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I I 
 
 grant gtiriiartg'g gnlilan anti Colonial ILHirarji 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
This Edition is issued/or circulation in India 
 and the Colonies only. 
 
I 
 
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HILDA WADE 
 
 BV 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE 
 
 TORONTO 
 THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED 
 
 1900 
 
LP I'K'm. /hi'k 
 
 It , 
 
 J 
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTE 
 
 It had been Mr. Grant Allen's intention to 
 acknowledge in a brief preface his indebtedness 
 for one of the main conceptions of this book to 
 Mr. Furneaux Jordan's Character in Body and 
 Parentage. 
 
 ion 707 f 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 1. Thk Episode of 
 
 2. The Episode of 
 
 THING 
 
 3. The Episode of 
 
 4. The Episode of 
 
 5. The Episode of 
 
 6. The Episode of 
 
 7. The Episode of 
 
 8. The Episode of 
 
 9. The Episode of 
 
 10. The Episode of 
 
 11. The Episode of 
 
 12. The Episode of 
 
 the Patient who disappointed her Doctor 
 
 THE CJENTLEMAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVEKY- 
 
 THE Wife who did her Duty. 
 
 THE Man who would not commit Suicide 
 
 THE Needle that did not ma/- // 
 
 THE Letter with the Ba ingstoke ^ostma. ,, 
 
 the Stone thai' loukkd hout rr 
 
 the European with the Kafmr heart 
 
 THE Lady who \v\h very exclusive . 
 
 THE Guide w'lo knew uie Count* v , 
 
 THE Officer w.io understood perfi^ctily 
 
 THE Dead Man who spoke 
 
 I'AGE 
 I 
 
 30 
 
 65 
 
 96 
 
 128 
 
 '59 
 
 230 
 
 279 
 
 309 
 
I 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Professor Sebastian ..... 
 
 Hilda Wade 
 
 • • • 
 
 It was no good : the rabbits all died 
 
 He lay long asleep ..... 
 
 She showed no sign of recovery 
 
 Their glances met ..... 
 
 She ought to have died .... 
 
 She and my cousin had struck up a close acquaintance 
 
 Is he well off? 
 
 • • • 
 
 Why don't you ask him his intentions ? 
 
 He sat down opposite me . 
 
 She broke down and began to cry , 
 
 To my two mashes, she explained . 
 
 Most childish and charming 
 
 I used to stand about at the door . 
 
 One can't help admiring ' ' 
 
 I don't mind letting you ha>re a squint at one of her billy-doos 
 
 Oh, then, of course, you're half Welsh, as I am 
 
 I am a nurse already 
 
 She drew the quick outline of a face in her note-book 
 She did give it to 'im 
 The Norwegian dagger 
 
 pa(;e 
 2 
 
 4 
 
 9 
 
 15 
 
 21 
 24 
 28 
 
 31 
 35 
 37 
 41 
 45 
 49 
 S« 
 52 
 57 
 6o 
 66 
 
 73 
 79 
 Si 
 86 
 
! 
 
 Xll 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 l-ACR 
 
 Doubts are not in her lino . 
 
 That settles it ! The end is very near 
 
 Died instantaneously, by all appearances 
 
 Killed, bravely fighting 
 
 Flung himself over . 
 
 lie would certainly get rid of that , 
 
 He could change in some copse 
 
 The Dolgelly man 
 
 I consulted my ordnance map 
 
 He flung out his arms 
 
 The man rose with a little cry and advanced 
 
 The Lord had decided 
 
 An unpractical person 
 
 The door opened, and Sebastian entered 
 
 With a little scream she let the "Dasin fall 
 
 l)Ut dangerous — dangerous I 
 
 I had my suspicions 
 
 I know them as well as I know tne own nu 
 
 Don't press me, she said 
 
 This hospital is not big enough for you and 
 
 Over a reflective pipe 
 
 The Ad'uiral was taken ill . 
 
 I thought his smile would swallow him 
 
 'Ihe Basingstoke postmark . 
 
 She ast me where I was going 
 
 I could hardly believe my eyes 
 
 Then you knew I would come ? 
 
 My Hubert .... 
 
 I asked you not to come, and you came in s 
 
 He gave me his views on the cultivation of oats 
 
 I gazed about me at the raw new land 
 
 Oom Jan Willem lay stretched at full length 
 
 thcr 
 
 me abreast 
 
 pile of mc 
 
 90 
 
 
 93 
 
 
 94 
 
 
 98 
 
 '^ 
 
 lOI 
 
 108 
 
 
 no 
 
 1 
 
 114 
 
 ''J 
 
 116 
 
 ■J 
 - \ 
 
 119 
 
 "\ 
 
 121 
 126 
 
 % 
 
 130 
 
 
 134 
 
 
 136 
 
 
 140 
 
 /, 
 
 147 
 
 \ 
 
 151 
 
 
 154 
 
 
 157 
 
 
 161 
 
 
 167 
 
 ' -r 
 
 170 
 
 ,, ^' 
 
 173 
 175 
 
 1 
 •i 
 
 180 
 
 .',; 
 
 184 
 
 1' 
 
 188 
 
 ;d 
 
 192 
 
 
 195 
 
 
 198 
 
 ;l 
 
 203 
 
 4 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Xlll 
 
 It was Hilda, with Tant Mettie's baby ! 
 
 They passed just below 
 
 Hilda pedalled bravely by my, side . 
 
 With a ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road 
 
 I saw the face .... 
 
 Could I, baby ? . . . 
 
 I tried to draw him out 
 
 We watched by turns 
 
 Colebrook held up one warning haml 
 
 He's there right enough 
 
 A wild moment followed 
 
 It was a mad chase across the dark veldt 
 
 The fugitive was riding away 
 
 I have a presentiment that you will be surprised to 
 
 She doesn't look profound, I admitted 
 
 The daughters of the Commander-in-Chief drew 
 
 passed ..... 
 I won't be Lady Gubbins 
 Miss Wade is your cousin, I suppose ? 
 I foresee she will ask us . 
 My wife has delivered her ultimatum 
 Lady Meadowcroft rushed on deck . 
 You are so funny ! . 
 
 The guide ..... 
 His servility had vanishe<l 
 We were fairly trapped 
 Absorbed in his devotions 
 She took the string in her hand 
 The sacred drink was very much to his taste 
 Sahib and Mem-Sahibs must go away 
 Cumberledge ! Come back to life, then ! . 
 We must manage to get rid of her . 
 
 their skirts away as she 
 
 find me 
 
 there 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 204 
 206 
 209 
 214 
 218 
 222 
 228 
 230 
 233 
 235 
 238 
 242 
 246 
 
 251 
 
 255 
 
 257 
 261 
 265 
 269 
 276 
 277 
 280 
 284 
 287 
 289 
 
 294 
 297 
 302 
 
 307 
 3H 
 318 
 
XIV 
 
 i 
 
 HILDA IVADE 
 
 Let us understand one another 
 
 Vou sneak ! he cried, passionately 
 
 His mood was unsociable 
 
 Flirting with her desperately 
 
 I am here . 
 
 We laid him out on the raft 
 
 Hilda watched her life-long enemy . 
 
 I stood up and waved Hilda's white shawl 
 
 I almost believe he is at last remorseful 
 
 He was an innocent man, said she, angrily . 
 
 A remarkable woman, gentlemen, said he . 
 
 No impediment, she answered 
 
 PAGR 
 
 3a8 
 331 
 
 333 
 337 
 339 
 342 
 
 345 
 
 348 
 352 
 354 
 359 
 
PAGR 
 
 333 
 337 
 339 
 342 
 
 345 
 
 348 
 352 
 354 
 359 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED 
 
 HER DOCTOR 
 
 Hilda Wade's gift was so unique, so extraordinary, that I 
 must illustrate it, I think, before I attempt to describe it 
 But first let me say a word of explanation about the 
 Master. 
 
 I have never met any one who impressed me so much 
 with a sense of greatness as Professor Sebastian. And this 
 was not due to his scientific eminence alone : the man's 
 strength and keenness strucl- -^le quite as forcibly as his vast 
 attainments. When he first came to St. Nathaniel's Hospital 
 an eager, fiery-eyed physiologist, well past the prime of life 
 and began to preach with all the electric force of his vivid 
 personality that the one thing on earth worth a young man's 
 doing was to work in his laboratory, attend his lectures 
 study disease, and be a scientific doctor, dozens of us were 
 infected by his contagious enthusiasm. He proclaimed the 
 gospel of germs ; and the germ of his own zeal flew abroad 
 in the hospital : it ran through the wards as if it were 
 typhoid fever. Within a ihw months, half the students were 
 
 B 
 
IIIIDA WADE 
 
 converted from lukewarm observers of medical routine into 
 flaming apostles of the new methods. 
 
 The greatest authority in Europe on comparative 
 anatomy, now that Huxley was taken from us, he had 
 
 devoted his later days to the 
 pursuit of medicine proper, 
 to which he brought a mind 
 stored with luminous ana- 
 logics from the lower animals. 
 His very appearance held 
 one. Tall, thin, erect, with 
 an ascetic profile not unlike 
 Cardinal Manning's, he re- 
 presented that abstract form 
 of asceticism which consists 
 in absolute self-sacrifice to a 
 mental ideal, not that which 
 consists in religious abnega- 
 tion. Three years of travel 
 in Africa had tanned his 
 skin for life. His long white 
 hair, straight and silvery as 
 it fell, just curled in one 
 wave-like inward jweep where 
 it turned and rested on the 
 stooping shoulders. His pale face was clean-shaven, save for 
 a thin and wiry grizzled moustache, which cast into stronger 
 relief the deep-set, hawk-like eyes and the acute, intense, intel- 
 lectual features. In some respects, his countenance reminded 
 me often of Dr. Martineau's: in others it recalled the knife-like 
 edge, unturnable, of his great predecessor. Professor Owen. 
 Wherever he went, men turned to stare at him. In Paris, they 
 took him for the head of the English Socialists : in Russia, 
 
 PROFESSOR SEBASTIAN. 
 
 a 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 3 
 
 ;ia, 
 
 they declared he was a Nihilist emissary. And they were 
 not far wrong — in essence : for Sebastian's stern, sharp face 
 was above all things the iacc of a man absorbed and 
 engrossed by one overpowering pursuit in life — the sacred 
 thirst of knowledge, which had swallowed up his entire nature. 
 
 He wdii" what he looked — the most single-minded person 
 I have ever come across. And when I say single-minded, 
 I mean just that and no more. He had an End to attain — 
 the advancement of science, and he went straight towards 
 the End, looking neither to the righc nor to the left for any 
 one. An American millionaire once remarked to him of 
 some ingenious appliance he was describing, ' Why, if you 
 were to perfect that apparatus, Professor, and take out a 
 patent for it, I reckon you'd make as much money as I have 
 made.' Sebastian withered him with a glance. ' I have 
 no time to waste,* he replied, * on making money.' 
 
 So, when Hilda Wade told me, on the first day I met 
 her, that she wished to become a nurse at Nathaniel's, ' to be 
 near Sebastian,* I was not at all astonished. I took her at 
 her word. Everybody who meant business in any branch 
 of the medical art, however humble, desired to be close tj 
 our rare teacher — to drink in his large thought, to profit by 
 his clear insight, his wide experience. The man of Nathaniel's 
 was revolutionising practice : and those who wished to feel 
 themselves abreast of the modern movement were naturally 
 anxious to cast in their lot with him. I did not wonder, 
 therefore, that Hilda Wade, who herself possessed in so 
 large a measure the deepest feminine gift — intuition — should 
 seek a place under the famous professor who represented the 
 other side of the same endowment in its masculine embodi- 
 ment — instinct of diagnosis. 
 
 Hilda Wade herself I will not formally introduce to you : 
 you will learn to know her as I proceed with my story. 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 I was Sebastian's assistant, and my recommendation 
 
 soon procured Hilda Wade 
 the post she so strangely 
 
 coveted. Before she had 
 been long at Nathaniel's, 
 however, it began to dawn 
 upon me that her reasons 
 for desiring to attend upon 
 our revered Master were 
 not wholly and solely 
 scientific. Sebastian, it is 
 true, recognised her value 
 as a nurse from the first : 
 he not only allowed that 
 she was a good assistant, 
 but he also admitted that 
 her subtle knowledge of 
 temperament sometimes en- 
 abled her closely to ap- 
 proach his own reasoned 
 scientific analysis of a case 
 and its probable develop- 
 ment. * Most women,' he 
 said to me once, * are quick 
 at reading the passing 
 emotion : they can judge 
 with astounding correctness 
 from a shadow on one's 
 face, a catch in one's breath, 
 a movement of one's hands, 
 how their words or deeds 
 arc affecting us. We can- 
 not conceal our feelings from them. But underlying 
 
 ^1^ 
 
 HILDA WADE. 
 
I 
 
 THE PA TIE NT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 5 
 
 character they do not judge so well as fleeting expression. 
 Not what Mrs. Jones is in herself, but what Mrs. Jones is 
 now thinking and feeling — there lies their great success 
 as psychologists. Most men, on the contrary, guide their 
 life by definite facts — by signs, by symptoms, by observed 
 data. Medicine itself is built upon a collection of such 
 reasoned facts. But this woman, Nurse Wade, to a certain 
 extent, stands intermedi .te mentally between the two sexes. 
 She recognises temperament — the fixed form of character 
 and what it is likely to do — in a degree which I have never 
 seen equalled elsewhere. To that extent, and within proper 
 limits of supervision, I acknowledge her faculty as a valuable 
 adjunct to a scientific practitioner.' 
 
 Still, though Sebastian started with a predisposition in 
 favour of Hilda Wade — a pretty girl appeals to most of 
 us — I could see from the beginning that Hilda Wade was 
 by no means enthusiastic for Sebastian, like the rest of the 
 hospital. ' He is extraordinarily able,' she would say, when I 
 gushed to her about our Master : but that was the most I 
 could ever extort from her in the way of praise. Though 
 she admitted intellectually Sebastian's gigantic mind, she 
 would never commit herself to anything that sounded like 
 personal admiration. To call him ' the prince of physiologists,' 
 did not satisfy me on that head. I wanted her to exclaim, 
 * I adore him ! I worship him ! He is glorious, wonderful ! ' 
 
 I was also aware from an early date that, in an un- 
 obtrusive way, Hilda Wade was watching Sebastian. Watch- 
 ing him quietly, with those wistful, earnest eyes, as a cat watches 
 a mouse-hole ; watching him with mute inquiry, as if she 
 expected each moment to see him do something different 
 from what the rest of us expected of him. Slowly I 
 gathered that Hilda Wade, in the most literal sense, had 
 come to Nathaniel's, as she herself expressed it, * to be near 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 Sebastian.' Gentle and lovable as she was in every other 
 aspect, towards Sebastian she seemed like a lynx-eyed 
 detective. She had some object in view, I thought, almost as 
 abstract as his own — some object to which, as I judged, she 
 was devoting her life quite as single-mindedly as Sebastian 
 himself had devoted his to the advancement of science. 
 
 * Why did she become a nurse at all ? * I asked once of 
 her friend, Mrs. Mallet. * She has plenty of money, and 
 seems well enough off to live without working.' 
 
 * Oh, dear, yes,' Mrs. Mallet answered. * She is independ- 
 ent, quite ; has a tidy little income of her own — six or seven 
 hundred a year — and she could choose her own society. 
 But she went in for this mission fad early ; she didn't intend 
 to marry, she said, so she would like to have some work to 
 do in life. Girls suffer like that, nowadays. In her case, 
 the malady took the form of nursing.' 
 
 ' As a rule,' I ventured to interpose, ' when a pretty girl 
 says she doesn't intend to marry, her remark is premature. 
 It only means ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I know. Every girl says it ; 'tis a stock pro- 
 perty in the popular masque of P^aiden Modesty. But with 
 Hilda it is different. And the difference is — that Hilda 
 means it.' 
 
 * You are right,' I answered. ' I believe she means it. 
 
 for I admired her 
 
 Yet I know one man at least 
 
 immensely. 
 
 Mrs. Mallet shook her head and smiled. ' It is no use. 
 Dr. Cumberledge,' she answered. ' Hilda will never marry. 
 Never, that is to say, till she has attained some mysterious 
 object she seems to have in view, about which she never 
 speaks to any one — not even to me. But I have somehow 
 guessed it.' 
 
 ' And it is ? ' 
 
THE path: NT ll'J/0 niSAPPOlNTKI) HER DOCTOR 7 
 
 'Oh, I have not guessed what it is: I am no CKcHpus: I 
 have merely guessed that it exists. But whatever it may be, 
 Hilda's life is bounded by it. She became a nurse to carry 
 it out, I feel confident. From the very beginning, I gather, 
 part of her scheme was to go to St. Nathaniel's. She was 
 always bothering us to give her introductions to Dr. 
 Sebastian ; and when she met you at my brother Hugo's, it 
 was a preconcerted arrangement ; she asked to sit next you, 
 and meant to induce you to use your influence on her behalf 
 with the Professor. She was dying to get there.' 
 
 ' It is very odd,' I mused. ' But, there ! — women are 
 inexplicable ! ' 
 
 * And Hilda is in th-^.t matter the very quintessence of 
 woman. Even I, who have known her for years, dont 
 pretend to understand her.' 
 
 A few months later Sebastian began his great researches 
 on his new anaisthetic. It was a wonderful set of researches. 
 It promised so well. All Nat's (as we familiarly and affec- 
 tionately style St. Nathaniel's) was in a fever of excitement 
 over the drug for a twelvemonth. 
 
 The Professor obtained his first hint of the new body by 
 a mere accident. I Us friend the Deputy Prosector of the 
 Zoological Society had mixed a draught for a sick racoon at 
 the Gardens, and, by some mistake in a bottle, had mixed it 
 wrongly. (I purposely refrain from mentioning the ingre- 
 dients, as they are drugs which can be easily obtained in 
 isolation at any chemist's, though when compounded they 
 form one of the most dangerous and difficult to detect of 
 organic poisons. I do not desire to play into the hands of 
 would-be criminals.) The compound on which the Deputy 
 Prosector had thus accidentally lighted sent the racoon to 
 sleep in the most extraordinary manner. Indeed, the racoon 
 slept for thirty-six hours on end, all attempts to awake him 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 by pulling his tail or tweaking his hair being quite unavailing. 
 This was a novelty in narcotics: so Sebastian was asked to come 
 and look at the slumbering brute. He suggested the attempt 
 to perform an operation on the somnolent racoon by remov- 
 ing, under the influence of the drug, an internal growth, which 
 was considered the probable cause of his illness. A surgeon 
 was called in, the growth was found and removed, and the 
 racoon, to everybody's surprise, continued to slumber peacefully 
 on his straw for five hours afterward. At the end of that 
 time he awoke and stretched himself, as if nothing had 
 happened ; and though he was, of course, very weak from 
 loss of blood, he immediately displayed a most royal hunger. 
 He ate up all the maize that was offered him for breakfast, 
 and proceeded to manifest a desire for more by most 
 unequivocal symptoms. 
 
 Sebastian was overjoyed. He now felt sure he had dis- 
 covered a drug which would supersede chloroform — a drug 
 more lasting in its immediate effects, and yet far less harmful 
 in its ultimate results on the balance of the system. A name 
 being wanted for it, he christened it ' lethodyne.* It was the 
 best pain-luller yet invented. 
 
 For the next few weeks, at Nat's, we heard of nothing 
 but lethodyne. Patients recovered, and patients died : but 
 their deaths or recoveries were as dross to lethodyne. An 
 anaisthetic that might revolutionise surgery, and even medi- 
 cine ! A royal road through disease, with no trouble to the 
 doctor and no pain to the patient I Lethodyne held the 
 field. We were all of us, for the moment, intoxicated with 
 lethodyne. 
 
 Sebastian's observations on the new agent occupied 
 several months. He had begun with the racoon : he went 
 on, of course, with those poor scapegoats of physiology, 
 domestic rabbits. Not that in this particular case any pain- 
 
THE PA riENT WHO DJSArrOlNTEl) HER DOCTOR 9 
 
 ful experiments were in contemplation : the Professor tried 
 the drug on a dozen or more quite heaUhy young animals — 
 with the strange result that they dozed off quietly, and never 
 woke up again. This nonplussed Sebastian. lie experi- 
 
 
 IT WAS NO GOOD : THE RABBITS ALL DIED. 
 
 mented once more on anotlicr racoon with a smaller dose ; 
 the racoon fell asleep and slept like a top for fifteen hours, at 
 the end of which time he woke up as if nothing out of the 
 common had happened. Sebastian fell back upon rabbits 
 again, with smaller and smaller doses. It was no good : the 
 rabbits all died with great unanimity, until the dose was so 
 
■?a 
 
 lO 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 diminished that it did not send them off to sleep at all. 
 There was no middle course : apparently, to the rabbit kind, 
 lethodyne was either fatal or else inoperative. So it proved 
 to sheep. The new drug killed, or did nothing. 
 
