now understand the whole story. Nothing 
 but fear for Maimie's safety would ever have wrung it from 
 me, Cipriani. Had it not been for that, it would have gone 
 down with me untold into the grave. ... It is a mistake to 
 come back again from death to life. ... I can go now. You 
 none of you want me any longer ? Good-bye, Cipriani ! 
 Good-bye, Hetty. Good-bye . . . Adrian. Good- bye . . . 
 Maimie.' 
 
 He turned to go, with a sad smile and a terrible quivering 
 of his under lip, which Jocelyn Cipriani noticed only too 
 visibly. But, as he turned, Maimie jumped up in sudden 
 surprise from the drawing-room sofa, and stood confronting 
 liim with a scarlet face and a strange look of wounded pride 
 upon her baby features. 
 
 * Sydney ! Sydney !' she cried reproachfully, * you're not 
 going away for ever and ever without even so much as once 
 kissing me !' 
 
 At that strange appeal, so ill-timed, so unexpected, 
 Sydney hesitated and trembled for a second. He stood like 
 a man drawn fiercely on by some irresistible passion, yet 
 striving hard to master himself and to quell his feelings by 
 strong self-control. Every limb and muscle quivered 
 violently, and his face twitched with a deadly twitching 
 as he gazed straight back into Maimie's eyes with all the 
 suppressed fire of his earnest nature. 
 
 ' just this once,' he cried at last, springing forward eagerly 
 
WHITHER ? 299 
 
 and clasping her to his bosom. * Just this once, since you 
 ask it, for the last, last time. Maimie, my Maimie — my 
 heart's love — my only angel — my sweetest — my idol ! I love 
 you ! I love you ! I have always loved you ! For your 
 sake I could forego everything. For your sake I shall see 
 you no longer.' And he printed a single, long, hard kiss 
 on the centre of her burning, snow-white forehead. 
 
 The next moment he was gone ; and there was a profound 
 silence. 
 
 It was broken first by Maimie's voice, speaking more 
 lightly and naturally by far than she had yet spoken that 
 whole morning. 
 
 * Well,' she said, drawing a deep breath, ' it's a great com- 
 fort to find out anyhow that after all, as it turns out, Adrian, 
 it wasn't a murder : I didn't really and truly kill him.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIir. 
 
 WHITHER? 
 
 They sat for a minute or two longer without exchanging a 
 word with one another : and then Adrian Pym turned in- 
 quiringly to Jocelyn, and half whispered, in a voice full of 
 shame and penitence : 
 
 • Oughtn't we to follow him, and see what he's going to 
 do, Cipriani 1 I don't know whether he's in a fit state to bo 
 left alone. He said something about his not troubling us 
 now much longer — that Maimie and I might be happy together 
 — that it was for the last time — that nobody wanted him at 
 all in future. Do you think he meant ' 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani interrupted his unfinished sentence quick 
 as lightning, with a hasty gesture of deprecation. 
 
 ' Say no more, Adrian,' he put in sternly. * The less said, 
 the sooner mended. Lot us not inquire too closely what he 
 means next. It's not for you and me, I tell you, Pym, to 
 follow such a man as Sydney Chevenix. He knows best 
 himself what he wishes to do, and how he can most fitly 
 accomplish his purpose. Let him go his own wild way un- 
 trammelled. His life is wrecked. We know who has 
 
300 FOR MAI MIES SAKE. 
 
 wrecked it. Why should you try to keep the miserable hulk 
 of it any longer afloat up hero in misery ? Better it should 
 sink alone and un pitied in the black abyss, than hamper it 
 now in its blank wretchedness with our petty little unasked- 
 for solicitudes.' 
 
 Hetty sprang up with a cry of terror from the sofa, where 
 she had hitherto sat silent, her hands clasped hard, and her 
 eyes brimming with the tears that would not fall, from the 
 moment when Sydney, pale and haggard, first entered the 
 drawing-room on his errand of mercy ; and clinging to her 
 husband's arm in an agony of despair, she cried out aloud : 
 
 * Jocelyn, Jocelyn, you don't think, after all, he's going to 
 kill himself for Maimie, do you ?' 
 
 Jocelyn turned to her with a wondering look of intense 
 compassion. 
 