 I will not trouble you with all the details of Sebastian's 
 further researches : the curious will find them discussed at 
 length in Volume 237 of the Philosophical Transactions. 
 (See also Comptcs Rendus de F Academic de Alcdccine, tome 
 xlix. pp. 72 and sequel.) I will restrict myself here to that 
 part of the inquiry which immediately refers to Hilda Wade's 
 history. 
 
 * If I were you,' she said to the Professor one morning, 
 when he was most astonished at his contradictory results, ' I 
 would test it on a hawk. If I dare venture on a suggestion 
 I believe you will find that hawks recover.' 
 
 * The deuce they do ! ' Sebastian cried. However, he had 
 such confidence in Nurse Wade's judgment that he bought a 
 couple of hawks and tried the treatment on them. Both 
 birds took considerable doses, and, after a period of insensi- 
 bility extending to several hours, woke up in the end quite 
 bright and lively. 
 
 * I see your principle,' the Professor broke out. * It 
 depends upon diet. Carnivores and birds of prey can take 
 lethodyne with impunity : herbivores and fruit-eaters cannot 
 recover, and die of it. Man, therefore, being partly carni- 
 vorous, will doubtless be able more or less to stand it.' 
 
 Hilda Wade smiled her sphinx-like smile. * Not quite 
 that, I fancy,' she answered. ' It will kill cats, I feel sure : 
 at least, most domesticated ones. But it will not kill weasels. 
 Yet both are carnivores.' 
 
 * That young woman knows too much ! ' Sebastian 
 muttered to me, looking after her as she glided noiselessly 
 with her gentle tread down the long white corridor. * We 
 
THE PATIENT IV IW DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR ii 
 
 shall have to suppress her, Cumberledge. . . . But I'll wager 
 my life she's right, for all that. I wonder, now, how the 
 dickens she guessed it ! ' 
 
 * Intuition,' I answered. 
 
 He pouted his under lip above the upper one, with a 
 dubious acquiescence. * Inference, I call it,' he retorted. 'All 
 woman's so-called intuition is in fact just rapid and half- 
 unconscious inference.' 
 
 He was so full of the subject, however, and so utterly- 
 carried away by his scientific ardour, that I regret to say he 
 gave a strong dose of lethodyne at once to each of the 
 matron's petted and pampered Persian cats, which lounged 
 about her room and were tlie delight of the convalescents. 
 They were two peculiarly lazy sultanas of cats — mere jewels 
 of the harem — Oriental beauties that loved to bask in the 
 sun or curl themselves up on the rug before the fire, and 
 dawdle away their lives in congenial idleness. Strange to 
 say, Hilda's prophecy came true. Zuleika settled herself 
 down comfortably in the Professor's easy-chair, and fell into 
 a sound sleep from which there was no awaking ; while 
 Roxana met fate on the tiger- skin she loved, coiled up in a 
 circle, and passed from this life of dreams, without knowing 
 it, into one where dreaming is not. Sebastian noted the 
 facts with a quiet gleam of satisfaction in his watchful eye, 
 and explained afterwards, with curt glibn'^ss to the angry 
 matron, that her favourites had been ' canonised in the roll of 
 science, as painless martyrs to the advancement of physiology.' 
 
 The weasels, on the other hand, with an equal dose, 
 woke up after six hours as lively as crickets. It was clear 
 that carnivorous tastes were not the whole solution, for 
 Roxana was famed as a notable mouser. 
 
 ' Your principle ? ' Sebastian asked our sibyl, in his 
 brief, quick way. 
 

 12 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Hilda's cheek wore a glow of pardonable triumph. The 
 great teacher had deigned to ask her assistance. ' I judged 
 by the analogy of Indian hemp,' she answered. ' This is 
 clearly a similar, but much stronger, narcotic. Now, when- 
 ever I have given Indian hemp by your direction to people 
 of sluggish or even of merely bustling temperament, I have 
 noticed that small doses produce serious effects, and that 
 the after-results are most undesirable. But when you have 
 prescribed the hemp for nervous, overstrung, imaginative 
 people, I have observed that they can stand large amounts 
 of the tincture without evil results, and that the after-effects 
 pass off rapidly. I, who am mercurial in temperament, for 
 example, can take any amount of Indian hemp without 
 being made ill by it, while ten drops will send some slow and 
 torpid rustics mad drunk with excitement — drive them at 
 once into homicidal mania.' 
 
 Sebastian nodded his head. He needed no more ex- 
 planation. * You have hit it,' he said. ' I see it at a glance. 
 The old antithesis ! All men and all animals fall, roughly 
 speaking, into two great divisions of type : the impassioned 
 and the unimpassioned, the vivid and the phlegmatic. I 
 catch your drift now. Lethodyne is poison to phlegmatic 
 patients, who have not active power enough to wake up from 
 it unhurt : it is relatively harmless to the vivid and impas- 
 sioned, who can be put asleep by it, indeed, for a few hours 
 more or less, but are alive enough to live on through the 
 coma and reassert their vitality after it' 
 
 I recognised as he spoke that this explanation was 
 correct : the dull rabbits, the sleepy Persian cats, and the 
 silly sheep had died outright of lethodyne '. the cunning, 
 inquisitive racoon, the quick hawk, and the active, intense- 
 natured weasels, all most eager, wary, and alert animals, full 
 of keenness and passion, had recovered quickly. 
 

 THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 13 
 
 ' Dare we try it on a human subject ? ' I asked tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 Hilda Wade answered at once with that unerring rapidity 
 of hers, ' Yes, certainly ; on a few— the right persons. /, for 
 one, am not afraid to try it.' 
 
 'You?' I cried, feeling suddenly aware how much I 
 thought of her. ' Oh, not you, please, Nurse Wade. Some 
 other life — less valuable ! ' 
 
 Sebastian stared at me coldly. 'Nurse Wade volun- 
 teers,' he said. * It is in the cause of science. Who dares 
 dissuade her? That tooth of yours? Ah, yes. Quite 
 sufficient excuse. You wanted it out, Nurse Wade. Wells- 
 Dinton shall operate.' 
 
 ^ Without a moment's hesitation, Hilda Wade sat down 
 in an easy-chair, and took a measured dose of the new 
 anaesthetic proportioned to the average difference in wei-ht 
 between racoons and humanity. My face displayed my 
 anxiety, I suppose, for she turned to me, smiling, with quiet 
 confidence. * I know my own constitution,' she said with a 
 reassuring glance that went straight to my heart. ' ♦ I do 
 not in the least fear.' 
 
 As for Sebastian, he administered the drug to her as 
 unconcernedly as if she were a rabbit. Sebastian's scientific 
 coolness and calmness have long been the admiration of 
 younger practitioners. 
 
 Wells-Dinton gave one wrench. The tooth came out 
 as though the patient were a block of marble. There was 
 not a cry or a movement, such as one notes when nitrous 
 oxide is administered. Hilda Wade was to all appearance 
 a mass of lifeless flesh. We stood round and watched I 
 was trembling with terror. Even on Sebastian's pale face 
 usually so unmoved save by the watchful eagerness of 
 scientific curiosity, I saw signs of anxiety. 
 
14 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 After four hours of profound slumber — breath hovering, 
 as it seemed, between life and death — she began to come to 
 again. In half an hour more she was wide awake ; she 
 opened her eyes and asked for a glass of hock, with beef 
 essence or oysters. 
 
 That evening, by six o'clock, she was quite well, and able 
 to go about her duties as usual. 
 
 * Sebastian is a wonderful man,' I said to her, as I entered 
 her ward on my rounds at night. ' His coolness astonishes 
 me. Do you know, he watched you all the time you were 
 lying asleep there as if nothing were the matter.' 
 
 * Coolness ? ' she inquired, in a quiet voice. * Or 
 cruelty ? ' 
 
 ' Cruelty ? ' I echoed, aghast. ' Sebastian cruel ! Oh, 
 Nurse Wade, what an idea ! Why, he has spent his whole 
 life in striving against all odds to alleviate pain. He is the 
 apostle of philanthropy ! ' 
 
 * Of philanthropy, or of science ? To alleviate pain, or 
 to learn the whole truth about the human body ? ' 
 
 ' Come, come now,' I cried. ' You analyse too far. I 
 will not let even you put me out of conceit with Sebastian.' 
 (Her face flushed at that * even you ' ; I almost fancied she 
 began to like me.) * He is the enthusiasm of my life : just 
 consider how much he has done for humanity ! ' 
 
 She looked me through, searchingly. * I will not destroy 
 your illusion,' she answered, after a pause. * It is a noble 
 and generous one. But is it not largely based on an ascetic 
 face, long white hair, and a moustache that hides the cruel 
 corners of the mouth ? For the corners are cruel. Some 
 day I will show you them. Cut off the long hair, shave the 
 grizzled moustache — and what then will remain ? ' She 
 drew a profile hastily. ' Just that,' and she showed it me. 
 'Twas a face like Robespierre's, grown harder and older, and 
 
' V 
 
 
 THE PATI ENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 15 
 
 lined with observation. I recognised that it was in fact the 
 essence of Sebastian. 
 
 ^ Next day, as it turned out, the Professor himself in- 
 sisted upon testing lethodyne in his own person. All 
 Nat s strove to dissuade him. ' Your life is so precious, sir • 
 
 HE LAY LONG ASLEEP. 
 
 * 
 
 the advancement of science ! ' But the Professor was ada- 
 mantine. 
 
 Science can only be advanced if men of science will take 
 their lives in their hands,' he answered sternly. ' Besides 
 Nurse Wade has tried. Am I to lag behind a woman in 
 my devotion to the cause of physiological knowledge ? ' 
 
 • Let him try,' Hilda Wade murmured to me.' ' He is 
 quite right. It will nqt hurt him. I have told him already 
 he has just the proper temperament to stand the drug. Such 
 people arc rare : he is one of them.' 
 
I'; 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 We administered the dose, trembling. Sebastian took 
 it like a man and dropped off instantly, for lethodyne is at 
 least as instantaneous in its operation as nitrous oxide. 
 
 He lay long asleep. Hilda and I watched him. 
 
 After he had lain for some minutes senseless, like a log, 
 on the couch where we had placed him, Hilda stooped over 
 him quietly and lifted up the ends of the grizzled moustache. 
 Then she pointed one accusing finger at his lips. * I told 
 you so,' she murmured, with a note of demonstration. 
 
 ' There is certainly something rather stern or even ruth- 
 less about the set of the face and the firm ending of the lips,' 
 I admitted, reluctantly. 
 
 ' That is why God gave men moustaches,' she mused, in 
 a low voice ; * to hide the cruel corners of their mouths.' 
 
 * Not always cruel,' I cried. 
 
 ' Sometimes cruel, sometimes cunning, sometimes sen- 
 suous ; but nine times out of ten, best masked by mous- 
 taches.' 
 
 * You have a bad opinion of our sex ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Providence Jvnew best,' she answered. * It gave you 
 moustaches. That was in order that we women might be 
 spared from always seeing you as you are. Besides, I said 
 
 * Nine times out of ten.' There are exceptions — such 
 exceptions 1 ' 
 
 On second thought, I did not feci sure that I could 
 quarrel with her estimate. 
 
 The experiment was that time once more successful. 
 Sebastian woke up from the comatose state after eight hours, 
 not quite as fresh as Hilda Wade, perhaps, but still tolerably 
 alive, less alert, however, and complaining of dull headache. 
 He was not hungry. Hilda Wade shook her head at that. 
 
 * It will be of use only in a very few cases,' she said to me, 
 regretfully ; * and those few will need to be carefully picked 
 
THE PATIENT IVI/O DISAPPOINTED HER DOC TOP \y 
 
 by an acute observer. I see resistance to the coma is, even 
 more than I thought, a matter of temperament. Why, so 
 impassioned a man as the Professor himself cannot entirely 
 recover. With more sluggish temperaments, we shall have 
 deeper difficulty.' 
 
 'Would you call him impassioned?' I asked. 'Most 
 people think him so cold and stern.' 
 
 She shook her head. ♦ He is a snow-capped volcano,' 
 she answered. 'The fires of his life burn bright below. 
 The exterior alone is cold and placid.' 
 
 However, starting from that time, Sebastian began a 
 course of experiments on patients, giving infinitesimal doses 
 at first, and venturing slowly on somewhat larger quantities. 
 But only in his own case and Hilda's could the result be 
 called quite satisfactory. One dull and heavy, drink-sodden 
 navvy, to whom he administered no more than one-tenth of 
 a grain, was drowsy for a week, and listless long after ; 
 while a fat washerwoman from West Ham, who took only 
 two-tenths, fell so fast asleep, and snored so stertorously, 
 that we feared she was going to doze off into eternity, after 
 the fashion of the rabbits. Mothers of large families, we 
 noted, stood the drug very ill : on pale young girls of the 
 consumptive tendency its effect was not marked : but only a 
 patient here and there of exceptionally imaginative and 
 vivid temperament seemed able to endure it. Sebastian was 
 discouraged. He saw the anaesthetic was not destined to 
 fulfil his first enthusiastic humanitarian expectations. 
 
 One day, while the investigation was just at this stage, a 
 case was admitted into the observation-cots in which Hilda 
 Wade took a particular interest. The patient was a young 
 girl named Isabel Huntley— -tall, dark, and slender, a 
 markedly quick and imaginative type, with large black eyes 
 which clearly bespoke a passionate nature. Though dis- 
 
 C 
 
i8 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 tinctly hysterical, she was pretty and pleasing. Her rich, 
 dark hair was as copious as it was beautiful. She held 
 herself erect, and had a finely poised head. From the first 
 moment she arriv^ed, I could see Nurse Wade was strongly 
 drawn towards her. Their souls sympathised. Number 
 Fourteen — that is our impersonal way of describing cases — 
 was constantly on Hilda's lips. ' I like the girl,' she said 
 once. ' She is a lady in fibre.* 
 
 * And a tobacco -trimmer by trade,* Sebastian added, 
 sarcastically. 
 
 As usual, Hilda's was the fruer description. It went 
 deeper. 
 
 Number Fourteen*s ailment was a rare and peculiar one, 
 into which I need not enter here with professional precision. 
 (I have described the case fully for my brother practitioners 
 in my paper in the fourth volume of Sebastian's Medical 
 Miscellanies^ It will be enough for my present purpose to 
 say in brief that the lesion consisted of an internal growth, 
 which is always dangerous and most often fatal, but which 
 nevertheless is of such a character that if it be once happily 
 eradicated by supremely good surgery it never tends to 
 recur, and leaves the patient as strong and well as ever. 
 Sebastian was, of course, delighted with the splendid oppor- 
 tunity thus afforded him. * It is a beautiful case 1 ' he cried, 
 with professional enthusiasm. * Beautiful ! Beautiful ! I 
 never saw one so deadly or so malignant before. We are 
 indeed in luck's way. Only a miracle can save her life. 
 Cumberledge, we must proceed to perform the miracle.' 
 
 Sebastian loved such cases. They formed his ideal. 
 He did not greatly admire the artificial prolongation of 
 diseased and unwholesome lives which could never be of 
 much use to their owners or any one else ; but when a chance 
 occurred for restoring to perfect health a valuable existciiCe 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 19 
 
 which might otherwise be extinguished before its time, he 
 positively revelled in his beneficent calling. * What nobler 
 object can a man propose to himself,' he used to say, * than 
 to raise good men and true from the dead, as it were, and 
 return them whole and sound to the family that depends 
 upon them ? Why, I had fifty times rather cure an 
 honest coal-heaver of a wound in his leg than give ten years 
 more lease of life to a gouty lord, diseased from top to toe, 
 who expects to find a month of Carlsbad or Homburg once 
 every year make up for eleven :nonths of over-eating, over- 
 drinking, vulgar debauchery, and under-thinking.' He had 
 no sympathy with men who lived the lives of swine : his 
 heart was with the workers. 
 
 Of course, Hilda Wade soon suggested that, as an oper- 
 ation was absolutely necessary. Number Fourteen would be 
 a splendid subject on whom to test once more the effects of 
 lethodyne. Sebastian, with his head on one side, surveying 
 the patient, promptly coincided. * Nervous diathesis,' he 
 observed. 'Very vivid fancy. Twitches her hands the 
 right way. Quick pulse, rapid perceptions, no meaningless 
 unrest, but deep vitality. I don't doubt she'll stand it.' 
 
 We explained to Number Fourteen the gravity of the 
 case, and also the tentative character of the operation under 
 lethodyne. At first, she shrank from taking it. ' No, no,' 
 she said, ' let me die quietly.' But Hilda, like the Angel of 
 Mercy that she was, whispered in the girl's ear, * If it suc- 
 ceeds, you will get quite well, and — you can marry Arthur.' 
 
 The patient's dark face flushed crimson. 
 
 * Ah, Arthur,' she cried. * Dear Arthur ! I can bear 
 anything you choose to do to me — for Arthur ! ' 
 
 * How soon you find these things out ! ' I cried to Hilda 
 a few minutes later. * A mere man would never have 
 thought of that. And who is Arthur? ' 
 
20 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' A sailor — on a ship that trades with the South Seas. 
 I hope he is worthy of her. Fretting over Arthur's absence 
 has aggravated the case. He is homeward-bound now. 
 She is worrying herself to death, for fear she should not live 
 to say good-bye to him.' 
 
 * She ivill live to marry him,' I answered, with confidence 
 like her own, ^\{ you say she can stand it.* 
 
 ' The lethodyne — oh yes, thafs all right. But the 
 operation itself is so extremely dangerous. Though Dr. 
 Sebastian says he has called in the best surgeon in London 
 for all such cases — they are rare, he tells me — and Nielsen 
 has performed on six, three of them successfully.' 
 
 We gave the girl the drug. She took it, trembling, and 
 went off at once, holding Hilda's hand, with a pale smile on 
 her face, which persisted there somewhat weirdly all through 
 the operation. The work of removing the growth was long 
 and ghastly, even for us who were well seasoned to such 
 sights, but at the end Nielsen expressed himself as perfectly 
 satisfied. * A very neat piece of work ! ' Sebastian exclaimed, 
 looking on. * I congratulate you, Nielsen. I never saw 
 anything done cleaner or better.' 
 
 * A successful operation, certainly ! ' the great surgeon 
 admitted, with just pride in the Master's commendation. 
 
 ' And the patient ? ' Hilda asked, wavering. 
 
 ' Oh, the patient ? The patient will die,' Nielsen replied, 
 in an unconcerned voice, wiping his spotless instruments. 
 
 ' That is not viy idea of the medical art,' I cried, shocked 
 at his callousness. ' An operation is only successful 
 if ' 
 
 He regarded me with lofty scorn. * A certain per- 
 centage of losses,' he interrupted, calmly, *is inevitable, of 
 course, in all surgical operations. We are obliged to average 
 it. How could I preserve my precision and accuracy of 
 
THE PA TIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCl )ti ?i 
 
 hand if I were always bothered by sentimental consideration* 
 of the patient's safety ? ' 
 
 Hilda Wade glanced up at me with a sympathetic 
 glance. * We will pull her through yet,' she murmured, in 
 her soft voice, * if care and skill can do it. My care and 
 your skill. This is now our patient, Dr. Cumberledge.* 
 
 It needed care and skill. We watched her for hours, 
 
 ■ 
 
 SIIIC SHOWED NO SIGN OF RECOVERY. 
 
 and she showed no sign or gleam of recovery. Her sleep 
 was deeper than either Sebastian's or Hilda's had been. 
 She had taken a big dose, so as to secure immobility : the 
 question now was, would she recover at all from it ? Hour 
 after hour we waited, and watched : and not a sign of move- 
 ment 1 Only the same deep, slow, hampered breathing, the 
 same feeble, jerky pulse, the same deathly pallor on the 
 dark cheeks, the same corpse-like rigidity of limb and 
 muscle. 
 
22 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 At last, our patient stirred faintly as in a dream , her 
 breath faltered. Wc bent over her. Was it death, or was 
 she beginning .o recover ? 
 
 Very slowly, a faint trace of colour came back to her 
 cheeks. Her heavy eyes half opened. They stared first 
 with a white stare. Her arms dropped by her side. Her 
 mouth relaxed its ghastly smile. . . . We held our breath. 
 . . . She was coming to again ! 
 
 But her coming to was slow — very, very slow. Her 
 pulse was still weak. Her heart pumped feebly. We feared 
 she might sink from inanition at any moment. Hilda Wade 
 knelt on the floor by the girl's side and held a spoonful of 
 beef essence coaxingly to her lips. Number Fourteen gasped, 
 drew a longj slow breath, then gulped and swallowed it. 
 After that, she lay back with her mouth open, looking like a 
 corpse. Hilda pressed another spoonful of the soft jelly upon 
 her : but the girl waved it away with one trembling hand. 
 * Let me die,' she cried. * Let me die ! I feel dead already.' 
 
 Hilda held her face close. * Isabel,* she whispered — and 
 I recognised in her tone the vast moral difference between 
 ' Isabel ' and * Number Fourteen.* * Is-a-bel, you must take 
 it. For Arthur*s sake, I say, you must take it.* 
 
 The girl's hand quivered as it lay on the white coverlet. 
 ' For Arthur's sake I * she murmured, lifting her eyelids 
 dreamily. * For Arthur's sake ! Yes, nurse, dear ! * 
 
 * Call me Hilda, please 1 Hilda ! * 
 
 The girl's face lighted up again. * Yes, Hilda, dear,* she 
 answered, in an unearthly voice, like one raised from the 
 dead. ' I will call you what you will. Angel of Light, you 
 have been so good to me.' 
 
 She opened her lips with an effort, and slowly swallowed 
 another spoonful. Then she fell back, exhausted. But her 
 pulse improved within twenty minutes. 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISATPOINTED HER DOCTOR 23 
 
 I mentioned the matter, with enthusiasm, to Sebastian 
 later. ' It is very nice in its way,' he answered ; * but . . . 
 it is not nursing.' 
 
 I thought to myself that that was just what it ivas : but 
 I did not say so. Sebastian was a man who thought meanly 
 of women. ' A doctor, like a priest,' he used to declare, 
 ' should keep himself unmarried. His bride is medicine.' 
 And he disliked to see what he called philandering going on 
 in his hospital. It may have been on that account that I 
 avoided speaking much of Hilda Wade thenceforth before him. 
 
 He looked in casually next day to see the patient. ' She 
 will die,' he said, with perfect assurance, as we passed down 
 the ward together. * Operation has taken too much out of 
 her.' 
 
 ' Still, she has great recuperative powers,' Hilda answered. 
 
 * They all have in her family. Professor. You may, perhaps, 
 remember Joseph Huntley, who occupied Number Sixty- 
 seven in the Accident Ward some nine months since — com- 
 pound fracture of the arm — a dark, nervous engineer's 
 assistant — very hard to restrain — well, he was her brother : 
 he caught typhoid in the hospital, and you commented at 
 the time on his strange vitality. Then there was her cousin, 
 again, Ellen Stubbs — we had her for stubborn chronic 
 laryngitis — a very bad case — any one else would have died — 
 yielded at once to your treatment, and, made, I recollect, a 
 splendid convalescence.' 
 
 * What a m.emory you have ! ' Sebastian cried, admiring 
 against his will. * It is simply marvellous ! I never saw 
 any one like you in my life . . . except once. He was a 
 man, a doctor, a colleague of mine — dead long ago. . . . 
 
 Why ' he mused, and gazed hard at her. Hilda shrank 
 
 before his gaze. * This is curious,' he went on slowly, at last. 
 
 * Very curious. You — why, you resemble him.' 
 
!9nHRSjn 
 
 f 
 
 34 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' Do I ? ' Hilda replied, with forced calm, raising her eyes 
 to his. Their glances met. That moment, I saw each had 
 recognised something ; and from that day forth I was in- 
 stinctively aware that a duel was being waged between 
 
 THEIR GLANCES MET. 
 
 Se'. astian and Hilda. A duel between the two ablest and 
 most singular personalities I had ever met. A duel of life 
 and death — though I did not fully understand its purport till 
 much, much later. 
 
 Every day after that, the poor, wasted girl in Number 
 Fourteen grew feebler and fainter. Her temperature rose ; 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 25 
 
 her heart throbbed weakly. She seemed to be fading 
 away. Sebastian shook his head. * Lethodyne is a failure/ 
 he said, with a mournful regret. 'One cannot trust it. 
 The case might have recovered from the operation, or 
 recovered from the drug ; but she could not recover from 
 both together. Yet the operation would have been im- 
 possible without the drug ; and the drug is useless except 
 for the operation.* 
 
 It was a great disappointment to him. He hid himself 
 in his room, as was his wont when disappointed, and went 
 on with his old work at his beloved microbes. 
 
 * I have one hope still,' Hilda murmured to me by the 
 bedside when our patient was at her worst. * If one con- 
 tingency occurs, I believe we may save her.' 
 
 * What is that ? ' I asked. 
 
 She shook her head waywardly. * You must wait and 
 see,' she answered. ' If it comes off, I will tell you. If not, 
 let it swell the limbo of lost inspirations.' 
 
 Next morning early, however, she came up to me with a 
 radiant face, holding a newspaper in her hand. ' Well, it has 
 happened ! ' she cried, rejoicing. ' We shall save poor 
 Isabel — Number Fourteen, I mean ; our way is clear. Dr. 
 Cumberledge.' 
 
 I followed her blindly to the bedside, little guessing what 
 she could mean. She knelt down at the head of the cot. 
 The girl's eyes were closed : I touched her cheek : she was 
 in a high fever. * Temperature ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' A hundred and three.' 
 
 I shook my head. E\ery symptom of fatal relapse. I 
 could not imagine what card Hilda held in reserve. But I 
 stood there, waiting. 
 
 She whispered in the girl's ear : ' Arthur's ship is sighted 
 off the Lizard.' 
 
26 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 •I 
 
 The patient opened her eyes slowly, and rolled them for 
 a moment as if she did not understand. 
 
 * Too late ! ' I cried. * Too late ! She is delirious — in- 
 sensible I ' 
 
 Hilda repeated the words slowly, but very distinctly. 
 * Do you hear, dear ? Arthur's ship ... it is sighted. . . . 
 Arthur's ship ... at the Lizard.' 
 
 The girl's lips moved. * Arthur ! Arthur ! . . . Arthur's 
 ship ! ' A deep sigh. She clenched her hands. * He is 
 coming ? * Hilda nodded and smiled, holding her breath 
 with suspense. 
 
 ' Up the Channel now. He will be at Southampton to- 
 night. Arthur ... at Southampton. It is here, in the 
 papers. I have telegraphed to him to hurry on at once to 
 see you.' 
 
 She struggled up for a second. A smile flitted across 
 the worn face. Then she fell back wearily. 
 
 I thought all was over. Her eyes stared white. But ten 
 minutes later she opened her lids again. ' Arthur is coming,' 
 she murmured. * Arthur . . . coming.' 
 
 * Yes, dear. Now sleep. He is coming.* 
 
 All through that day and the next night she was restless 
 and agitated ; but still, her pulse improved a little. Next 
 morning, she was again a trifle better. Temperature falling 
 — a hundred and one, point three. At ten o'clock Hilda 
 came in to her, radiant. 
 
 * Well, Isabel, dear,' she cried, bending down and touching 
 her cheek (kissing is forbidden by the rules of the house). 
 
 Arthur has come. He is here . . . down below ... I 
 have seen him,* 
 
 * Seen him ! ' the girl gasped. 
 
 * Yes, seen him. Talked with him. Such a nice, manly 
 fellow, and such an honest, good face ! He is longing for 
 
 1 
 
 'i 
 
 ■<■ 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 27 
 
 ' 
 
 you to get well. lie says he lias come home this time to 
 marry you.' 
 
 The wan lips quivered. * He will never marry me ! ' 
 
 * Yes, yes, he will — if you will take this jelly. Look 
 here — he wrote these words to you before my very eyes : 
 " Dear love to my Isa ! " . . . If you are good and will sleep 
 he may see you — to-morrow.' 
 
 The girl opened her lips and ate the jelly greedily. She 
 ate as much as she was desired. In three minutes more her 
 head had fallen like a child's upon her pillow, and she was 
 sleeping peacefully. 
 
 I went up to Sebastian's room, quite excited with the 
 news. He was busy among his bacilli. They were his 
 hobby, his pets. ' Well, what do you think. Professor ? ' I 
 cried. ' That patient of Nurse Wade's ' 
 
 He gazed up at me abstractedly, his brow contracting. 
 ' Yes, yes ; I know,' he interrupted. * The girl in Fourteen. I 
 have discounted her case long ago. She has ceased to interest 
 me. . . . Dead, of course ! Nothing else was possible.' 
 
 I laughed a quick little laugh of triumph. * No, sir ; not 
 dead. Recovering! She has fallen just now into a uormal 
 sleep ; her breathing is natural.' 
 
 He wheeled his revolving chair away from the germs, 
 and fixed me with his keen eyes. * Recovering ? ' he echoed. 
 ' Impossible ! Rallying, you mean. A mere flicker. I 
 know my trade. She must die this evening.' 
 
 * Forgive my persistence,' I replied ; * but — her tempera- 
 ture has gone down to ninety-nine and a trifle.' 
 
 He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest watch-glass 
 quite angrily. ' To ninety-nine ! ' he exclaimed, knitting his 
 brows. * Cumberledge, this is disgraceful ! A most dis- 
 appointing case ! A most provoking patient ! ' 
 
n 
 
 ^^ 
 
 amm 
 
 28 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * But surely, sir ' I cried. 
 
 * Don't talk to vte^ boy ! Don't attempt to apologise for 
 her. Such conduct is unpardonable. She ought to have 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 SHE OUGHT TO HAVE DIED. 
 
 died. It v.'as her clear duty. / said she would die, and she 
 should have known better than to fly in the face of the 
 faculty. Her recovery is an insult to medical science. What 
 is the staff about ? Nurse Wade should have prevented it.' 
 * Still, sir,' I exclaimed, trying to touch him on a tender 
 
THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR 29 
 
 spot, ' the anaesthetic, you know ! Such a triumph for 
 lethodyne ! This case shows clearly thac on certain con- 
 stitutions it may be used with advantage under certain 
 conditions.* 
 
 He snapped his fingers. * Lethodyne ! pooh ! I have 
 lost interest in it. Impracticable ! It is not fitted for the 
 human species.' 
 
 ' Why so ? Numb.er Fourteen proves ' 
 
 He interrupted me with an impatient wave of his hand : 
 then he rose and paced up and down the room testily. After 
 a pause he spoke again. * The weak point of lethodyne is 
 this : nobody can be trusted to say luhen it may be used — 
 except Nurse Wade. Which is not science.' 
 
 For the first time in my life, I had a glimmering idea 
 that I distrusted Sebastian. Hilda Wade was right — the 
 man was cruel. But I had never observed his cruelty before 
 — because his devotion to science had blinded me to it. 
 
II 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FAILED 
 
 FOR EVERYTHING 
 
 \k 
 
 One day, about those times, I went round to call on my 
 aunt, Lady Tepping. And lest you accuse me of the vulgar 
 desire to flaunt my fine relations in your face, I hasten to 
 add that my poor dear old aunt is :i very ordinary specimen 
 of the common Army-widow. Her husband, Sir Malcolm, 
 a crusty old gentleman of the ancient school, was knighted 
 in Burma, or thereabouts, for a successful raid upon naked 
 natives, on something that is called the Shan frontier. When 
 he had grown grey in the service of his Queen and country, 
 besides earning himself incidentally a very decent pension, 
 he acquired gout, and went to his long rest in Kensal Green 
 Cemetery. He left his wife with one daughter, and the only 
 pretence to a title in our otherwise blameless family. 
 
 My cousin Daphne is a very pretty girl, with those quiet, 
 sedate manners which often develop later in life into genuine 
 self-respect and real depth of character. Fools do not 
 admire her ; they accuse her of being * heavy.' But she can 
 do without fools : she has a fine, strongly-built figure, an up- 
 right carriage, a large and broad forehead, a firm chin, and 
 features which, though well-marked and well-moulded, are 
 yet delicate in outline and sensitive in expression. Very 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 31 
 
 young men seldom take to Daphne : she lacks the desired 
 inanity. But she has mind, repose, and womanly tenderness. 
 Indeed, if she had not been my cousin, I almost think I 
 might once have been tempted to fall in love with her. 
 
 When I reached Gloucester Terrace, on this particular 
 
 «s^ 
 
 SHE AND MY COUSIN HAD STRUCK UP A CLOSE ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 afternoon, I found Hilda Wade there before me. She had 
 lunched at my aunt's, in fact. It was her ' day out ' at 
 St. Nathaniel's, and she had come round to spend it with 
 Daphne Tepping. I had introduced her to the house some 
 time before, and she and my cousin had struck up a close 
 acquaintance immediately. Their temperaments were sym- 
 pathetic : Daphne admired Hilda's depth and reserve, while 
 Hilda admired Daphne's grave grace and self-control, her 
 
32 
 
 HILDA IVADE 
 
 '1 
 
 perfect freedom from current affectations. She neither 
 giggled, nor aped Ibsenism. 
 
 A third person stood back in the room when I entered 
 — a tall and somewhat jerry-built young man, with a rather 
 long and solemn face, like an early stage in the evolution of 
 a Don Quixote. I took a good look at him. There was 
 something about his air that impressed me as. both lugubrious 
 and humorous : and in this I was right, for I learned later 
 that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic 
 song with immense success, while preserving a sour counte- 
 nance like a Puritan preacher's. His eyes were a little sunken, 
 his fingers long and nervous : but I fancied he looked a good 
 fellow at heart, for all that, though foolishly impulsive. He 
 was a punctilious gentleman, I felt sure ; his face and manner 
 grew upon one rapidly. 
 
 Daphne rose as i entered, and waved the stranger forward 
 with an imperious little wave : I imagined, indeed, that I 
 detected in the gesture a faint touch of half-unconscious 
 proprietorship. ' Good-morning, Hubert,' she said, taking 
 my hand, but turning towards the tall young man. * I don't 
 think you know Mr. Cecil Holsworthy.' 
 
 * I have heard you speak of him,' I answered, drinking 
 him in with my glance. I added internally, * Not half good 
 enough for you.' 
 
 Hilda's eyes met mine and read my thought. They 
 flashed back word, in the language of eyes, ' I do not agree 
 with you.' 
 
 Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me closely. I could 
 see she was anxious to discover what impression her friend 
 Mr. Holsworthy was making on me. Till then, I had no 
 idea she was fond of any one in particular : but the way her 
 glance wandered from him to me, and from me to Hilda, 
 showed clearly that she thought much of this gawky visitor. 
 
'3 
 
 THE MAN WHO MAD FAILED FOR EVERY THING 33 
 
 We sat and talked together, we four, for some time : I 
 found the young man with the lugubrious countenance im- 
 proved immensely on closer acquaintance. His talk was 
 clever. He turned out to be the son of a politician high in 
 office in the Canadian Government, and he had been educated 
 at Oxford : the father, I gathered, was rich, but he himself 
 was making an income of nothing a year just then as a 
 briefless barrister, and he was hesitating whether to accept a 
 post of secretary that had been offered him in the colony, or 
 to continue his negative career at the Inner Temple, for the 
 honour and glory of it. 
 
 ' Now, which would you advise me, Miss Tepping ? ' he 
 inquired, after we had discussed the matter together some 
 minutes. 
 
 Daphne's face flushed up. * It is so hard to decide,' she 
 answered. ' To decide to your best advantage, I mean, of 
 course. For naturally all your English friends would wish 
 to keep you as long as possible in England.' 
 
 • No, do you think so ? ' the gawky young man jerked 
 out with evident pleasure. * Now, that's awfully kind of 
 you. Do you know, if you tell me I ought to stay in 
 England, I've half a mind . . . I'll cable over this very day 
 and refuse the appointment.' 
 
 Daphne flushed once more. ' Oh, please don't,' she ex- 
 claimed, looking frightened. * I shall be quite distressed if 
 a — a stray word of mine should debar you from accepting a 
 good offer of a secretaryship.' 
 
 ' Why, your least wish ' the young man began, then 
 
 checked himself hastily — ' must be always important,' he 
 went on, in a different voice, * to every one of your acquaint- 
 ance.' 
 
 Daphne rose hurriedly. ' Look here, Hilda,' she said, a 
 little tremulously, biting her lip, ' I have to go out into 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 . ! 
 
 ^i 
 
 Westbourne Grove to get those gloves for to-night, and a 
 spray for my hair ; will you all excuse me for half an hour ? ' 
 
 Holsworthy rose too. ' Mayn't I go with you ? ' he asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' Oh, if you like : how very kind of you,' Daphne 
 answered, her check a blush rose. ' Hubert, will you come 
 too ? and you, Hilda ? ' 
 
 It was one of those invitations which are given to be 
 refused. I did not need Hilda's warning glance to tell me 
 that my company would be quite superfluous : I felt those 
 two were best left together. 
 
 ' It's no use, though, Dr. Cumberledge ! ' Hilda put in, as 
 soon as they were gone. ' He won*i propose, though he has 
 had every encouragement. I don't know what's the matter ; 
 but I've been watching them both for weeks, and somehow 
 things seem never to get any forwarder.' 
 
 ' You think he's in love with her ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' In love with her ! Well, you have eyes in your head, 
 I know : where could they have been looking ? He's madly 
 in love — a very good kind of love, too : he genuinely admires 
 and respects and appreciates all Daphne's sweet and charm- 
 ing qualities.* 
 
 * Then what do you suppose is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' I have an inkling of the truth : I imagine Mr. Cecil 
 must have let himself in for a prior attachment.' 
 ' If so, why does he hang about Daphne ? ' 
 
 * Because — he can't help himself. He's a good fellow, 
 and a chivalrous fellow : he admires your cousin ; but he 
 must have got himself into some foolish entanglement else- 
 where, which he is too honourable to break off ; while at the 
 same time he's far too much impressed by Daphne's fine 
 qualities to be able to keep away from her. It's the ordinary 
 case of love versus duty.' 
 
 I 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 35 
 
 * Is he w^ll off? Could he afford to marry Daphne?' 
 ' Oh, his father's very rich : he has plenty of money. A 
 Canadian millionaire, they say. That makes it all the 
 likelier that some undesirable young woman somewhere may 
 have managed to get hold of him. Just the sort of romantic, 
 impressionable hobbledehoy such women angle for.' 
 
 IS HE WELL OFF? 
 
 I drummed my fingers on the table. Presently Hilda 
 spoke again. ' Why don't you try to get to know him, and 
 find out precisely what's the matter ? ' 
 
 * I knozv what's the matter — now you've told me,' I 
 answered. * It's as clear as day. Daphne is very much 
 smitten with him, too. I'm sorry for Daphne ! Well, I'll 
 take your advice : I'll try to have some talk with him.' 
 
 * Do, please ; I feel sure I have hit upon it. He has got 
 himself engaged in a hurry to some girl he doesn't really 
 
I 
 
 36 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 care about, and he is far too much of a gentleman to break 
 it off, though he's in love quite another way with Daphne.' 
 
 Just at that moment the door opened and my aunt 
 entered. 
 
 ' Why, where's Daphne ? ' she cried, looking about her, 
 and arranging her black lace shawl. 
 
 ' She has just run out into Westbourne Grove to get 
 some gloves and a flower for the/eV^ this evening,' Hilda 
 answered. Then she added, significantly, ' Mr. Plolsworthy 
 has gone with her.' 
 
 ' What ? That boy's been here again ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Lady Tepping. He called to see Daphne.* 
 
 My aunt turned to me with an aggrieved tone. It is a 
 peculiarity of my aunt's — I have met it elsewhere — that if 
 she is angry with Jones, and Jones is not present, she 
 assumes a tone of injured asperity on his account towa** 
 Brown or Smith or any other innocent person whom ; 
 happens to be addressing. * Now, this is really too bad, 
 Hubert,' she burst out, as if / were the culprit. ' Disgrace- 
 ful ! Abominable ! I'm sure I can't make out what the 
 young fellow means by it. Here he comes dangling after 
 Daphne every day and all day long — and never once says 
 whether he means anything by it or not. In my young 
 days, such conduct as that would not have been considered 
 respectable.' 
 
 I nodded and beamed benignity. 
 
 ' Well, why don't you answer me ? ' my aunt went on, 
 warming up. ^ Do you mean to tell me you think his 
 behaviour respectful to a nice girl in Daphne's position ? ' 
 
 * My dear aunt,' I answered, ' you confound the persons. 
 I am not Mr. Holsworthy. I decline responsibility for him. 
 I met him here, in your house, for the first time this 
 morning.' 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 37 
 
 ' Then that shows how often you come to sec your 
 relations, Hubert ! ' my aunt burst out, obliquely. ' The 
 man's been here, to my certain knowledge, every day these 
 six weeks.' 
 
 * Really, Aunt Fanny,' I said : ' you must recollect that 
 a professional man ' 
 
 ' Oh yes. That's the way ! Lay it all down to your 
 
 WHY don't you ask iiim his intentions? 
 
 profession, do, Hubert ! Though I knoiv you were at the 
 Thorntons' on Saturday — saw it in the papers — the Morning 
 Post — " among the guests were Sir Edward and Lady 
 Burnes, Professor Sebastian, Dr. Hubert Cumberledge," and 
 so forth, and so forth. You think you can conceal these 
 things : but you can't. I get to know them ! ' 
 
 * Conceal them ! My dearest aunt ! Why, I danced 
 twice with Daphne.' 
 
 ' Daphne 1 Yes, Daphne. They all run after Daphne,' 
 
" '- --B"— " 
 
 A. 
 
 k. 
 
 38 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 '\ 
 
 my aunt exclaimed, altering the venue once more. ' But 
 there's no respect for age left. / expect to be neglected, 
 ^'wever, that's neither here nor there. The point is this: 
 J *re the one man now living in the family. You ought to 
 Sf ^e like a brother to Daphne. Why don't you board 
 this Holsworthy person and ask him his intentions ? * 
 
 ' Goodness gracious ! ' I cried : * most excellent of aunts, 
 that epoch has gone past. The late lamented Queen Anne 
 is now dead. It's no use asking the young man of to-day 
 to explain his intentions. He will refer you to the works of 
 the Scandinavian dramatists.' 
 