 * Why, Hetty, Hetty, my darling Hetty,' he murmured in 
 her ear, with infinite pitying surprise and tenderness, * are 
 you, too, as blind and as deaf as she is ? Do you think there 
 is anything else left possible ? Did you never observe his 
 voice, his eye, his mouth, his quivering lip«?, his twitching 
 muscles % What sort of life would you call him back to ] 
 Why should you wish to prolong any further his terrible 
 agony of a purposeless sacrifice V 
 
 ' I understand,' Hetty said, growing paier and paler, and 
 letting her voice sink to an almost inaudible whisper. ' He 
 sees at last he has thrown away his whole life for a woman 
 who was utterly and inexpressibly unworthy of it.' 
 
 ' He sees it,' Jocelyn echoed. ' He sees it. He sees it. 
 And he is ready even so to sacrifice everything on earth for 
 her — if he had anything left still to sacrifice.' 
 
 Hetty paused, and looked for a moment wonderingly at 
 Maimie, who sat whispering low with Adrian upon the sofa. 
 Then she touched her husband's arm gently with her hand. 
 
 ' Let us go,' she said. ' Let us leave them together. Wo 
 are not wanted here. They must have much now to say to 
 one another.' 
 
 Maimie rose and came forward, with tears in her eyes, but 
 still comparatively calm and quiet. 
 
 * How kind of you, Hetty,' she said quite simply. * Yes, 
 Adrian and I have many things to talk oyer by ourselves, 
 
WHITHER? 301 
 
 dear, this morning. It has been a very terrible day indeed 
 for us. It's so like you to think of leaving us alone now.' 
 
 And she bent forward, as affectionately as usual, and held 
 up her mouth with pursed-up lips for Hetty to kiss it. 
 
 Hetty drew back her Ov7r> pale lips in horror and wonder- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Not now, Maimie,' she cri id, recoiling inwardly against 
 that feminine caress ; ' not no\»' — not now. Some other time, 
 perhaps. I don't know ; I hardly realize it all as yet : but 
 certainly not to-day ; I cannot, I cannot. . . . Good-bye 
 Maimie. Good-bye. . . . JNIaimie.' 
 
 And she held her hand out coldly and formally. 
 
 Maimie took it, held it for a moment with a doubtful 
 pressure, and then letting it drop like a stone from her fingers, 
 sat down once more despondently upon the sofa, and burst 
 into a flood of childish tears. 
 
 They went down the stairs, Jocelyn and Hetty, and out of 
 the door, and down along the streets towards home in silence, 
 till they had almost reached their own staircase. Then Hetty 
 spoke at last in trembling accents. 
 
 * Jocelyn,' she said, ' I can't understand how such a man 
 as Sydney Chevenix could ever have so completely sacrificed 
 everything for such a woman as Maimie Llewellyn ! If she 
 had been somebody fully worthy of him, now — some generoUvS, 
 noble, broad-souled creature — some girl who would have 
 appreciated so great devotion ! — but Maimie ! Maimie !' 
 
 Jocelyn halted on the step a second and held his unlighted 
 cigarette poised between his fingers as he answered slowly ; 
 
 ' That only shows how bad a psychologist you really are, 
 my precious Hetty. It is for just such a woman as that, 
 darling, that a good man, a true man, a great man, a noble- 
 minded man, is always ready to sacrifice everything. If you 
 look through all history and all biography, you'll find invari- 
 ably it is for the lightest women, the emptiest women, the 
 shallowest women, the unworthiest women, that men have 
 always in all time done and dared the utterly unspeakable. 
 Where a single man would barely die for love of you, Hetty, a 
 thousand men would willingly die, I dare be bound, for love 
 of Maimie. He did it all for Maimie's sake ; and for Muimio's 
 sake ho will still do what yet remains for him.' 
 
302 FOR MAIMIE^S SAKE. 
 
 Hetty shuddered. 
 
 * Oh, Jocelyn,' she cried again, ' you don't mean to say you 
 think he is really going to kill himself f 
 
 Jocelyn shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * Che sara, sara,' he answered gloomily. * The world works 
 itself out its own predestined way, and we can do but little 
 to help it or retard it. Let it work itself out what way it 
 will, it can bring nothing but misery and regret to Sydney 
 Chevenix. Better far he should lie and sleep at peace on 
 Thames bottom, than live to know, day after day, that 
 Maimie, for whom he has wrecked his life, cares really less 
 than nothing for him.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 MAIMIE SAVED. 
 