 My aunt was speechless. She could only gurgle out the 
 words : * Well, I can safely say that of all the monstrous 
 behaviour ' then language failed her and she relapsed 
 
 into silence. 
 
 However, when Daphne and young Holsworthy returned, 
 I had as much talk with him as I could, and when he left 
 the house I left also. 
 
 ' Which way are you walking ? ' I asked, as we turned 
 out into the street. 
 
 ' Towards my rooms in the Temple.' 
 
 * Oh ! I'm going back to St. Nathaniel's,' I continued, 
 * If you'll allow me I'll walk part way with you.* 
 
 ' How very kind of you ! ' 
 
 We strode side by side a little distance in silence. Then 
 a thought seemed to strike the lugubrious young man. 
 ' What a charming girl your cousin is ! ' he exclaimed, 
 abruptly. 
 
 * You seem to think so,' I answered, smiling. 
 
 He flushed a little ; the lantern jaw grew longer. * I 
 admire her, of course,' he answered. ' Who doesn't ? She 
 is so extraordinarily handsome.' 
 
 ' Well, not exactly handsome,' I replied, with more 
 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAHED FOR EVERYTHING 
 
 39 
 
 critical and kinsmanlike deliberation. * Pretty, if you will • 
 and decidedly pleasing and attractive in manner.' 
 
 He looked me up and down, as if he found me a 
 person singularly deficient in taste and appreciation. ' Ah 
 but then, you are her cousin,' he said at last, with a com- 
 passionate tone. * That makes a difference.' 
 
 ' I quite see all Daphne's strong points,' I answered, still 
 smihng, for I could perceive he was very far gone. ' She is 
 good-looking, and she is clever.' 
 
 ' Clever ! ' he echoed. ' Profound ! , She has a most un- 
 usual intellect. She stands alone.' 
 
 ' Like her mother's silk dresses,' I murmured, half under 
 my breath. 
 
 He took no notice of my flippant remark, but went on 
 with his rhapsody. ' Such depth ; such penetration ! And 
 then, how sympathetic! Why, even to a mere casual 
 acquaintance like myseli' she is so kind, so discerning.' 
 
 • Are you such a casual acquaintance ? ' I inquired, with 
 a flue. (It might have shocked Aunt Fanny to hear me • 
 but thai is the way we ask a young man his intentions 
 nowadays.) 
 
 He stopped short and hesitated. * Oh, quite casual,' he 
 replied, almost stammering. 'Most casual, I assure you. 
 ... I have never ventured to do myself the honour of sup- 
 posing that— that Miss Tepping could possibly care for me.' 
 '^ There is such a thing as being too modest and unassum- 
 ing, I answered. ' It sometimes leads to unintentional 
 cruelty. 
 
 ♦ No, do you think so ? ' he cried, his face falling all at 
 once. ' I should blame myself bitteriy if that were so. Dr 
 Cumberiedge, you are her cousin. Do you gather that I 
 have acted in such a way as to— to lead Miss Tepping to 
 suppose I felt any affection for her ? ' 
 
40 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 i 
 
 I laughed in his face. ' My dear boy,' I answered, laying 
 one hand on his shoulder, * may I say the plain truth ? 
 A blind bat could see you are madly in love with her.' 
 
 His mouth twitched. ' That's very serious/ he answered, 
 gravely ; ' very serious.' 
 
 * It is,' I responded, with my best paternal manner, 
 gazing blankly in front of me. 
 
 He stopped short again. ' Look here,' he said, facing 
 me. * Are you busy ? No ? Then come back with me 
 to my rooms, and — I'll make a clean breast of it.' 
 
 ' By all means,' I assented. * When one is young — and 
 foolish, I have often noticed, as a medical man, that a 
 drachm of clean breast is a magnificent prescription.' 
 
 He walked back by my side, talking all the way of 
 Daphne's many adorable qualities. He exhausted the 
 dictionary for laudatory adjectives. By the time I reached 
 his door it was not his fault if I had not learned that the 
 angelic hierarchy were not in the running v/ith my pretty 
 cousin for graces and virtues. I felt that Faith, Hope, and 
 Charity ought to resign at once in favour of Miss Daphne 
 Tepping, promoted. 
 
 He took me into his comfortably-furnished rooms — the 
 luxurious rooms of a rich young bachelor, with taste as well 
 as money — and offered me a partaga. Now, I have long 
 observed, in the course of my practice, that a choice cigar 
 assists a man in taking a philosophic outlook on the question 
 under discussion : so I accepted the partaga. He sat down 
 opposite me, and pointed to a photograph in the centre of 
 his mantelpiece. ' I am engaged to that lady,' he put in, 
 shortly. 
 
 * So I anticipated,' I answered, lighting up. 
 
 He started and looked surprised. ' Why, what made 
 you guess it ? ' he inquired. 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 41 
 
 I smiled the calm smile of superior age — I was some 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 . b' ^ 
 
 H 
 
 tn 
 O 
 
 CL. 
 
 a. 
 o 
 
 
 eight years or so his senior. ' My dear fellow,' T murmured, 
 
42 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' what else could prevent you from proposing to Daphne — 
 when you are so undeniably in love with her ? ' 
 
 * A great deal,* he answered. * For example : the sense 
 of my own utter unworthiness.* 
 
 * One's own unworthiness/ I replied, * though doubtless 
 real — p'f, p'f — is a barrier that most of us can readily get 
 over, when our admiration for a particular lady waxes strong 
 enough. So this is the prior attachment ! ' I took the 
 portrait down and scanned it. 
 
 * Unfortunately, yes. What do you think of her ? ' 
 
 I scrutinised the features. ' Seems a nice enough little 
 thing,' I answered. It was an innocent face, I admit. Very 
 frank and girlish. 
 
 He leaned forward eagerly. ' That's just it. A nice 
 enough little thing ! Nothing in the world to be said agains^ 
 
 her. While Daphne — Miss Tepping, I mean ' His 
 
 silence was ecstatic. 
 
 I examined the photograph still more closely. It dis- 
 played a lady of twenty or thereabouts, with a weak face, 
 small, vacant features, a feeble chin, a good-humoured, 
 simple mouth, and a wealth of golden hair that seemed to 
 strike a keynote. 
 
 * In the theatrical profession?' I inquired at last, looking 
 up. 
 
 He hesitated. * Well, not exactly,' he answered. 
 
 I pursed my lips and blew a ring. * Music-hall stage ? * 
 I went on, dubiously. 
 
 He nodded. * But a girl is not necessarily any the less 
 a lady because she sings at a music-hall,' he added, with 
 warnith, displaying an evident desire to be just to his be- 
 trothed, however much he admired Daphne. 
 
 * Certainly not,' I admitted. * A lady is a lady ; no 
 occupation can in itself unladify her. . . . But on the 
 
 • \ 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD PAUSED FOR EVERYTHING 43 
 
 • ^ 
 
 music-hall stage, the odds, one must admit, are on the whole 
 against her.* 
 
 * Now, there you show prejudice ! * 
 
 ' One may be quite unprejudiced,' I answered, * and yet 
 allow that connection with the music-halls does not, as 
 such, afford clear proof that a girl is a compound of all the 
 virtues.' 
 
 * I think she's a good girl,' he retorted, slowly. 
 
 * Then why do you want to throw her over ? ' I inquired. 
 
 * I don't. That's just it. On the contrary, I mean to 
 keep my word and marry her.' 
 
 * In order to keep your word ? ' I suggested. 
 
 He nodded. ' Precisely. It is a point of honour.' 
 
 ' That's a poor ground of marriage,' I went on. ' Mind, 
 I don't want for a moment to influence you, as Daphne's 
 cousin. I want to get at the truth of the situation. I don't 
 even know what Daphne thinks of you. But you promised 
 me a clean breast. Be a man, and bare it.' 
 
 He bared it instantly. ' I thought I was in love with 
 this girl, you see,' he went on, * till I saw Miss Tepping.' 
 
 ' That makes a difference,' I admitted. 
 
 * And I couldn't bear to break her heart.' 
 
 * Heaven forbid ! ' I cried. ' It is the one unpardonable 
 sin. Better anything than that' Then I grew practical. 
 * Father's consent ? * 
 
 * My father's ? Is it likely ? He expects me to marry 
 into some distinguished English family.' 
 
 I hummed a moment. * Well, out with it ! ' I exclaimed, 
 pointing my cigar at him. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and told me the whole 
 story. A pretty girl : golden hair : introduced to her by a 
 friend : nice simple little thing : mind and heart above the 
 irregular stage on to which she had been driven by poverty 
 
44 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 alone : father dead : mother in reduced circumstances : ' to 
 keep the home together, poor Sissie decided * 
 
 ' Precisely so/ I murnr.ured, knocking off my ash. ' The 
 usual self-sacrifice ! Case quite normal ! Everything en 
 regie ! ' 
 
 'You don't mean to say you doubt it?' he cried, flushing 
 up, and evidently regarding me as a hopeless cynic. * I do 
 assure you. Dr. Cumberledge, the poor child — though miles, 
 of couifise, below Miss Tepping's level — is as innocent, and 
 as good * 
 
 * As a flower in May. Oh yes, I don't doubt it. How 
 did you come to propose to her, though ? ' 
 
 He reddened a little. * Well, it was almost accidental,' 
 he said, sheepishly. * I called there one evening, and her 
 mother had a headache and went up to bed. And when we 
 two were left alone, Sissie talked a great deal about her 
 future, and how hard her life was. And after a while she 
 broke down and began to cry. And then ' 
 
 I cut him short with a wave of my hand. * You need 
 say no more,' I put in, with a sympathetic face. ' We have 
 all been there.' 
 
 We paused a moment, while I puffed smoke at the photo- 
 graph again. * Well,' I said at last, ' her face looks to me 
 really simple and nice. It is a good face. Do you see her 
 often ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ; she's on tour.' 
 
 ' In the provinces ? ' 
 
 * M'yes : just at present, at Scarborough.' 
 
 * But she writes to you ? ' 
 
 * Every day.' 
 
 * Would you think it an unpardonable impertinence if I 
 made bold to ask whether it would be possible for you to 
 show me a specimen of her letters ? ' 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 45 
 
 He unlocked a drawer and took out three or four. Then 
 he read one through, carefully. * I don't think,* he said, in a 
 deliberate voice, * it would be a serious breach of confidence 
 in me to let you look through this one. There's really 
 
 SHE BROKE DOWN AND BEGAN TO CRY. 
 
 nothing in it, you know — just the ordinary average every- 
 day love-letter.' 
 
 I glanced through the little note. He was right. The 
 conventional hearts - and - darts epistle. It sounded nice 
 enough. Longing to see you again : so lonely in this place : 
 your dear sweet letter : looking forward to the time : your 
 ever-devoted Sissie. 
 
 ' That seems straight,' I answered. ' However, I am not 
 quite sure. Will you allow me to take it away, with the 
 
 H 
 
46 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 photograph ? I know I am asking much. I want to show 
 it to a lady in whose tact and discrimination I have the 
 greatest confidence.' 
 
 * What, Daphne ? ' 
 
 I smiled. ' No, not Daphne,' I answered. ' Our friend 
 Miss Wade. She has extraordinary insight.' 
 
 ' I could trust anything to Miss Wade. She is true as 
 steel.' 
 
 * You are right,' I answered. ' That shows that you too 
 are a judge of character.' 
 
 He hesitated. * I feel a brute,' he cried, * to go on 
 writing every day to Sissie Montague — and yet calling every 
 day to see Miss Tepping. But still — I do it' 
 
 I grasped his hand. ' My dear fellow,' I said, * nearly 
 ninety per cent of men, after all — are human ! ' 
 
 I took both letter and photograph back with me to 
 Nathaniel's. When I had gone my rounds that night, I 
 carried them into Hilda Wade's room, and told her the story. 
 Her face grew grave. * We must be just,' she said, at last. 
 * Daphne is deeply in love with him ; but even for Daphne's 
 sake, we must not take anything for granted against the 
 other lady.' 
 
 I produced the photograph. 'What do you make of 
 that ? ' I asked. * / think it an honest face, myself, I may 
 tell you.* 
 
 She scrutinised it long and closely with a magnifier. 
 Then she put her head on one side and mused very deliber- 
 ately. ' Madeline Shaw gave me her photograph the other 
 day, and said to me, as she gave iii, "I do so like these 
 modern portraits ; they show one what might have been" ' 
 
 '' You mean, they are so much touched up ! ' 
 
 ' Exactly. That, as it stands, is a sweet, innocent face — 
 an honest girl's face — almost babyish in its transparency ; 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 47 
 
 but . . . the innocence has all been put into it by the photo- 
 grapher.' 
 
 ' You think so ? ' 
 
 * I know it Look here at those lines just visible on the 
 cheek. They disappear, nowhere, at impossible angles. 
 And the corners of that mouth. They couldn't go so, with 
 that nose and those puckers. The thing is not real. It 
 has been atrociously edited. Part is nature's ; part, the 
 photographer's ; part, even possibly paint and powder.' 
 
 * But the underlying face ? ' 
 
 * Is a minx's.' 
 
 I handed her the letter. * This next ? * I asked, fixing 
 my eyes on her as she looked. 
 
 She read it through. For a minute or two she examined 
 it. * The letter is right enough,' she answered, after a second 
 reading, * though its guileless simplicity is perhaps, under the 
 circumstances, just a leetie overdone ; but the handwriting — 
 the handwriting is duplicity itself: a cunning, serpentine 
 hand : no openness or honesty in it. Depend upon it, that 
 girl is playing a double game.* 
 
 ' You believe, then, there is character in handwriting ? ' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly ; when we know the character, we can see 
 it in the writing. The difficulty is, to see it and read it 
 before we know it : and I have practised a little at that. 
 There is character in all we do, of course — our walk, our 
 cough, the very wave of our hands : the only secret is, 
 not all of us have always skill to see it. Here, however, 
 I feel pretty sure. The curls of the g's and the tails of the 
 y's — how full they are of wile, of low, underhand trickery ! ' 
 
 I looked at them as she pointed. * That is true ! ' I ex- 
 claimed. ' I see it when you show it. Lines meant for 
 effect. No straightness or directness in them ! ' 
 
 Hilda reflected a moment. ' Poor Daphne,' she mur- 
 
48 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 mured. * I would do anything to help her. . . . I'll tell you 
 what might be a good plan.' Her face brightened. * My 
 holiday comes next week. I'll run down to Scarborough — 
 it's as nice a place for a holiday as any — and I'll observe 
 this young lady. It can do no harm — and good may come 
 of it.' 
 
 ' How kind of you ! ' I cried. * But you are always all 
 kindness.' 
 
 Hilda went to Scarborough, and came back again for a 
 week before going on to Bruges, where she proposed to spend 
 the greater part of her holidays. She stopped a night or 
 two in town to report progress, and finding another nurse 
 ill, promised to fill her place till a substitute was forthcoming. 
 ' Well, Dr. Cumberledge,' she said, when she saw me alone, 
 * I was right ! I have found out a fact or two about 
 Daphne's rival ! ' 
 
 * You have seen her ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Seen her ? I have stopped for a week in the same 
 house. A very nice lodging-house on the Spa front, too. 
 The girl's well enough off. The poverty plea fails. She 
 goes about in good rooms, and carries a mother with her.' 
 
 ' That's well,' I answered. ' That looks all right.' 
 
 * Oh yes, she's quite presentable : has the manners of a 
 lady — whenever she chooses. But the chief point is this : 
 she laid her letters every day on the table in the passage 
 outside her door for post — laid them all in a row, so that 
 when one claimed one's own one couldn't help seeing them.' 
 
 * Well, that was open and above - board,' I continued, 
 beginning to fear we had hastily misjudged Miss Sissie 
 Montague. 
 
 ' Very open — too much so, in fact ; for I was obliged to 
 note the fact that she wrote two letters regularly every day 
 of her life — " to my two mashes," she explained one after- 
 
THE MAN IVnO HAD FAHJiD FOR EVERYTHING 49 
 
 noon to a young man who was with her as she laid them on 
 the table. One of them was always addressed to Cecil 
 Holsworthy, Esq.' 
 'And the other?* 
 
 TO MY TWO MASHES, SHE EXPLAINED. 
 
 ' Wasn't.' 
 
 ' Did you note the name ? ' I asked, interested. 
 * Yes ; here it is.' She handed me a slip of paper. 
 I read it : * Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427 Staples 
 Inn, London.' 
 
 'What, Reggie Nettlecraft!' I cried, amused. 'Why, 
 
so 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 he was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big 
 one ; he afterwards went to Oxford and got sent down from 
 Christ Church for the part he took In burning a Greek bust 
 in Tom Quad — an antique Greek bust — after a bump 
 supper.' 
 
 ' Just the sort of man I should have expected,' Hilda 
 answered, with a suppressed smile. ' I have a sort of inkling 
 that Miss Montague likes him best ; he is nearer her type ; 
 but she thinks Cecil Ilolsworthy the better match. Has Mr. 
 Nettlecraft money ? ' 
 
 ' Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his 
 father, perhaps, who is a Lincolnshire parson ; but otherwise, 
 nothinc!:.' 
 
 ' Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. 
 Hoibworthy's money ; failing which, she will decline upon 
 Mr. Nettlecraft's heart.' 
 
 We talked it all over. In the end, I said abruptly, 
 • Nurse Wade, you have seen Miss Montague, or whatever 
 she calls herself. I have not. T won't condemn her un- 
 heard. I ha\c half a mind Lci run /n one day next week 
 to Scarborough and liave a look ai hrv,' 
 
 ' Do. That will suffice. You can judge then for 
 yourself whether or not I am mistaken.' 
 
 I went ; and what is more, I heard Miss Sissie sing at 
 her hall — a pretty domestic song, most childish and charm- 
 ing. She impressed me not unfavourably, in spite of what 
 Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek might have been art, 
 but looked like nature. She had an open face, a baby 
 smile ; and there was a frank girlishness about her dress and 
 manner that took my fancy. ' After all,' I thought to my- 
 self, * even Hilda Wade is fallible.' 
 
 So that evening, when her ' turn ' was over, I made up 
 my niind to go round and call upon her, I had told Cecil 
 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVFRVTI/LXG 51 
 
 Ilolsworlhy my intcMitions beforehand, and it rather shocked 
 him. He was too much of a gentleman to wish to spy 
 upon the girl he had promised to marry. However, in my 
 case, there need be 
 no such scruples. I 
 found the house, and 
 asked for Miss Mon- 
 tague. As I mounted 
 the stairs to the draw- 
 ing-room floor, I heard 
 a sound of voices — 
 the murmur of laugh- 
 ter : idiotic guffaws, 
 suppressed giggles,thc 
 masculine and femi- 
 nine varieties of tom- 
 foolery. 
 
 ' You'd make a 
 splendid woman of 
 business, yoti would ! ' 
 a young man was 
 saying. I gathered 
 from his drawl that 
 he belonged to that 
 sub - species of the 
 human race which is 
 known as the Chappie. 
 
 'Wouldn't I just?' 
 a girl's voice an- 
 swered, tittering : I 
 
 recognised it as Sissie's. 'You ought to see me at it! 
 Why, my brother set up a place once for mending bicycles ; 
 and I used to stand about at the door, as if I had just 
 
 MOST CHILDISH AND CI!ARM1N(;. 
 
52 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 11 
 
 returned from a ride : and when fellows came in with a 
 nut loose or something, I'd begin talking with them while 
 Bertie tightened it. Then, when they weren't looking, 
 
 
 I USED TO STAND ABOUT AT THE DOOR. 
 
 I'd dab the business end of a darning-needle, so, just plump 
 into their tyres ; and of course, as soon as they went off, 
 they were back again in a minute to get a puncture mended I 
 I call that business.' 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 53 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted the recital of this brilliant 
 incident in a commercial career. As it subsided, I entered. 
 There were two men in the room, besides Miss Montague 
 and her mother, and a second young lady. 
 
 ' Excuse this late call,' I said, quietly, bowing. * But I 
 have only one night in Scarborough, Miss Montague, and I 
 wanted to see you. I'm a friend of Mr. Holsworthy's. I 
 told him I'd look you up, and this is my sole opportunity.' 
 
 I felt rather than saw that Miss Montague darted a quick 
 glance of hidden meaning at her friends the chappies : their 
 faces, in response, ceased to snigger, and grew instantly sober. 
 
 She took my card : then, in her alternative manner as 
 the perfect lady, she presented me to her mother. * Dr. 
 Cumberledge, mamma,' she said, in a faintly warning voice. 
 • A friend of Mr. Holsworthy's.' 
 
 The old lady half rose. * Let me see,' she said, staring 
 at me. * Which is Mr. Holsworthy, Siss? — is it Cecil or 
 Reggie ? ' 
 
 One of the chappies burst into a fatuous laugh once 
 more at this remark. * Now, you're giving away the whole 
 show, Mrs. Montague ! ' he exclaimed, with a chuckle. A 
 look from Miss Sissie immediately checked him. 
 
 I am bound to admit, however, that after these untoward 
 incidents of the first minute, Miss Montague and her friends 
 behaved throughout with distinguished propriety. Her 
 manners were perfect — I may even say, demure. She 
 asked about ' Cecil ' with charming naivete. She was frank 
 and girlish. Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt — she 
 sang us a comic song in excellent taste, which is a severe 
 test — but not a suspicion of double-dealing. If I had not 
 overheard those few words as 1 came up the stairs, I think 
 I should have gone away believing the poor girl an injured 
 child of nature. 
 
54 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 As it was, I went back to London the very next day, 
 determined to renew my slight acquaintance with Reggie 
 Nettlecraft. 
 
 Fortunately, I had a good excuse for going to visit him. 
 I had been asked to collect among old Carthusians for one 
 of those endless * testimonials ' which pursue one through 
 life, and are, perhaps, the worst Nemesis which follows the 
 crime of having wasted one's youth at a public school : a 
 testimonial for a retiring master, or professional cricketer, or 
 washerwoman, or something ; and in the course of my duties 
 as collector, it was quite natural that I should call upon all 
 my fellow-victims. So I went to his rooms in Staples Inn 
 and reintroduced myself. 
 
 Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an unwholesome, 
 spotty, indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie, 
 and cuffs of which he was inordinately proud, and which he 
 insisted on * flashing ' every second minute. He was also 
 evidently self-satisfied, which was odd, for I have seldom 
 seen any one who afforded less cause for rational satisfaction. 
 * Hullo,' he said, when I told him my name. * So it's you, 
 is it, Cumberledge ? ' He glanced at my card. * St. 
 Nathaniel's Hospital ! What rot ! Why, blow me tight if 
 you haven't turned sawbones ! ' 
 
 ' That is my profession,' I answered, unashamed. ' And 
 you ? * 
 
 ' Oh, I don't have any luck, you know, old man. They 
 turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of 
 humour for the authorities there — beastly set of old fogeys ! 
 Objected to my " chucking " oyster-shells at the tutors' 
 windows — good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. 
 Then I crammed for the Army : but, bless your heart, a 
 gentleman has no chance for the Army nowadays : a pack of 
 blooming cads, with what they call " intellect," read up for 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 55 
 
 the exams., and don't give tis a Ic 'k-in ; I call it sheer piffle. 
 Then the Guv'nor set me on electrical engineering — electrical 
 engineering's played out — T put no stock in it ; besides, it's 
 such beastly fag ; and then, you get your hands dirty. So 
 now I'm reading for the Bar, and if only my coach can put 
 me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to 
 be called some time next summer.' 
 
 'And when you have failed for everything?' I inquired, 
 just to test his sense of humour. 
 
 He swallowed it like a roach. * Oh, when I've failed for 
 everything, I shall stick up to the Guv'nor. Hang it all, a 
 gentleman can't be expected to earn his own livelihood. 
 England's going to the dogs, that's where it is : no snug 
 little sinecures left for chaps like you and me : all this 
 beastly competition. And no respect for the feelings of 
 gentlemen, either ! Why, would you believe it, Cumber- 
 ground — we used to call you Cumberground at Charterhouse, 
 I remember, or was it Fig Tree? — I happened to get a bit 
 lively in the Hay market last week, after a rattling good 
 supper, and the chap at the police-court — old cove with a 
 squint — positively proposed to send me to prison, without 
 the option of a fine ! — I'll trouble you for that — send me to 
 prison — jdst for knocking down a common brute of a bobby. 
 There's no mistake about it, England's not a country now 
 for a gentleman to live in.' 
 
 ' Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving 
 it ? ' I inquired, with a smile. 
 
 He shook his head. * What ? Emigrate ? No, thank 
 you ! I'm not taking any. None of your colonies for me, 
 if you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I'm too much 
 attached to the Empire.' 
 
 ' And yet imperialists,' I said, * generally gush over the 
 colonies — the Empire on which the sun never sets.' 
 
r 
 
 immtm 
 
 A 
 
 56 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' The Empire in Leicester Square ! ' he responded, gazing 
 at me with unspoken contempt. * Have a whisky and soda, 
 old chap ? What, no ? " Never drink between meals ? " 
 Well, you do surprise me ! I suppose that comes of being a 
 sawbones, don't it ? ' 
 
 ' Possibly,* I answered. ' We respect our livers.' Then 
 I went on to the ostensible reason of my visit — the Charter- 
 house testimonial. He slapped his thighs metaphorically, by 
 way of suggesting the depleted condition of his pockets. 
 * Stony broke, Cumberledge,' he murmured ; * stony broke ! 
 Honour bright ! Unless Bluebird pulls off the Prince of 
 Wales's Stakes, I really don't know how I'm to pay the 
 Benchers.' 
 
 * It's quite unimportant,' I answered. ' I was asked to 
 ask you, and I have asked you.' 
 
 * So I twig, my dear fellow. Sorry to have to say no. 
 But I'll tell you what I can do for you : I can put you upon 
 a straight thing ' 
 
 I glanced at the mantelpiece. * I see you have a photo- 
 graph of Miss Sissie Montague,' I broke in casually, taking 
 it down and examining it. ' With an autograph, too. 
 " Reggie, f/om Sissie." You are a friend of hers ? ' 
 
 ' A friend of hers ? I'll trouble you. She is a clinker, 
 Sissie is 1 You should see that girl smoke. I give you my 
 word of honour, Cumberledge, she can consume cigarettes 
 against any fellow I know in London. Hang it all, a girl 
 like that, you know — well, one can't help admiring her ! 
 Ever seen her ? ' 
 
 * Oh yes ; I know her. I called on her, in fact, night 
 before last at Scarborough.' 
 
 He whistled a moment, then broke into an imbecile 
 laugh. * My gum,' he cried, * this is a start, this is 1 You 
 don't mean to tell mo, you are the other Johnnie?' 
 
 1 
 
I 
 
 THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 57 
 
 * What other Johnnie ? ' I asked, feeling we were getting 
 near it. 
 
 He leaned back ■ and laughed again. ' Well you know 
 that girl Sissie, she's a clever one, she is,' he went on after a 
 minute, staring at me. * She's a regular clinker ! Got two 
 
 ONE CAN T HELP ADMIRING HER. 
 
 Strings to her bow : that's where the trouble comes in : Me, 
 and another fellow. She likes Me for love, and the other 
 fellow for money. Now, don't you come and tell me that 
 you are the other fellow.' 
 
 * I have certainly never aspired to the young lady's hand,' 
 I answered, cautiously. ' But don't you know your rival's 
 name, then ? ' 
 
58 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' That's Sissie's blooming cleverness. She's a caulker, 
 Sissie is : you don't take a rise out of Sissie in a hurry. 
 She knows that if I knew who the other bloke was, I'd blow 
 upon her little game to him, and put him off her. And I 
 7Uouldy s'ep me taters : for I'm nuts on that girl : I tell you, 
 Cumberledge, she is a clinker ! ' 
 
 ' You seem to me admirably adapted for one another,' I 
 answered, truthfully. I had not the slightest compunction 
 in handing Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissie, nor ;n handing 
 Sissie over to Reggie Nettlecraft. 
 
 * Adapted for one another ? That's just it. There, you 
 hit the right nail plump on the cocoa-nut, Cumberground ! 
 But Sissie's an artful one, she is. She's playing for the 
 other Johnnie. He's got the dibs, you know ; and Sissie 
 wants the dibs even more than she wants yours truly.' 
 
 * Got what ? * I inquired, not quite catching the phrase. 
 
 * The dibs, old man ; the chink ; the oof ; the ready 
 rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I can't find out the chap's 
 name, but I know his Guv'nor's something or other in the 
 millionaire trade somewhere across in America.' 
 
 * She writes to you, I think ? ' 
 
 ' That's so : every blooming day : but how the dummy 
 did you come to know it ? ' 
 
 ' She lays letters addressed to you on the hall table at 
 her lodgings in Scarborough.' 
 
 * The dickens she does ! Careless little beggar ! Yes, 
 she writes to me — pages. She's awfully gone on me, really. 
 She'd marry me if it wasn't for the Johnnie with the dibs. 
 She doesn't care for him : she wants his money. He 
 dresses badly, don't you see : and after all, the clothes 
 make the man ! I'd like to get at him. I'd spoil his 
 pretty face for him.' And he assumed a playfully pugilistic 
 attitude. 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERYTHING 59 
 
 * You really want to get rid of this other fellow ? ' I 
 asked, seeing my chance. 
 
 •Get rid of him? Why, of course. Chuck him into 
 the river some nice aark night if I could once get a look 
 at him ! ' 
 
 * As a preliminary step, would you mind letting me see 
 one of Miss Montague's letters ? ' I inquired. 
 
 He drew a long breath. 'They're a bit affectionate, 
 you know,' he murmured, stroking his beardless chin in 
 hesitation. 'She's a hot 'un, Sissie is. She pitches it 
 pretty warm on the affection-stop, I can tell you. But if 
 you really think you can give the other Johnnie a cut on 
 the head with her letters — well, in the interests of true 
 love, which never does run smooth, I don't mind letting 
 you have a squint, as my friend, at one of her charming 
 billy-doos.' 
 
 He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his eye over one 
 or two with a maudlin air, and then selected a specimen not 
 wholly unsuitable for publication. * There's one in the eye 
 for C' he said, chuckling. * What would C. say to that, I 
 wonder ? She always calls him C, you know : it's so jolly 
 non-committing. She says, " I only wish that beastly old 
 bore C. were at Halifax — which is where he comes from : 
 and then, I would fly at once to my own dear Reggie ! 
 But, hang it all, Reggie boy, what's the good of true love if 
 you haven't got the dibs ? I must have my comforts. Love 
 in a cottage is all very well in its way, but who's to pay for 
 the fizz, Reg^^ie ? " That's her refinement, don't you see : 
 Sissie's awfully refined : she was brought up with the tastes 
 and habits of a lady.' 
 
 * Clearly so,' I answered. * Both her literary style and 
 her liking for champagne abundantly demonstrate it I ' His 
 acute sense of humour did not enable him to detect the 
 
6o 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 \ 
 
 irony of my observation. I doubt if it extended much 
 beyond oyster-shells. 
 
 He handed me the letter. I read it through with equal 
 amusement and gratification. If Miss Sissie had written it 
 on purpose in order to open Cecil Holsworthy's eyes she 
 
 CTl 
 
 I don't mind letting you have a squint at one of her billy-doos. 
 
 couldn't have managed the matter better or more effectually. 
 It breathed ardent love, tempered by a determination to sell 
 her charms in the best and highest matrimonial market. 
 
 ' Now, I know this man, C.,' I said when I had finished. 
 ' And I want to ask whether you will let me show him Miss 
 Montague's letter. It would set him against the girl, who, 
 
 ■f; 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAU.ED FOR EVERYTHING 6i 
 
 as a matter of fact, is wholly unwor — I mean totally unfitted 
 for him.' 
 
 'Let you show itto him? Like a bird ! Why, Sissie 
 promised me herself that if she couldn't bring " that solemn 
 ass, C," up to the scratch by Christmas she'd chuck him and 
 marry me. It's here, in writing.' And he handed mc 
 another gem of epistolary literature. 
 
 'You have no compunctions?* I asked again, after 
 reading it. 
 
 ' Not a blessed compunction to my name.' 
 
 ' Then neither have I,' I answered. 
 
 I felt they both deserved it. Sissie was a minx, as 
 Hilda rightly judged ; while as for Nettlecraft — well, if a 
 public school and an English University leave a man a 
 cad, a cad he will be, and there is nothing more to be said 
 about it. 
 
 I went straight oF with the letters to Cecil Holsworthy. 
 He read them through half incredulously at first : he was 
 too honest-natured himself to believe in the possibility of 
 such double-dealing — that one could have innocent eyes and 
 golden hair and yet be a trickster. He read them twice : 
 then he compared them word for word with the simple 
 affection and childlike tone of his own last letter received 
 from the same lady. Her versatility of st} le would have 
 done honour to a practised literary craftsman. At last he 
 handed them back to me. ' Do you think,' he said, ' on the 
 evidence of these, I should be doing wrong in breaking with 
 her?' 
 
 ' Wrong in breaking with her ! ' I exclaimed. * You 
 would be doing wrong if you didn't. Wrong to yourself: 
 wrong to your family : wrong, if I may venture to say so, 
 to Daphne : wrong even in the long run to the girl herself, 
 for she is not fitted for you, and she is fitted for Reggie 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 Nettlecraft. Now do as I bid you. Sit down at once and 
 write her a letter from my dictation.' 
 
 He sat down and wrote, much relieved that I took the 
 responsibility off his shoulders. 
 
 * Dear Miss Montague,' I began, ' the enclosed letters 
 have come into my hands without my seeking it. After 
 reading them, I feel that I have absolutely no right to stand 
 between you and the man of your real choice. It would not 
 be kind or wise of me to do so. I release you at once, and 
 consider myself released. You may therefore regard our 
 engagement as irrevocably cancelled. — Faithfully yours, 
 
 • Cecil Holswortiiv.' 
 
 ' Nothing more than that ? ' he asked, looking up and 
 biting his pen. * Not a word of regret or apology ? ' 
 
 * Not a word,' I answered. * \ uu are really too lenient.' 
 I made him take it cut and post it, before he could 
 
 invent conscientious scruples. Then he turned to me 
 irresolutely. * What shall I do next ? ' he askod, with a 
 comical air of doubt. 
 
 I smiled. * My dear fellow, that is a matter for your 
 own consideration.' 
 
 ' But — do you think she will laugh at me ? ' 
 
 * Miss Montague ? ' 
 ' No ! Daphne.' 
 
 * I am not in Daphne's confidence,' I answered. ' I 
 don't know how she feels. But on the face of it, I think I 
 can venture to assure you that at least she won't laugh at 
 you.' 
 
 He grasped my hand hard. ' You don't mean to say 
 so ! ' he cried. ' Well, that's really very kind of her ! A 
 girl of Daphne's high type ! And I, who feel myself so 
 utterly unworthy of her ! ' 
 
 I 
 
THE MAN WHO HAD FAILED FOR EVERVTllING 63 
 
 ' Wc arc all unworthy of a good woman's love,* I 
 answered. 'But, thank Heaven, the good women don't 
 seem to realise it.' 
 
 That evening, about ten, my new friend came back in a 
 hurry to my rooms at St. Nathaniel's. Nurse Wade was 
 standing there, giving her report for the night, when he 
 entered. His face looked some inches shorter and broader 
 than usual. His eyes beamed. His mouth was radiant. 
 
 ' Well, you won't believe it, Dr. Cumberledge,* he began, 
 ' but ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do believe it,' I answered. ' I know it. I have 
 read it already.' 
 
 'Read it!' he cried. 'Where?' 
 
 I waved my hand towards his face. 'In a special 
 edition of the evening papers,' I answered, smiling. ' Daphne 
 has accepted you ! ' 
 
 He sank into an easy-chair, beside himself with rapture. 
 * Yes, yes : that angel 1 thanks to yoUy she has accepted me I ' 
 
 ' Thanks to Miss Wade,' I said, correcting him. ' It is 
 really all her doing. If she had not seen through the photo- 
 graph to the face, and through the face to the woman and 
 the base little heart of her, we might never have found her 
 out.' 
 
 He turned to Hilda, with eyes all gratitude. ' You have 
 given me the dearest and best girl on earth,' he cried, 
 seizing both her hands. 
 
 ' And I have given Daphne a husband who will love and 
 appreciate her,' Hilda answered, flushing. 
 
 ' You sec,' I said, maliciously : ' I told you they never 
 find us out, Holsworthy 1 ' 
 
 As for Reggie Nettlccraft and his wife, I should like 
 to add that they are getting on quite as well as could be 
 expected. Reggie has joined his Sissie on the music-hall 
 
64 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 stage : and all those who have witnessed his immensely 
 popular performance of the Drunken Gentleman before the 
 liow Street Police Court acknowledge without reserve that, 
 after ' failing for everythin<T/ he has dropped at last into his 
 true vocation. His impersonation of the part is said to be 
 ' nature itself.' I see no reason to doubt it. 
 
 i 
 
Ill 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 To make you understand my next yarn, I must go back to 
 the date of my introduction to Hilda. 
 
 ' It is witchcraft ! ' I said the first time I saw her, at Le 
 Geyt's luncheon-party. 
 
 She smiled a smile which was bewitching, indeed, but by 
 no means witchlikc. A frank open smile, with just a touch 
 of natural feminine triumph in it. * No, not witchcraft,' she 
 answered, helping herself with her dainty fingers to a burnt 
 almond from the Venetian glass dish. ' Not witchcraft. 
 Memory : aided perhaps by some native quickness of per- 
 ception. ^' o gh I say it myself, I never met any one, I 
 think, 'vhcse memory goes quite as far as mine does.' 
 
 ' Sou dor'' mean quite as far hackl I cried, jesting: for 
 sh*" '(x/l ed .' >ut twenty-four, and had cheeks like a ripe 
 nectaime, ji.st as pink and just as softly downy. 
 
 She smiled again, showing a row of semi-transparent 
 teeth, with a gleam in the depths of them. She was 
 certainly most attractive. She had that indefinable, incom- 
 municable, unanalysable personal quality which we know as 
 charm. ' No, not as far backl she repeated. ' Though, 
 indeed, I often seem to remember things that happened 
 before I was born (like Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenil- 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' 
 
 worth) : I recollect so vividly all that I have heard or read 
 about them. But as far in extent, I mean. I never let 
 anything drop out of my memory As this case shows you, 
 I can recall even quite unimportant and casual bits of know- 
 
 en, THEN, OP COURSE, YOU'RE HAI,F WELSH, AS I AM, 
 
 ledge, when any chance clue happens to bring them back 
 to me.' 
 
 She had certainly astonished me. The occasion for my 
 astonishment was the fact that when I handed her my card, 
 ' Dr. Hubert Ford Cumberledge, St. Nathaniel's Hospital,' 
 she had glanced at it for a second and exclaimed, without 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 67 
 
 sensible pause or break, ' Oh, then, of course, you're half 
 Welsh, as I am.' 
 
 The instantaneousness and apparent inconsccutiveness 
 of her inference took me aback. ' Well, m'yes : I am half 
 Welsh,' I replied. ' My mother came from Carnarvonshire. 
 But why then and of course ? I fail to perceive your train 
 of reasoning.' 
 
 She laughed a sunny little laugh, like one well accus- 
 tomed to receive such inquiries. * Fancy asking a ivoinan to 
 give you " the train of reasoning " for her intuitions ! ' she 
 cried, merrily. ' That shows. Dr. Cumberledge, that you are 
 a mere man — a man of science, perhaps, but not a psycholo- 
 gist. It also suggests that you are a confirmed bachelor. 
 A married man accepts intuitions, without expecting them 
 to be based on reasoning. . . . Well, just this once, I will 
 stretch a point to enlighten you. If I recollect right, your 
 mother died about three years ago ? ' 
 
 * You are quite correct. Then you knew my mother ? ' 
 
 * Oh, dear me, no. I never even met her. Why tJien ? ' 
 Her look was mischievous. * But, unless I mistake, I think 
 she came from Hendre Coed, near Bangor.' 
 
 * Wales is a village I ' I exclaimed, catching my breath. 
 ' Every Welsh person seems to know all about every 
 other.' 
 
 My new acquaintance smiled again. When she smiled 
 she was irresistible : a laughing face protruding from a cloud 
 of diaphanous drapery. ' Now, shall I tell you how I came 
 to know that ? * she asked, poising a glad cherry on her 
 dessert fork in front of her. ' Shall I explain my trick, like 
 the conjurers ? ' 
 
 * Conjurers never explain anything,' I answered. * They 
 say, " So, you see, thafs how it's done ! " — with a swift whisk 
 of the hand — and leave you as much in the dark as ever. 
 
MaaiWiiiiarwiMappaHi 
 
 68 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Don't explain like the conjurers, but tell me how you 
 guessed it.' 
 
 She shut her eyes and seemed to turn her glance inward. 
 * About three years ago,' she began slowly, like one who 
 reconstructs with an effort a half-forgotten scene, ' I saw a 
 notice in the Times — Births, Deaths, and Marriages — " On 
 the 27th of October" — was it the 27th?' The keen brown 
 eyes opened again for a second and flashed inquiry into 
 mine. 
 
 ' Quite right,' I answered, nodding. 
 
 * I thought so. *' On the 27th of October, at Brynmor, 
 Bournemouth, Emily Olwen Josephine, widow of the late 
 Thomas Cumberledge, sometime colonel of the 7th Bengal 
 Regiment of Foot, and daughter of lolo Gwyn Ford, Esq., 
 J. P., of Hendre Coed, near Bangor." Am I correct ? ' She 
 lifted her dark eyelashes once more and flooded me. 
 