 From Wilmington Crescent, Sydney Chevenix wandered on 
 by himself, careless and aimless, off in the direction of 
 Pimlico and Chelsea. He knew nothing, and cared nothing, 
 of where his feet were spontaneously leading him : he simply 
 walked straight onward, straight onward, and ever straight 
 onward, through throngs and crowds of passing people, soli- 
 tary, unknown, unnoticed, unnoticing. He walked as lonely 
 through those populous streets as if he had been wandering 
 all alone by himself in the very middle of desolate Sahara 
 He stood face to face with his own thoughts only ; face to 
 face, too, with the real, the genuine, the revealed Maimie. 
 
 He had known it all from the very beginning ; known it 
 and admitted it ; known it, and shrunk from even acknow- 
 ledging it ; known how little he was to her, who to him was 
 absolutely everything ; known it, and yet pretended not to 
 know it ; worshipped at the shrine of the Maimie who was 
 not, and who never had been ; cherished tenderly his dis- 
 illusioned ideal ; nursed the flickering embers of his dead 
 love ; given way to the fixed idea which had taken possession 
 of him, body and soul j absorbed himself wholly in Maimie's 
 happiness. And now he had done all that was possible for 
 him, and his role in life was cut away clear from under him. 
 
MAIMIE SA VED. 303 
 
 To live a single day longer was to risk the discovery of his 
 personation of Benyowski. He had only one duty left on 
 earth, to remove himself — that useless obstacle — out of 
 Maimie's path, and for Maimie's sake out of Adrian's. It 
 was easy enough, indeed, to do : he had no hesitation or 
 cowardice about it : but he wished he could have carried down 
 to the grave with him a better last impression of darling 
 Maimie — Maimie ! Maimie ! Maimie ! Maimie ! He was less 
 than nothing, then, after all, to Maimie. 
 
 If only she had not asked him to kiss her ! 
 
 * Sydney ! Sydney ! You're not going away for ever and 
 ever, without even so much as once kissing me !' 
 
 How little she knew the greatness of his sacrifice, the 
 struggle he had gone through before he could resign her, the 
 pangs with which he had watched so tenderly over her 
 happiness with Adrian ! And yet, even to himself, Sydney 
 Chevenix would not pretend he had done anything in the 
 least heroic ; would not confess that Maimie could do wrong 
 in anything, in anything, in anything. 
 
 ' My angel !' he said to himself j * my darling ! my be- 
 loved one ! What does it matter to me whether she loves 
 me, or whether she doesn't ! Enough for me if I can make 
 Maimie happy. I will make her happy ! — I will make her 
 happy ! She shall keep her Adrian ! She shall be properly 
 married to him. No log of an obstacle shall stand in their 
 way. The log shall float down stream, instead, this evening, 
 with this evening's ebb tide. For Maimie's sake ! — for 
 Maimie's sake ! How like a tune it rings always in my ears — 
 Maimie ! Maimie ! Maimie ! Maimie !' 
 
 He walked till he came to Battersea Bridge, which he 
 crossed half-unconsciously, turning in at last to the Park on 
 the other side, and seating himself, in the drizzling rain 
 which had begun to fall, on one of the benches. 
 
 There he sat, in a kind of lethargy, the livelong day, with- 
 out tasting food, or moving from the bench, till evening 
 began to close in upon the river. 
 
 Then he wandered out once more into the neighbouring 
 streets, and felt dimly conscious for the first time that he was 
 growing cold and wet and hungry. So ho strolled off quietly 
 to a baker's shop, and bought a penny roll, which he ato as 
 
304 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 he walked down the streets again, in the direction of the 
 river. 
 
 Presently, he passed a stationer's window, where he saw 
 there was a little branch post-office. He went in, throwing 
 away in the street the remainder of his roll, and bought a 
 bundle of halfpenny postcards. He took one, and asked for 
 a pen, which the stationer handed him. On the back of the 
 card he wrote a few words in a firm hand — no trembling now 
 — and addressed it on the face to Mrs. Adrian Pym, Wilming- 
 ton Crescent. The words he wrote were few but concise : 
 
 'By the time this card reaches you, !Maimie, the one 
 obstacle to your happiness will be removed ; and I shall 
 be floating dead, I hope and pray, upon the middle of the 
 river. If my body is found, you may have it buried as 
 Stanislas Benyowski's. Mademoiselle Vera Trotsky will 
 identify it. No need now to rake up the past again. I 
 have always loved you. I love you still. 
 
 * Yours for ever and ever, 
 
 ' Sydney.' 
 