 * You are quite correct,' I answered, surprised. ' And 
 that is really all that you knew of my mother ? ' 
 
 ' Absolutely all. The moment I saw your card, I 
 thought to myself, in a breath, " Ford, Cumberledge : what 
 do I know of those two names ? I have some link between 
 them. Ah, yes : found ! Mrs. Cumberledge, wife of Colonel 
 Thomas Cumberledge, of the 7th Bengals, was a Miss Ford, 
 daughter of a Mr. Ford, of Bangor." That came to me like 
 a lightning-gleam. Then I said to myself again, " Dr. 
 Hubert Ford Cumberledge must be their son." So there 
 you see you have "the train of reasoning." Women can 
 reason — sometimes. I had to think twice, though, before I 
 could recall the exact words of the Times notice.' 
 ' And can you do the same with every one ? * 
 ' Every one ! Oh, come, now : that is expecting too 
 much ! I have iiOt read, marked, learned, and inwardly 
 digested every one's family announcements. I don't pretend 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 69 
 
 to be the Peerage, the Clergy List, and the London Direc- 
 tory rolled into one. I remembered your family all the more 
 vividly, no doubt, because of the pretty and unusual old 
 Welsh names, " Olwen " and " lolo Gvvyn Ford," which fixed 
 themselves on my memory by their mere beauty. Every- 
 thing about Wales always attracts me : my Welsh side is 
 uppermost. But I have hundreds — oh, thousands of such 
 facts stored and pigeon-holed in my memory : if anybody 
 else cares to try me,' she glanced round the table, ' perhaps 
 we may be able to test my power that way.' 
 
 Two or three of the company accepted her challenge, 
 giving the full names of their sisters or brothers ; and, in 
 three cases out of five, my witch was able to supply either 
 the notice of their n arriage or some other like published 
 circumstance. In the instance of Charlie Vere, it is true, 
 she went wrong, just at first, though only in a single small 
 particular : it was not Charlie himself who was gazetted to a 
 sub-lieutenancy in the Warwickshire Regiment, 1 ut his 
 brother Walter. However, the moment she was told of this 
 slip, she corrected herself at once, and added, like lightning, 
 * Ah, yes : how stupid of me ! I have mixed up the names. 
 Charles Cassilis Vere got an appointment on the same day 
 in the Rhodesian Mounted Police, didn't he ? ' Which was 
 in point of fact quite accurate. 
 
 But I am forgetting that all this time I have not even 
 now introduced my witch to you. 
 
 Hilda Wade, when I first saw her, was one of the 
 prettiest, cheeriest, and most graceful girls I have ever met 
 — a dusky blonde, brown-eyed, brown-haired, with a creamy, 
 waxen whiteness of skin that was yet warm and peach- 
 downy. And I wish to insist from the outset upon the plain 
 tact that there was nothing uncanny about her. In spite of 
 her singular faculty of insight, which sometimes seemed to 
 
r 
 
 illogical people almost weird or eerie, she was in the main a 
 bright, well-educated, sensible, winsome, lawn-tennis-playing 
 English girl. Her vivacious spirits rose superior to her sur- 
 roundings, which were often sad enough. But she was above 
 all things wholesome, unaffected, and sparkling — a gleam of 
 sunshine. She laid no claim to supernatural powers : she 
 held no dealings with familiar spirits : she was simply a girl 
 of strong personal charm, endowed with an astounding 
 memory and a rare measure of feminine intuition. Her 
 memory, she told me, she shared with her father and all her 
 father's family : they were famous for their prodigious faculty 
 in that respect. Her impulsive temp'^^rament and quick 
 instincts on the other hand descended to her, she thought, 
 from her mother and her Welsh ancestry. 
 
 Externally, she seemed thus at first sight little more 
 than the ordinary pretty, light-hearted English girl, with a 
 taste for field sports (especially riding), and a native love of 
 the country. But at times, one caught in the brightened 
 colour of her lustrous brown eyes certain curious under- 
 currents of depth, of reserve, and of a questioning wistfulness 
 which made you suspect the presence of profounder elements 
 in her nature. From the earliest moment of our acquaint- 
 ance, indeed, I can say with truth that Hilda Wade inter- 
 ested me immensely. I felt drawn. Her face had that 
 strange quality of compelling attention for which we have as 
 yet no English name, but which everybody recognises. 
 You could not ignore her. She stood out. She was the 
 sort of girl one was constrained to notice. 
 
 It was Le Geyt's first luncheon-party since his second 
 marriage. Big-bearded, genial, he beamed round on us 
 jubilant. He was proud of his wife, and proud of his recent 
 Q.C.-ship. The new Mrs. Le Geyt sat at the head of the 
 table, handsome, capable, self-possessed, a vivid, ' i^^oroiis 
 
THE WIFE WHO DIP 1:ER DUTY 
 
 n 
 
 woman and a model hostess. Though still quite young, 
 she was large and commanding. Everybody was impressed 
 by her. ' Such a good mother to those poor motherless 
 children ! ' all the ladies declared, in a chorus of applause. 
 And, indeed, she had the face of a splendid manager. 
 
 I said as much in an undertone over ^he ices to Miss 
 Wade, who sat beside me — though I ought not to have 
 discussed them at their own table. * Hugo Le Geyt seems 
 to have made an excellent choice,' I murmured. ' Maisie 
 and Ettie will be lucky indeed to be taken care of by such 
 a competent step-mother. Don't you think so ? ' 
 
 My witch glanced up at her hostess with a piercing dart 
 of the keen brown eyes, held her wine-glass half raised, and 
 then electrified me by uttering, in the same low voice, audible 
 to me alone, but quite clearly and unhesitatingly, these 
 astounding words : — 
 
 * I think, before twelve months are out, Mr. Le Geyt will 
 have imirdered her.* 
 
 For a minute I could not answer, so startling was the 
 effect of this confident prediction, One does not expect to 
 be told such things at lunch, over the port and peaches, 
 about one's dearest friends, beside their own mahogany. 
 And the assured air of unfaltering conviction with which 
 Hilda Wade said it to a complete stranger took my breath 
 away. Why did she think so at all ? And if she thought 
 so, why choose me as the recipient of her singular con- 
 fidences ? 
 
 I gasped and wondered. 
 
 ' What makes you fancy anything so unlikely ? ' I asked 
 aside at last, behind the Babel of voices. ' You quite alarm 
 
 me. 
 
 She rolled a mouthful of apricot ice reflectively on her 
 
r 
 
 72 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 tongue, and then murmured, in a similar aside, ' Don't ask 
 me now. Some other time will do. But, I mean what I 
 say. Believe me, I do not speak at random.' 
 
 She was quite right, of course. To continue would have 
 been equally rude and foolish. I had perforce to bottle up 
 my curiosity for the moment, and wait till niy sibyl was in 
 the mood for interpreting. 
 
 After lunch we adjourned to the drawing-room. Almost 
 at once, Hilda Wade flitted up with her brisk step to the 
 corner where I ,/as sitting. * Oh, Dr. Cumberledge,' she 
 began, as if nothing odd had occurred before, ' I ivas so glad 
 to meet you and have a chance of talking to you, because I 
 do so want to get a nurse's place at St. Nathaniel's.' 
 
 ' A nurse's place ! ' I exclaimed, a little surprised, sur- 
 veying her dress of palest and softest Indian muslin, for she 
 looked to me far too much of a butterfly for such serious 
 work. * Do you really mean it, or are you one of the ten 
 thousand modern young ladies who are in quest of a Mission, 
 without understanding that Missions are unpleasant ? Nurs- 
 ing, I can tell you, is not all crimped cap and becoming 
 uniform.' 
 
 ' I know that,' she answered, growing grave. ' I ought 
 to know it. I am a nurse already at St. George's 
 Hospital.' 
 
 ' You a nurse ! And at St. George's ! Yet you want 
 to change to Nathaniel's ? Why ? St. George's is in a 
 much nicer part of London, and the patients there come on 
 an average from a much better class than ours in Smith- 
 field.' 
 
 *■ I know that too : but . . . Sebastian is at St. 
 Nathaniel's — and I want to be near Sebastian.' 
 
 * Professor Sebastian ! ' I cried, my face lighting up with 
 a gleam of cnthusia^*ri at our great teacher's name. ' Ah, if 
 
 i 
 
 1 1 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 73 
 
 i^} 
 
 it is to be under Sebastian that you desire, I can see you 
 mean business. I know now you are in earnest.' 
 
 * In earnest ? ' she echoed, that strange deeper shade 
 coming over her face as she spoke, while her tone aUered. 
 * Yes, I think I am in earnest ! It is my object in Hfe to be 
 near Sebastian — to watch him and observe him. I mean to 
 succeed. . . . But, I have given you my confidence, perhaps 
 
 1 AM A NURSR ALREADY, 
 
 too hastily, and I must implore ycu not to mention my wish 
 to him.' 
 
 ' You may trust me implicitly,' I answered. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I saw that,* she put in, with a quick gesture. 
 "» ' Of course, I saw by your face you were a man of honour — 
 a man one could trust — or I would not have spoken to you. 
 But — you promise me ? ' 
 
 ' I promise you,' I replied, naturally flattered. She was 
 delicately pretty, and her quaint, oracular air, so incongruous 
 
74 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 with the dainty face and the fluffy brown hair, piqued me 
 not, a little. That special mysterious commodity of charm 
 seemed to pervade all she did and said. So I added, * And 
 I will mention to Sebastian that you wish for a nurse's 
 place at Nathaniel's. As you have had experience, and can 
 be recommended, I suppose, by Le Geyt's sister,* with whom 
 she had come, * no doubt you can secure an early vacancy.' 
 
 * Thanks so much,* she answered, with that delicious 
 smile : it had an infantile simplicity about it which con- 
 trasted most piquantly with her prophetic manner. 
 
 * Only,' I went on, assuming a confidential tone, ' you 
 really must tell me why you said that just now about Hugo 
 Le Geyt. Recollect, your Delphian utterances have gravely 
 astonished and disquieted me. Hugo is one of my oldest 
 and dearest friends; and I want to know why you have 
 formed this sudden bad opinion of him.* 
 
 ' Not of him, but of her] she answered, to my surprise, 
 taking a small Norwegian dagger from the what-not and 
 playing with it to distract attention. 
 
 * Come, come, now,* I cried, drawing back. * You are 
 trying to mystify me. This is deliberate seer-mongery. 
 You are presuming on your powers. But I am not the sort 
 of man to be caught by horoscopes. I decline to believe it.' 
 
 She turned on me with a meaning glance. Those 
 truthful eyes fixed me. ' I am going from here straight to 
 my hospital,' she murmured, with a quiet air of knowledge 
 — talking, I mean to say, like one who really knows. ' This 
 room is not the place to discuss this matter, is it ? If you 
 will walk back to St. George's with me, I think I can make 
 you see and feel that I am speaking, not at haphazard, but 
 from observation and experience.' 
 
 Her confidence roused my most vivid curiosity. When 
 she left, I left with her. The Lc Geyts lived in one of 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 75 
 
 those new streets of lar^c houses on Campcv-r Hill, so that 
 our way eastward lay naturally through Kensington Gar- 
 dens. It was a sunny June day, when light pierced even 
 through the smoke of London, and the shrubberies breathed 
 the breath of white lilacs. * Now, what did you mean by 
 that enigmatical saying ? ' I asked my new Cassandra, as 
 we strolled down the scent-laden path. * Woman's intuition 
 is all very well in its way : but a mere man may be excused 
 if he asks for evidence.* 
 
 She stopped short as I spoke and gazed full into my 
 eyes. Her hand fingered her parasol handle. * I meant 
 what I said,' she answered, with emphasis. * Within one 
 year, Mr. Le Geyt will have murdered his wife. You may 
 take my word for it.' 
 
 * Le Geyt I ' I cried. * Never I I know the man so 
 well ! A big, good-natured, kindly schoolboy ! He is the 
 gentlest and best of mortals. Le Geyt a murderer ! 
 Im — possible ! ' 
 
 Her eyes were far away. * Has it never occurred to 
 you,* she asked, slowly, with her pythoness air, ' that there 
 are murders and murders ? — murders which depend in the 
 main upon the murderer . . . and also murders which 
 depend in the main upon the victim ? ' 
 
 * The victim ? How do you mean t ' 
 
 * Well, there are brutal men who commit murder out of 
 sheer brutality — the ruffians of the slums ; and there are 
 sordid men who commit murder for sordid money — the 
 insurers who want to forestall their policies, the poisoners 
 who want to inherit property : but have you ever realised 
 that there are also murderers who become so by accident, 
 through their victims' idiosyncrasy ? I thought all the time 
 while I was watching Mrs. Le Geyt, " That woman is of the 
 sort predestined to be murdered." . . . And when you asked 
 
76 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 me, I told you so. I may have been imprudent : still, I saw 
 it, and I said it/ 
 
 * But this is second sight ! ' I cried, drawing away. * Do 
 you pretend to prevision ? ' 
 
 * No, not second sight : nothing uncanny, nothing super- 
 natural. But prevision, yes : prevision based, not on omens 
 or auguries, but on solid fact — on what I have seen and 
 noticed.* 
 
 * Explain yourself, O prophetess ! ' 
 
 She let the point of her parasol make a curved trail on 
 the gravel, and followed its serpentine wavings with her eyes. 
 * You know our house-surgeon ? ' she asked at last, looking 
 up of a sudden. 
 
 ' What, Travers ? Oh, intimatel}'.' 
 
 * Then come to my ward and see. After you have seen 
 you will perhaps believe me.' 
 
 Nothing that I could say would get any further explana- 
 tion out of her just then. * You would laugh at me if I 
 told you,' she persisted : ' you won't laugh when you have 
 seen it.' 
 
 We walked on in silence as far as Hyde Park Corner. 
 There my Sphinx tripped lightly up the steps of St. George's 
 Hospital. ' Get Mr. Travers's leave,* she said, with a nod 
 and a bright smile, ' to visit Nurse Wade's ward. Then 
 come up to me there in five minutes.* 
 
 I explained to my friend the house-surgeon that I wished 
 to see certain cases in the accident ward of which I had 
 heard ; he smiled a restrained smile — ' Nurse Wade, no 
 doubt ! ' but, of course, gave me permission to go up and 
 look at them. * Stop a minute,' he added, * and I'll come 
 with you.' When we got there, my witch had already 
 changed her dress, and was waiting for us demurely in the 
 neat dove-coloured gown and smooth white apron of the 
 
THE wH'E who did her duty 
 
 77 
 
 
 hospital nurses. She looked even prclticr and more mean- 
 ingful so than in her ethereal outside summer-cloud muslin. 
 
 ' Come over to this' bed,' she said at once to Travers and 
 myself, without the least air of mystery. ' I will show you 
 what I mean by it.' 
 
 ' Nurse Wade has remarkable insight,' Travers whispered 
 to me as we went. 
 
 * I can believe it,' I answered. 
 
 * Look at this woman,' she went on, aside, in a low voice 
 — * no, nol the first bed : the one beyond it : number 60. I 
 don't want the patient to know you are watching her. Do 
 you observe anything odd about her appearance ? ' 
 
 * She is somewhat the same type,' I began, * as Mrs. ' 
 
 Before I could get out the words ' Le Geyt,' her warning 
 
 eye and puckering forehead had stopped me. * As the lady 
 we were discussing,' she interposed, with a quiet wave of one 
 hand. ' Yes, in some points very much so. You notice in 
 particular her scanty hair — so thin and poor — though she is 
 young and good-looking ? ' 
 
 * It is certainly rather a feeble crop for a woman of her 
 age,' I admitted. * And pale at that, and washy.' 
 
 * Precisely. It's done up behind about as big as a nut- 
 meg. . . . Now, observe the contour of her back as she sits 
 up there : it is curiously curved, isn't it ? ' 
 
 * Very,' I replied. ' Not exactly a stoop, nor yet quite a 
 hunch, but certainly an odd spinal configuration.' 
 
 * Like our friend's, once more ? ' 
 ' Like our friend's, exactly ! ' 
 
 Hilda Wade looked away, lest she should attract the 
 patient's attention. * Well, that woman was brought in 
 here, half-dead, assaulted by her husband,' she went on, with 
 a note of unobtrusive demonstration. 
 
 *We get a great many such cases,' Travers put in, with 
 
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78 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 .rue medical unconcern, ' very interesting cases : and 
 Nurse Wade has pointed out to m^ the singular fact that 
 in almost all instances the patients resemble one another 
 physically.' 
 
 * Incredible ! ' I cried. * I can understand that there 
 might well be a type of men who assault their wives, but 
 not, surely, a type of women who get assaulted.' 
 
 * That is because you know less about it than Nurse 
 Wade,' Travers answered, with an annoying smile of superior 
 knowledge. 
 
 Our instructress moved on to another bed, laying one 
 gentle hand as she passed on a patient's forehead. The 
 patient glanced gratitude. ' That one again,' she said once 
 more, half-indicating a cot at a little distance : * Number 74. 
 She has much the same thin hair — sparse, weak, and colour- 
 less. She has much the same curved back, and much the 
 same aggressive, self- assertive features. Looks capable, 
 doesn't she ? A born housewife ! . . . Well, she too was 
 knocked down and kicked half-dead the other night by her 
 husband.' 
 
 * It is certainly odd,* I answered, * how very much they 
 both recall ' 
 
 * Our friend at lunch ! Yes, ext*'P'^'*dinary. See here': 
 she pulled out a pencil and drew the quick outline of a face 
 in her note-book. ' That is what is central and essential to 
 the type. They have this sort of profile. Women with 
 faces like that always get assaulted.' 
 
 Travers glanced over her shoulder. * Quite true,' he 
 assented, with his bourgeois nod. ' Nurse Wade in her time 
 has shown me dozens of them. Round dozens : bakers* 
 dozens ! They all belong to that species. In fact, when a 
 woman of this type is brought in to us wounded now, I ask 
 at once, " Husband ? " and the invariable answer comes pat : 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 79 
 
 " Well, yes, sir ; we had some words together." The effect 
 of words, my dear fellow, is something truly surprising.' 
 
 * They can pierce like a dagger,' I mused. 
 
 ' And leave an open wound behind that requires dressing,' 
 Travers added, unsuspecting. Practical man, Travers ; 
 
 SHE DREW THE QUICK OUTLINE OF A FACE IN HER NOTE-nOOK. 
 
 * But w/ty do they get assaulted — the women of this 
 type?' I asked, still bewildered. 
 
 • Number 87 has her mother just come to see her,' my 
 sorceress interposed. * S/ie's an assault case ; brought in 
 last night : badly kicked and bruised about the head and 
 shoulders. Speak to the mother. She'll explain it all to 
 you.' 
 
8o 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Travers and I moved over to the cot her hand scarcely 
 indicated. * Well, your daughter looks pretty comfortable 
 this afternoon, in spite of the little fuss,' Travers began, 
 tentatively. 
 
 *Yus, she's a bit tidy, thanky,' the mother answered, 
 smoothing her soiled black gown, grown green with long 
 service. * She'll git on naow, please Gord. But Joe most 
 did for 'er.* 
 
 * How did it all happen ? ' Travers asked, in a jaunty 
 tone, to draw her out. 
 
 * Well, it was like this, sir, yer see. My daughter, she's 
 a lidy as keeps 'erself to 'erself, as the sayin' is, an* 'olds 'er 
 'ead up. She keeps up a proper pride, an* minds 'er 'ouse 
 an' *er little 'uns. She ain't no gadabaht. But she 'ave a 
 tongue, she 'ave ' : the mother lowered her voice cautiously 
 lest the ' lidy * should hear. ' I don't deny it that she 'ave a 
 tongue, at times, through myself 'avin* suffered from it. And 
 when she do go on. Lord bless you, why, there ain't no 
 stoppin' of 'er.* 
 
 * Oh, she has a tongue, has she ? ' Travers replied, sur- 
 veying the * case ' critically. * Well, you know, she looks 
 like it.* 
 
 * So she do, sir ; so she do. An' Joe, *e's a man as 
 wouldn't 'urt a biby — not when 'e's sober, Joe wouldn't. 
 But 'e'd bin aht, that's where it is ; an' 'e cum *ome lite, a 
 bit fresh, through 'avin' bin at the friendly lead : an' my 
 daughter, yer see, she up an' give it to 'im. My word, she 
 did give it to 'im ! An' Joe, 'e's a peaceable man when 'e 
 ain't a bit fresh : 'e's more like a friend to *er than an 
 'usband, Joe is ; but *e lost 'is temper that time, as yer may 
 say, by reason o' bein* fresh, an' *e knocked *er abaht a 
 little, an* knocked 'er teeth aht. So we brought 'er to the 
 
 
 orspital. 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 8l 
 
 The injured woman raised herself up in bed with a 
 vindictive scowl, displaying as she did so the same whale- 
 like curved back as in the other * cases.* ' But we've sent 
 'im to the lock-up,' she continued : the scowl giving way fast 
 to a radiant joy of victory as she contemplated her triumph : 
 
 SHE DID GIVE IT TO 'iM. 
 
 * an' wot's more, I 'ad the last word of 'im. An* 'e'll git six 
 month for this, the neighbours says ; an' when he comes aht 
 again, my Gord, won't 'e ketch it ! * 
 
 * You look capable of punishing him for it,' I answered, 
 and as I spoke, I shuddered : for I saw her expression was 
 precisely the expression Mrs. Le Geyt's face had worn for a 
 passing second when her husband accidentally trod on her 
 dress as we left the dining-room. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 My witch moved away. We followed. ' Well, what do 
 you say to it now ? ' she asked, gliding among the beds with 
 noiseless feet and ministering fingers. 
 
 * Say to it ? ' I answered. * That it is wonderful, wonder- 
 ful. You have quite convinced me.' 
 
 ' You would think so,' Travers put in, ' if you had been 
 in this ward as often as I have, and observed their faces. 
 It's a dead certainty. Sooner or later, that type of woman 
 is cock-sure to be assaulted.' 
 
 * In a certain rank of life, perhaps,' I answered, still loth 
 to believe it ; ' but not surely in ours. Gentlemen do not 
 knock down their wives and kick their teeth out.' 
 
 My sibyl smiled. * No : there, class tells,' she admitted. 
 * They take longer about it, and suffer more provocation. 
 They curb their tempers. But in the end, one day, they are 
 goaded beyond endurance ; and then — a convenient knife — 
 a rusty old sword — a pair of scissors — anything that comes 
 handy, like that dagger this morning. One wild blow — 
 half unpremeditated — and . . . the thing is done ! Twelve 
 good men and true will find it wilful murder.' 
 
 I felt really perturbed. * But can we do nothing,' I 
 cried, * to warn poor Hugo ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, I fear,' she answered. * After all, character 
 must work itself out in its interactions with character. He 
 has married that woman, and he must take the consequences. 
 Does not each of us in life suffer perforce the Nemesis of his 
 own temperament ? ' 
 
 * Then is there not also a type of men who assault their 
 wives ? ' 
 
 ' That is the odd part of it — no. All kinds, good and 
 bad, quick and slow, can be driven to it at last. The quick- 
 tempered stab or kick : the slow devise some deliberate 
 means of ridding themselves of their burden,' 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 83 
 
 * But surely we might caution Le Geyt of his danger ! ' 
 
 ' It is useless. He would not believe us. We cannot be 
 at his elbow to hold back his hand when the bad moment 
 comes. Nobody wilt be there, as a matter of fact : for 
 women of this temperament — born naggers, in short, since 
 that's what it comes to — when they are also ladies, graceful and 
 gracious as she is, never nag at all before outsiders. To the 
 world, they are bland : everybody says, " What charming 
 talkers ! " They are " angels abroad, devils at home," as the 
 proverb puts it. Some night she will provoke him when 
 they are alone, till she has reached his utmost limit of en- 
 durance — and then,* she drew one hand across her dovelike 
 throat, ' it will be all finished.' 
 
 ' You think so ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. We human beings go straight like 
 sheep to our natural destiny.' 
 
 ' But — that is fatalism.' 
 
 * No, not fatalism : insight into temperament. Fatalists 
 believe that your life is arranged for you beforehand from 
 without : willy nilly, you must act so. I only believe that 
 in this jostling world your life is mostly determined by your 
 own character, in its interaction with the characters of those 
 who surround you. Temperament works itself out. It is 
 your own acts and deeds that make up Fate for you.' 
 
 For some months after this first meeting, neither Hilda 
 Wade nor I saw anything more of the Le Geyt3. They left 
 town for Scotland at the end of the season : and when all 
 the grouse had been duly slaughtered, and all the salmon 
 duly hooked, they went on to Leicestershire for the opening 
 of fox-hunting : so it was not till after Christmas that they 
 returned to Campden Hill. Meanwhile, I had spoken to Dr. 
 Sebastian about Miss Wade, and on my recommendation he 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 ■\ 
 
 had found her a vacancy at our hospital. * A most intelligent 
 girl, Cumbcrledge/ he remarked to me with a rare burst of 
 approval — for the Professor was always critical — after she 
 had been at work for some weeks at St. Nathaniel's. ' I am 
 glad you introduced her here. A nurse with brains is such 
 a valuable accessory— unless of course she takes to thinking. 
 But Nurse Wade never thinks : she is a useful instrument — 
 does what she's told, and carries out one's orders implicitly.' 
 
 * She knows enough to know when she doesn't know,' 
 I answered. ' Which is really the rarest kind of know- 
 ledge.' 
 
 * Unrecorded among young doctors ! * the Professor 
 retorted, with his sardonic smile. 'They think they under- 
 stand the human body from top to toe, when in reality — 
 well, they might do the measles ! ' 
 
 Early in January, I was invited again to lunch with the 
 I,e Geyts. Hilda W^ade was invited too. The moment we 
 entered the house, we were both of us aware that some grim 
 change had come over it. Le Geyt met us in the hall, in his 
 old genial style, it is true, but still with a certain reserve, a 
 curious veiled timidity which we had not known in him. 
 Big and good-humoured as he was, with kirhdly eyes beneath 
 the shaggy eyebrows, he seemed strangely subdued now : 
 the boyish buoyancy had gone out of him. He spoke 
 rather lower than was his natural key, and welcomed us 
 warmly though less effusively than of old. An irreproachable 
 housemaid in a spotless rap ushered us into the transfigured 
 drawing-room. Mrs. Le Geyt, in a pretty cloth dress, neatly 
 tailor-made, rose to meet us, beaming the vapid smile of the 
 perfect hostess — that impartial smile which falls, like the 
 rain from Heaven, on good and bad indifferently. * So 
 charmed to see you again. Dr. Cumberledge ! ' she bubbled 
 out, with a cheerful air — she was always cheerful, mechanically 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 s; 
 
 i 
 
 cheerful, from a sense of duty. ' It is such a pleasure to 
 meet dear Hugo's old friends. And Miss Wade, too ; how 
 delightful ! You look so well. Miss Wade ! Oh, you're 
 both at St. Nathaniel's now, aren't you ? So you can come 
 together. What a privilege for you. Dr. Cumberledge, to 
 have such a clever assistant — or, rather, fellow- worker. It 
 must be a great life, yours. Miss Wade : such a sphere of 
 usefulness ! If we can only feel we are doing good — that is 
 the main matter. For my own part, I like to be mixed up 
 with every good work that's going on in my neighbourhood : 
 I'm the soup-kitchen, you know, and I'm visitor at the 
 workhouse ; and I'm the Dorcas Society, and the Mutual 
 Improvement Class, and the Prevention of Cruelty to 
 Animals and to Children, and I'm sure I don't know how 
 much else : so that, what with all that, and what with dear 
 Hugo and the darling children ' — she glanced affectionately 
 at Maisie and Ettie, who sat bolt upright, very mute and 
 still, in their best and stiffest frocks, on two stools in the 
 corner — * I can hardly find time for my social duties.* 
 
 ' Oh, dear Mrs. Le Geyt,' one of her visitors said with 
 effusion, from beneath a nodding bonnet — she was the wife 
 of a rural dean ffom Staffordshire — ' everybody is agreed that 
 your social duties are performed to a marvel. They are the 
 envy of Kensington. We all of us wonder, indeed, how one 
 woman can find time for all of it ! ' 
 
 Our hostess looked pleased. * Well, yes,' she answered, 
 gazing down at her fawn-coloured dress with a half-suppressed 
 smile of self-satisfaction, * I flatter myself I can get through 
 about as much work in a day as anybody ! ' Her eye 
 wandered round her rooms with a modest air of placid self- 
 approval which was almost comic. Everything in them was 
 as well kept and as well polished as good servants thoroughly 
 drilled could make it. Not a stain or a speck anywhere. 
 
86 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 A miracle of neatness. Indeed, when I carelessly drew the 
 Norwegian dagger from its scabbard, as we waited for lunch, 
 and found that it stuck in the sheath, I almost started to 
 discover that rust could intrude into that orderly household. 
 
 I recollected 
 , then how Hilda 
 Wade had pointed 
 out to me during 
 those six months 
 at St. Nathaniel's 
 that the women 
 whose husbands as- 
 saulted them were 
 almost always ' not- 
 able housewives,' as 
 they say in America 
 — good souls who 
 '^ prided themselves 
 not a little on their 
 skill in management. 
 They were capable, 
 practical mothers 
 •^f families, with a 
 boundless belief in 
 themselves, a sincere desire to do their duty, as far as they 
 understood it, and a habit of impressing their virtues upon 
 others which was quite beyond all human endurance. 
 Placidity was their note : provoking placidity. I felt sure 
 it must have been of a woman of this type that the famous 
 phiase was first coined — * Elle a toutes les vertus — et elle 
 est insupportable.' 
 
 * Clara, dear/ her husband said, * shall we go in to 
 lunch ? ' 
 
 THE NORWEGIAN DAGGER. 
 
THE Wh E WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 87 
 
 -' I.e Geyt began, 
 
 • You dear, stupid boy ! Are we not all waiting {ox you 
 to give your arm to Lady Maitland ? ' 
 
 The lunch was perfect, and it was perfectly served. The 
 silver glowed : the linen was marked with H. C. Le G. in a 
 most artistic monogram. I noticed that the table decora- 
 tions were extremely pretty. Somebody complimented our 
 hostess upon them. Mrs. Le Geyt nodded and smiled — * / 
 arranged them. Dear Hugo, in his blundering way — the 
 big darling — forgot to get me the orchids I had ordered. So 
 I had to make shift with what few things our own wee con- 
 servatory afforded. Still, with a little taste and a little 
 
 ingenuity ' She surveyed her handicraft with just pride, 
 
 and left the rest to our imaginations. 
 
 ' Only you ought to explain, Clara — 
 in a deprecatory tone. 
 
 • Now, you darling old bear, we won't harp on that 
 twice-told tale again,' Clara interrupted, with a knowing 
 smile. ' Point de nkiiaufft^s ! Let us leave one another's 
 misdeeds and one another's explanations for their proper 
 sphere — the family circle. The orchids did tiot turn up, 
 that is the point ; and I managed to make shift with the 
 plumbago and the geraniums. Maisie, my Lvveet, not that 
 pudding, ^/ you please: too rich for you, darling. I know 
 your digestive capacities better than you do. I have told 
 you fifty times it doesn't agree with you. A small slice of 
 the other one ! ' 
 
 *Yes, mamma,* Maisie answered, with a cowed and 
 cowering air. I felt sure she would have murmured, * Yes, 
 mamma,' in the self-same tone if the second Mrs. Le Geyt 
 had ordered her to hang herself. 
 
 • I saw you out in the park, yesterday, on your bicycle, 
 Ettie,' Le Geyt's sister, Mrs. Mallet, put in. * But do you 
 know, dear, I didn't think your jacket was half warm enough.' 
 
IF 
 
 
 88 
 
 HILDA WADK 
 
 ' Mamma doesn't like me to wear a warmer one/ the 
 child answered, with a visible shudder of recollection, ' though 
 I should love to, Aunt Lina.' 
 
 ' My precious Ettie, what nonsense — for a violent 
 exercise like bicycling I Where one gets so hot ! So un- 
 becomingly hot ! You'd be simply stifled, darling.' I 
 caught a darted glance which accompanied the words and 
 which made Ettie recoil into the recesses of her pudding. 
 
 ' But yesterday was so cold, Clara,' Mrs. Mallet went on, 
 actually venturing to oppose the infallible authority. * A 
 nipping morning. And such a flimsy coat I Might not the 
 dear child be allowed to judge for herself in a matter purely 
 of her own feelings ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Le Geyt, with just the shadow of a shrug, was all 
 sweet reasonableness. She smiled more suavely than ever. 
 ' Surely, Lina,* she remonstrated, in her frankest and most 
 convincing tone, * / must know best what is good for dear 
 Ettie, when I have been watching her daily for more than 
 six months past, and taking the greatest pains to under- 
 stand both her constitution and her disposition. She needs 
 hardening, Ettie does. Hardening. Don't you agree with 
 me, Hugo ? ' 
 
 Lc Geyt shuffled uneasily in his chair. Big man as he 
 was, with his great black beard and manly bearing, I could 
 see he was afraid to differ from her overtly. ' Well, — m — 
 perhaps, Clara,' he began, peering from under the shaggy 
 eyebrows, ' it would be best for a delicate child like 
 Ettie ' ^ 
 
 Mrs. Le Geyt smiled a compassionate smile. * Ah, I 
 forgot,' she cooed sweetly. ' Dear Hugo never can under- 
 stand the upbringing of children. It is a sense denied him. 
 We women know ' — with a sage nod. * They were wild 
 little savages when I took them in hand first — weren't you, 
 
 ^ 
 
r 
 
 THE WIFE IVHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 89 
 
 Maisie ? Do you remember, dear, how you broke the look- 
 ing-glass in the boudoir like an untamed young monkey? 
 Talking of monkeys, Mr. Cotsvvould, have you seen those 
 delightful, clever, amusing French pictures at that place in 
 Suffolk Street? There's a man there — a Parisian — I forget 
 his honoured name — Leblanc, or Lenoir, or Lebrun, or some- 
 thing — but he's a most humorous artist, and he paints 
 monkeys and storks and all sorts of queer bcasties almost as 
 quaintly and expressively as you do. Mind, I say almost, 
 for I will never allow that any Frenchman could do any- 
 thing quite so good, quite so funnily mock-human, as your 
 marabouts and professors.' 
 
 ' What a charming hostess Mrs. Le Geyt makes,' the 
 painter observed to me after lunch. * Such tact ! Such dis- 
 crimination ! . . . And, what a devoted step-mother ! ' 
 
 ' She is one of the local secretaries of the Society for 
 the Prevention of Cruelty to Children/ I said, drily, 
 
 • And charity begins at home,* Hilda \ ;ide added, in ^ 
 significant aside. 
 
 We walked home together as far as Stanhop' Gate. 
 Our sense of doom oppressed us. ' y\nd yet,' I said, turning 
 to her, as we left the doorstep, * I don't doubt Mrs. Lc Geyt 
 really believes she is a model step mother ! ' 
 
 ' Of course she believes it,' my witch answered. • She 
 has no more doubt about that than about anything else. 
 Doubts are not in her line. She does everything exactly 
 as it ought to be done — who should know if not she ? — and 
 therefore she is never afraid of criticism. Hardening, in- 
 deed ! that poor slender, tender, shrinking little Ettie ! A 
 frail exotic. She would harden her into a skeleton if she 
 !iad her way. Nothing's much harder than a skeleton I 
 suppose, ex .^pt Mrs. Le Geyt's manner of training one.' 
 
 ' I shoulu be sorr} to think,' I broke in, ' that that sweet 
 
90 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 little, floating thistledown of a child I once knew was to be 
 done to death by her.' 
 
 « 
 
 DOUBTS ARE NOT IN HER LINE. 
 
 * Oh, as for that, she will not be done to death,' Hilda 
 answered, in her confident way. * Mrs. Le Geyt won't live 
 long enough.' 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 91 
 
 I started. * You think not ? ' 
 
 * I don't think. I am sure of it. We are at the fifth 
 act now. I watched Mr. Le Geyt closely all through lunch, 
 and Tm more confident than ever that the end is coming. 
 He is temporarily crushed : but he is like steam in a boiler, 
 seething, seething, seething. One day, she will sit on the 
 safety-valve, and the explosion will come. When it comes * 
 — she raised aloft one quick hand in the air as if striking a 
 dagger home — * good-bye to her ! ' 
 
 For the next few months I saw much of Le Geyt ; and 
 the more I saw of him, the more I saw that my witch's 
 prognosis was essentially correct. They never quarrelled : 
 but Mrs. Le Geyt in her unobtrusive way held a quiet hand 
 over her husband which became increasingly apparent. In 
 the midst of her fancy-work (those busy fingers were never 
 idle) she kept her eyes well fixed on him. Now and again 
 I saw him glance at his motherless girls with what looked 
 like a tender protecting regret, especially when * Clara ' had 
 been most openly drilling them : but he dared not interfere. 
 She was crushing their spirit as she was crushing their 
 father's — and all, bear in mind, for the best of motives ! 
 She had their interest at heart : she wanted to do what was 
 right for them. Her manner to him and to them was always 
 honey-sweet — in all externals ; yet one could somehow feel 
 it was the velvet glove that masked the iron hand : not 
 cruel, not harsh even, but severely, irresistibly, unflinchingly 
 crushing. * Ettie, my dear, get your brown hat at once. 
 What's that ? Going to rain ? I did not ask you, my 
 child, for your opinion on the weather. My own suffices. 
 A headache ? Oh, nonsense ! Headaches are caused by 
 want of exercise. Nothing so good for a touch of headache 
 as a nice brisk walk in Kensington Gardens. Maisie, don't 
 hold your sister's hand like that : it is imitation sympathy ! 
 
92 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 
 
 You are aiding and abetting her in setting my wishes at 
 nought Now, no long faces ! What / require is cheerful 
 obedience.* 
 
 A bland, autocratic martinet, smiling, inexorable ! Poor, 
 pale Ettie grew thinner and wanner under her law daily, 
 while Maisie's temper, naturally docile, was being spoiled 
 before one's eyes by persistent, needless thwarting. 
 
 As spring came on, however, I began to hope that things 
 were really mending. Le Geyt looked brighter ; some of 
 his own careless, happy-go-lucky self came back again at 
 intervals. He told me once, with a wistful sigh, that he 
 thought of sending the children to school in the country — 
 it would be better for them, he said, and would take a little 
 work off dear Clara's shoulders : for never even to me was 
 he disloyal to Clara. I encouraged him in the idea. He 
 went on to say that the great difficulty in the way was . . . 
 Clara. She was so conscientious : she thought it her duty 
 to look after the children herself, and couldn't bear to 
 delegate any part ol that duty to others. Besides, she had 
 such an excellent opinion of the Kensington High School ! 
 
 When I told Hilda Wade of this, she set her teeth 
 together and answered at once : * That settles it ! The end 
 is very near. He will insist upon their going, to save them 
 from that woman's ruthless kindness : and sJie will refuse to 
 give up any part of what she calls her duty. He will reason 
 with her : he will plead for his children : sJie will be ada- 
 mant. Not angry — it is never the way of that temperament 
 to get angry : just calmly, sedately, and insupportably pro- 
 voking. When she goes too far, he will flare up at last : 
 some taunt will rouse him : the explosion will come : and 
 . . . the children will go to their Aunt Lina, whom they 
 dote upon. When all is said and done, it is the poor man 
 I pity ! ' 
 
 I 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 93 
 
 
 ' You said within twelve months.' 
 
 * That was a bow drawn at a venture. It may be a 
 little sooner : it may be a little later. But — next week or 
 next month — it is coming : it is coming ! ' 
 
 June smiled upon us once more ; and on the afternoon 
 
 THAT SliTTLES IT ! THE END IS VERY NEAR. 
 
 of the I 3th, the anniversary of our first lunch together at 
 the Le Geyts', I was up at my work in the accident ward at 
 St. Nathaniel's. ' Well, the ides of June have come, Sister 
 Wade ! ' I said, when I met her, parodying Caesar. 
 
 * But not yet gone,' she answered : and a profound sense 
 of foreboding spread over her speaking face as she uttered 
 the words. 
 
 Her oracle disquieted me. ' Why, I dined there last 
 night,' I cried, * and all seemed exceptionally well.' 
 
94 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' The calm before a storm, perhaps,' she murmured. 
 
 Just at that moment I heard a boy crying in the street, 
 ' Pall Mall Gazette : 'ere y'are : speshul edishun ! Shocking 
 tragedy at the West-end ! Orful murder ! 'Ere y'are ! 
 Speshul Globe ! Pall Mall^ extry speshul ! ' 
 
 DlliU INSrANTANEOUSLY, liV ALL Al'i'lCAKANCliS. 
 
 A weird tremor broke over me. I walked down into the 
 street and bought a paper. There it stared me in the face 
 on the middle page : ' Tragedy at Campden Hill : Well- 
 known Barrister murders his Wife : Sensational Details.* 
 
 I looked closer and read. It was just as I feared. The 
 Le Geyts I After I left their house the night before, husband 
 
 I 
 
THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY 
 
 95 
 
 
 and wife must have quarrelled, no doubt over the question of 
 the children's schooling : and at some provoking word, as it 
 seemed, Hugo must have snatched up a knife — 'a little 
 ornamental Norwegian dagger,' the report said, ' which hap- 
 pened to lie close by on the cabinet in the drawing-room,' 
 and plunged it into his wife's heart. ' The unhappy lady 
 died instantaneously, by all appearances, and the dastardly 
 crime was not discovered by the servants till eight o'clock 
 this morning. Mr. Le Geyt is missing.' 
 
 I rushed up with the news to Nurse Wade, who was at 
 work in the accident ward. She turned pale, but bent over 
 her patient and said nothing. 
 
 ' It is fearful to think,' I groaned out at last, * for us who 
 know all — that poor Le Geyt will be hanged for it ! Hanged 
 for attempting to protect his children ! ' 
 
 * He will not be hanged,' my witch answered, with the 
 same unquestioning confidence as ever. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 1 asked, astonished once more at this bold 
 prediction. 
 
 She went on bandaging the arm of the patient whom 
 she was attending. ' Because ... he will commit suicide,' 
 she replied, without moving a muscle. 
 
 * How do you know that ? ' 
 
 She stuck a steel safety-pin with deft fingers into the 
 roll of lint. ' When I have finished my day's work,* she 
 answered slowly, still continuing the bandage, ' I may per- 
 haps find time to tell you.' 
 