 He read it over, and then, suddenly recollecting himself, 
 bought a packet of envelopes, with one of which to cover it. 
 
 ' How foolish of me to forget !' he said to himself angrily. 
 ' The servants would see it.' 
 
 He put it inside one of the envelopes, and again directed 
 it, and dropped it carefully into the letter-box. 
 
 Then he wrote a second card in French to Vera Trotsky. 
 
 ' Dear Friend, 
 
 ' Inquire to-night late for my body, and identify it 
 at once as Stanislas Benyowski's. I am going to drown 
 myself. I kiss your hand. 
 
 * Sydney Chevenix.' 
 
 A ragged child was standing by the door as he went out- 
 side, munching with great satisfaction the bit of sodden crust 
 that Sydney had flung so carelessly into the gutter. 
 
 * Poor miserable little fragment of humanity,' he said, 
 patting the ragged child tenderly upon her clotted curls, 
 
MAIM IE SA VED. ' 305 
 
 ' what a pity so much good material should go to waste. 
 You pick up the fragments that remain, it seems, in strict 
 accordance with the scriptural injunction. Let me see what 
 money I have left in my pocket. Ton — twelve — fourteen 
 and sixpence. Better you should have it than a Thames 
 lighterman. Take it, little one ; take it ; take it. Don't 
 he afraid of me ; it isn't stolen. What a pity so much good 
 material should go to waste in the gutter or — the river. 
 Qua! is artifex pereo / — a good chemist is going to bo wasted.* 
 
 So, muttering ever to himself, ' Maimie, Maimie !' he 
 walked along to the wharves by the Embankment, and 
 found a nice, quiet, dark spot by a corner, where a man could 
 let himself in wholly unperceived, without much fuss or 
 noise or trouble. Glancing around him nervously, ho took 
 off his coat and boots, and stepped gently into the cold, 
 black water. The electric lights on the Embankment oppo- 
 site glared and flickered, but nobody saw him. Then he 
 swam off, heading down stream with the ebb tide, in the 
 murky darkness. 
 
 ' I shall swim till I'm tired,' he said to himself with care- 
 less glee, ' unless a Thames steamer runs me down first, and 
 then 1 shall just go quietly under. Drowning isn't so bad 
 after all as living . . . Good-bye, Maimie . . . Maimie, 
 Maimie, Maimie, Maimie!' 
 
 Next morning, very very early, Jocelyn Cipriani went 
 round to the newsmonger's to buy the first of the penny 
 papers. He opened it with a certain vague foreboding of 
 what he should see, and glanced rapidly down all the columns 
 for the subject he wanted. Presently, the name of * Stanislas 
 Benyowski' met his eye, near the bottom of a column. He 
 looked in haste at the little paragraph. Yes, yes, it was 
 there. 
 
 'Mysterious suicide . . . well-known Polish Communist 
 refugee ... no marks of violence . . . name on linen, 
 " Stanislas Benyowski "... picked up at half-past eleven 
 by a Kotherhithe boatman . . . long been wanted by the 
 police for a murder at Guildford . . . tracked, at last by a 
 clue given through a Nihilist refugee . . . identified by 
 
 20 
 
3o6 FOR MAIMIES SAKE. 
 
 Mademoiselle Vera Trotsky ... no doubt drowned himself 
 in desperation.' 
 
 Jocelyn Cipriani sighed a sigh of pity and relief, folded 
 the paper up carefully, and went round with it in haste to 
 Wilmington Crescent 
 
 'You will break it gently to Maimie, Adrian,' he said, 
 handing him the paragraph. * Her nerves must already be 
 terribly shattered by what took place here yesterday 
 morning.' 
 
 * It's no use breaking it,* Adrian answered with a deep 
 breath. ' She has had a post-card from Sydney to warn her 
 beforehand.' 
 
 As he spoke, Maimie came out of her bedroom, pale as a 
 sheet, and haggard with crying, and took the paper from her 
 husband's hands. Jocelyn pointed silently to the fatal para- 
 graph, and looked on in mute attention as she read it 
 through, standing close beside him. 
 
 Maimie laid down the paper on the table with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 'Poor Sydney,' she said meditatively, 'poor, dear, good, 
 unselfish Sydney ! He did it for my sake, you see, Jocelyn ! 
 Do you know, Adrian, I do really believe that poor dear 
 Sydney was after all extremely fond of me.' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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