IV 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT 
 
 SUICIDE 
 
 
 After my poor friend Le Geyt had murdered his wife, in a 
 sudden access of uncontrollable anger, under the deepest 
 provocation, the police naturally began to inquire for him. 
 It is a way they have : the police are no respecters of persons ; 
 neither do they pry into the question of motives. They are 
 but poor casuists. A murder is for them a murder, and a 
 murderer a murderer: it is not their habit to divide and 
 distinguish between case and case with Hilda Wade's 
 analytical accuracy. 
 
 As soon as my duties at St. Nathaniel's permitted me, 
 on the evening of the discovery, I rushed round to Mrs. 
 Mallet's, Le Geyt's sister. I had been detained at the 
 hospital for some hours, however, watching a critical case : 
 and by the time I reached Great Stanhope Street I found 
 Hilda Wade, in her nurse's dress, there before me. Sebas- 
 tian, it seemed, had given her leave out for the evening : she 
 was a supernumerary nurse, attached to his own observation- 
 cots as special attendant for scientific purposes, and she 
 could generally get an hour or so whenever she required it. 
 
 Mrs. Mallet had been in the breakfast-room with Hilda 
 before I arrived : but as I reached the house she rushed up 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 97 
 
 stairs to wash her red eyes and compose herself a little before 
 the strain of meeting me : so I had the opportunity for a few 
 words alone first with my prophetic companion. 
 
 * You said just now at Nathaniel's,' I burst out, ' that 
 Le Geyt would not be hanged : he would commit suicide. 
 What did you mean by that ? What reason had you for 
 thinking so ? ' 
 
 Hilda Wade sank into a chair by the open window, 
 pulled a flower abstractedly from the vase at her side, and 
 began picking it to pieces, floret after floret, with twitching 
 fingers. She was deeply moved. ' Well, consider his family 
 history,' she burst out at last, looking up at me with her 
 large brown eyes as she reached the last petal. ' Heredity 
 counts. . . . And after such a disaster ! ' 
 
 She said ' disaster,' not ' crime ' : I noted mentally the 
 reservation implied in the word. 
 
 * Heredity counts,' I answered. ' Oh yes. It counts 
 much. But what about Le Geyt's family history ? ' I could 
 not recall any instance of suicide among his forebears. 
 
 * Well — his mother's father was General Faskally, you 
 know,' she replied, after a pause, in her strange, oblique 
 manner. * Mr. Le Geyt is General Faskally's eldest grand- 
 son.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' I broke in, with a man's desire for solid fact 
 in place of vague intuition. * But I fail to see quite what 
 that has to do with it.' 
 
 ' The General was killed in India during the Mutiny.' 
 
 * I remember, of course — killed, bravely fighting.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but it was on a forlorn hope, for which he volun- 
 teered, and in the course of which he is said to have walked 
 straight into an almost obvious ambuscade of the enemy's.' 
 
 * Now, my dear Miss Wade ' — I always dropped the title 
 of * Nurse ' by request, when once v/e were well clear of 
 
 H 
 
 "v 
 
98 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Nathaniel's — * I have every confidence, you are aware, in your 
 memory and your insight ; but I do confess I fail to sec 
 
 KILLED, BRAVELY FIGHTING. 
 
 what bearing this incident can have on poor Hugo's chances 
 of being hanged or committing suicide.' 
 
 She picked a second flower, and once more pulled out 
 petal after petal. As she reached the last again, she 
 answered, slowly, ' You must have forgotten the circum- 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 99 
 
 stances. It was no mere accident. General Faskally had 
 made a serious strategical blunder at Jhansi. He had 
 sacrificed the lives of his subordinates needlessly. He could 
 not bear to face the survivors. In the course of the retreat, 
 he volunteered to go on this forlorn hope, which might 
 equally well have been led by an officer of lower rank : and 
 he was permitted to do so by Sir Colin in command, as a 
 means of retrieving his lost military character. He carried 
 his point : but he carrie ■ it recklessly : taking care to be 
 shot through the heart himself in the first onslaught. That 
 was virtual suicide — honourable suicide to avoid disgrace, at 
 a moment of supreme remorse and horror.' 
 
 * You are right,' I admitted, after a minute's consideration. 
 ' I see it now — though I should never have thought of it.' 
 
 * That is the use of being a woman,' she answered. 
 
 I waited a second once more, and mused. ' Still, that is 
 only one doubtful case,* I objected. 
 
 ' There was another, you must remember : his Uncle 
 Alfred.' 
 
 * Alfred Le Geyt ? ' 
 
 * No ; he died in his bed, quietly. Alfred Faskally.' 
 
 ' What a memory you have ! ' I ciied, astonished. * Why, 
 that was before our time — in the days of the Chartist riots ! ' 
 
 She smiled a certain curious sibylline smile of hers. Her 
 earnest face looked prettier than ever. * I told you I could 
 remember many things that happened before I was born,' 
 she answered. * This is one of them.* 
 
 * You remember it directly ? ' 
 
 * How impossible ! Have I not often explained to you 
 that I am no diviner ? I read no book of fate : I call no 
 spirits from the vasty deep. I simply remember with ex- 
 ceptional clearness what I read and hear. And I have many 
 times heard the story about Alfred Faskally.' 
 
loo 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' So have I — but, I forget it.' 
 
 * Unfortunately, I can't forget. That is a sort of disease 
 with nic. . . . He was a special constable in the Chartist 
 riots : and being a very strong and powerful man, like his 
 nephew Hugo, he used his truncheon — his special constable's 
 h^ton or whatever you call it — with excessive force upon a 
 starveling London tailor in' the mob near Charing Cross. 
 The man was hit on the forehead — badly hit, so that he died 
 almost immediately of concussion of the brain. A woman 
 rushed out of the crowd, at once, seized the dying man, laid 
 his head on her lap, and shrieked out in a wildly despairing 
 voice that he was her husband and the father of thirteen 
 children. Alfred Faskally, who never meant to kill the man, 
 or even to hurt him, but who was laying about him roundly 
 without realising the terrific force of his blov/s, was so 
 horrified at what he had done when he heard the woman's 
 cry, that he rushed off straight to Waterloo Bridge in an 
 agony of remorse and — flung himself over. He was drowned 
 instantly.' 
 
 * I recall the story now,' I answered : * but, do you know, 
 as it was toH me, I think they said the mob threw 
 Faskally over in their desire for vengeance.' 
 
 ' That is the official account, as told by the Le Geyts and 
 the Faskallys : they like to have it believed their kinsman 
 was murdered, not that he committed suiciJe. But my 
 grandfather ' — I started : during the twelve months that I 
 had been brought into daily relations with Hilda Wade that 
 was the first time I had heard her mention any member of 
 her own family, except once her mother — * my grandfather, 
 who knew him well, and who was present in the crowd at the 
 time, assured me many times that Alfred Faskally really 
 jumped over of his own accord, not pursued by the mob, and 
 that his last horrified words as he leaped were, "I never meant 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE loi 
 
 However, the family have always 
 
 it ! I never meant it ! " 
 had luck in their 
 suicides. The jury 
 believed the throw- 
 ing-over story, and 
 found a verdict of 
 "wilful murder" 
 against some person 
 or persons un- 
 known.' 
 
 * Luck in their 
 suicides ! What a 
 curious phrase ! 
 And you say, al- 
 zvays. Were there 
 other cases, then ? ' 
 
 ' Constructively, 
 yes : one of the Le 
 Geyts, you must 
 recollect, went down 
 with his ship (just 
 like his uncle, the 
 General, in India) 
 when he might have 
 quitted her : it is 
 believed he had 
 given a mistaken 
 order. You re- 
 member, of course, 
 he was navigating 
 lieutenant. Another, 
 Marcus, was said 
 to have shot himself by accident while cleaning his gun 
 
 FLUNG HIMSELF OVF.R. 
 
103 
 
 HILDA WADK 
 
 — after a quarrel with his wife. But you have heard all 
 about it. " The wrong was on my side," he moaned, you 
 know, when they picked him up, dying, in the gun-room. 
 And one of the Faskaily girls, his cousins, of whom his wife 
 was jealous — that beautiful Linda — became a Catholic and 
 went into a convent at once on Marcus's death : which, after 
 all, in such cases, is merely a religious and moral way of 
 committing suicide — I mean, for a woman who takes the 
 veil just to cut herself off from the world, and who has no 
 vocation, as I hear she had not.' 
 
 She filled me with amazement. ' That ^is true,' I ex- 
 claimed, ' when one comes to think of it. It shows the 
 same temperament in fibre. . . . But, I should never have 
 thought of it.* 
 
 ' No ? Well, I believe it is true for all that. In every 
 case, one sees they choose much the same way of meeting a 
 reverse, a blunder, an unpremeditated crime. The brave 
 way is, to go through with it, and face the music, letting 
 what will come : the cowardly way is, to hide one's head 
 incontinently in a river, a noose, or a convent cell.' 
 
 ' Le Geyt is not a coward,* I interposed, with warmth. 
 
 * No, not a coward — a manly-spirited, great-hearted 
 gentleman — but still, not quite of the bravest type. He 
 lacks one element. The Le Geyts have physical courage — 
 enough and to spare — but their moral courage fails them at a 
 pin« ' . They rush into suicide or its equivalent at critical 
 moiients, out of pure boyish impulsiveness.' 
 
 A few minutes later Mrs. Mallet came in. She was not 
 broken down — on the contrary, she was calm — stoically, 
 tragically, pitiably calm, with that ghastly calmness which is 
 more terrible by far than the most demonstrative grief. 
 Her face, though deadly white, did not move a muscle. 
 Not a tear was in her eyes. Even her bloodless hands 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD SOT COMMIT SUICIDE 103 
 
 hardly twitched at the folds of her hastily-assumctl black 
 gown. She clenched them after a minute, when she had 
 grasped mine silently : I could see that the nails dug deep 
 into the palms in her painful resolve to keep herself from 
 collapsing. 
 
 Hilda Wade, with infinite sisterly tenderness, led her 
 over to a chair by the window in the summer twilight, and 
 took one quivering hand in hers. ' I have been telling Dr. 
 Cumberledge, Lina, about what I most fear for your dear 
 brother, darling : and ... I think ... he agrees with me.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallet turned to me, with hollow eyes, still pre- 
 serving her tragic calm. * I am afraid of it too,' she said, 
 her drawn lips tremulous. ' Dr. Cumberledge, we must get 
 him back ! We must induce him to face it ! ' 
 
 * And yet,' I answered, slowly, turning it over in my own 
 mind, * he has run away at first. Why should he do that if 
 he means — to commit suicide ? ' I hated to utter the words 
 before that broken soul ; but there was no way out of it. 
 
 Hilda interrupted me with a quiet suggestion. ' How 
 do you know he has run away ? * she asked. ' Are you not 
 taking it for granted that, if he meant suicide, he would 
 blow his brains out in his own house? But surely that 
 would not be the Le Geyt way. They are gentle-natured 
 folk : they would never blow their brains out or cut their 
 throats. For all we know, he may have made straight for 
 Waterloo Bridge,' she framed her lips to the unspoken 
 words, unseen by Mrs. Mallet, ' like his uncle Alfred.* 
 
 * That is true,' I answered, lip-reading. * I never thought 
 of that either.' 
 
 * Still, I do not attach importance to this idea,' she went 
 on. * I have some reason for thinking he has run away . . . 
 elsewhere ; and if so, our first task must be to entice him 
 back again.' 
 
t 
 
 104 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * What are your reasons ? ' I asked, humbly. Whatever 
 they might be, I knew enough of Hilda Wade by this time 
 to know that she had probably good grounds for accepting 
 them. 
 
 ' Oh, they may wait for the present,' she answered. 
 * Other things are more pressing. First, let Lina tell you 
 what she thinks of most moment.* 
 
 Mrs. Mallet braced herself up visibly to a distressing 
 effort. * You have seen the body, Dr. Cumberledge ? ' she 
 faltered. 
 
 * No, dear Mrs. Mallet, I have not. I came straight 
 from Nathaniel's. I have had no time to see it' 
 
 ' Dr. Sebastian has viewed it by my wish — he has been 
 so kind — and he will be present as representing the family 
 at the post-mortem. He notes that the wound was inflicted 
 with a dagger — a small ornamental Norwegian dagger, 
 which always lay, as I know, on the little what-not by the 
 blue sofa.' 
 
 I nodded assent. ' Exactly, I have seen it there.' 
 
 ' It was blunt and rusty — a mere toy knife — not at all 
 the sort of weapon a man would make use of who designed 
 to commit a deliberate murder. The crime, if there was a 
 crime (which we do not admit), must therefore have been 
 wholly unpremeditated.' 
 
 I bowed my head. ' For us who knew Hugo, that goes 
 without saying.' 
 
 She leant forward eagerly. ' Dr. Sebastian has pointed 
 out to me a line of defence which would probably succeed — 
 if we could only induce poor Hugo to adopt it. He has 
 examined the blade and scabbard, and finds that the dagger 
 fits its sheath very tight, so that it can only be withdrawn 
 with considerable violence. The blade sticks.' (I nodded 
 again.) * It needs a hard pull to wrench it out. . . . He 
 
 i 
 
 M 
 
 fU 
 
 ^* 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
 A 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 105 
 
 has also inspected the wound, and assures me its character 
 is such that it might have been self-inflicted.' She paused 
 now and again, and brought out her words with difficulty. 
 
 * Self-inflicted, he suggests : therefore, that this may have 
 happened. It is admitted — will be admitted — the servants 
 overheard it — we can make no reservation there — a diflerence 
 of opinion, an altercation even, took place between Hugo 
 and Clara that evening ' — she started suddenly — * why, it 
 was only last night — it seems like ages — an altercation 
 about the children's schooling. Clara held strong views on 
 the subject of the children ' — her eyes blinked hard — ' which 
 Hugo did not share. We throw out the hint, then, that 
 Clara, during the course of the dispute — we must call it a 
 dispute — accidentally took up this dagger and toyed with it. 
 You know her habit of toying, when she had no knitting or 
 needlework. In the course of playing with it (we suggest) 
 she tried to pull the knife out of its sheath : failed : held it 
 up, so, point upward : pulled again : pulled harder — with a 
 jerk, at last, the sheath came off : the dagger sprang up : 
 it, wounded Clara fatally. Hugo, knowing that they had 
 disagreed, knowing that the servants had heard, and seeing 
 her fall suddenly dead before him, was seized with horror — 
 the Le Geyt impulsiveness ! — lost his head : rushed out : 
 fancied the accident would be mistaken for murder. But 
 why ? A Q.C., don't you know ! Recently married ! Most 
 attached to his wife. It is plausible, isn't it ? ' 
 
 * So plausible,' I answered, looking it straight in the face, 
 
 * that ... it has but one weak point. We might make a 
 coroner's jury or even a common jury accept it, on Sebastian's 
 expert evidence : Sebastian can work wonders ; but we could 
 never make ■' 
 
 Hilda Wade finished the sentence for me as I paused : 
 ' Hugo Le Geyt consent to advance it.' 
 
 H 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
 io6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I lowered my head. * You have said it/ I answered. 
 
 * Not for the children's sake ? ' Mrs. Mallet cried, with 
 clasped hands. 
 
 * Not for the children's sake even,' I answered. * Con- 
 sider for a moment, Mrs. Mallet : is it true ? Do you 
 yourself believe it ? * 
 
 She threw herself back in her chair with a dejected face. 
 ' Oh, as for that,' she cried, wearily, crossing her hands, 
 ' before you and Hilda, who know all, what need to prevari- 
 cate ? How can I believe it ? We understand how it came 
 about. That woman ! That woman ! ' 
 
 ' The real wonder is,' Hilda murmured, soothing her 
 white hand, * that he contained himself so long ! ' 
 
 * Well, we all know Hugo,' I went on, as quietly as I 
 was able ; * and, knowing Hugo, we know that he might be 
 urged to commit this wild act in a fierce moment of indigna- 
 tion — righteous indignation on behalf of his motherless girls, 
 under tremendous provocation. But we also know that, 
 having once committed it, he would never stoop to disown it 
 by a subterfuge.' 
 
 The heart-broken sister let her head drop faintly. ' So 
 Hilda told me,' she murmured, 'and what Hilda says in 
 these matters is almost always final.' 
 
 We debated the question for some minutes more : then 
 Mrs. Mallet cried at last, ' At any rate, he has fled for the 
 moment, and his flight alone brings the worst suspicion upon 
 him. That is our chief point. We must find out where he 
 is, and if he has gone right away, we must bring him back 
 to London.' 
 
 * Where do you think he has taken refuge ? ' 
 
 * The police. Dr. Sebastian has ascertained, are watching 
 the railway stations, and the ports for the Continent.' 
 
 * Very like the police ! ' Hilda exclaimed, with more than 
 
 \\ 
 

 THE MAN WHO V/OULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 107 
 
 a touch of contempt in her voice. * As if a clever man-of- 
 the-world like Hugo Le Geyt would run away by rail, or 
 start off to the Continent ! Every Englishman is noticeable 
 on the Continent. It would be sheer madness.' 
 
 * You think he has not gone there, then ? ' I cried, deeply 
 interested. 
 
 ' Of course not. That is the point 1 hinted at just now. 
 He has defended many persons accused of murder, and he 
 often spoke to me of their incredible folly, when trying to 
 escape, in going by rail, or in setting out from England for 
 Paris. An Englishman, he used to say, is least observed in 
 his own country. In this case, I think I know where he has 
 gone, and how he went there.' 
 
 * Where, then ? ' 
 
 * Where comes last : how first. It is a question of infer- 
 ence.' 
 
 * Explain. We know your powers.' 
 
 * Well, I take it for granted that he killed her — we must 
 not mince matters — about twelve o'clock : for after that hour, 
 the servants told Lina, there was quiet in the drawing-room. 
 Next, I conjecture, he went upstairs to change his clothes ; 
 he could not go forth on the world in an evening suit : and 
 the housemaid says his black coat and trousers were lying 
 as usual on a chair in his dressing-room : which shows at 
 least that he was not unduly flurried. After that, he put 
 on another suit, no doubt — what suit I hope the police will 
 not discover too soon : for I suppose you must just accept 
 the situation that we are conspiring to defeat the ends of 
 justice.' 
 
 * No, no,' Mrs. Mallet cried. * To bring him back volun- 
 tarily, that he may face his trial like a man ! ' 
 
 * Yes, dear. That is quite right. However, the next 
 thing, of course, would be that he would shave in wiiole or 
 
io8 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 in part. His big black beard was so very conspicuous : he 
 
 would certainly get rid of that before attempting to escape. 
 
 The servants being in bed, he was not pressed for time : he 
 
 had the whole night 
 before him. So, of 
 course, he shaved. On 
 the other hand, the 
 police, you may be 
 sure, will circulate his 
 photograph — we must 
 not shirk these points * 
 — for Mrs. Mallet 
 winced again — 'will 
 circulate his photo- 
 graph, beard and all ; 
 and that will really 
 be one of our great 
 safeguards : for the 
 bushy beard so masks 
 the face that, without 
 it, Hugo would be 
 scarcely recognisable. 
 I conclude, therefore, 
 that he must have 
 shorn himself before 
 leaving home, though 
 naturally I did not 
 make the police a 
 present of the hint by 
 
 getting Lina to ask any questions in that direction of the 
 
 housemaid.* 
 
 ' You are probably right/ I answered. ' But, would he 
 
 have a razor ? ' 
 
 1/^ 
 
 HE WOULD CERTAINLY GET RID OF THAT. 
 
 /i! 
 
I 
 
 % 
 
 $ 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE loy 
 
 ' I was coming to that : no : certainly he would not. 
 He had not shaved for years. And they kept no men- 
 servants : which makes it difficult for him to borrow one 
 from a sleeping man. ' So what he would do would doubtless 
 be to cut off his beard, or part of it, quite close, with a pair 
 of scissors, and then get himself properly shaved next morning 
 in the first country town he came to.' 
 
 ' The first country town ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. That leads up to the next point. We 
 must try to be cool and collected.' She was quivering with 
 suppressed emotion herself as she said it, but her soothing 
 hand still lay on Mrs. Mallet's. * The next thing is — he 
 would leave London.' 
 
 * But not by rail, you say ? ' 
 
 * He is an intelligent man, and in the course of defending 
 others has thought about this matter. Why expose himself 
 to the needless risk and observation of a railway station ? 
 No : I saw at once what he would do : beyond doubt, he 
 would cycle. He always wondered it was not done oftener 
 under similar circumstances.' 
 
 * But has his bicycle gone ? ' 
 
 ' Lina looked. It has not. I should have expected as 
 much. I told her to note that point very unobtrusively, so 
 as to avoid giving the police the clue. She saw the machine 
 in the outer hall as usual.' 
 
 * He is too good a criminal lawyer to have dreamt of 
 taking his own,' Mrs. Mallet interposed, with another effort. 
 
 * But where could he have hired or bought one at that 
 time of night ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 * Nowhere — without exciting the gravest suspicion. 
 Therefore, I conclude, he stopped in London for the night, 
 sleeping at an hotel, without luggage, and paying for his 
 room in advance : it is frequently done, and if he arrived late, 
 
mmmm 
 
 no 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 very little notice would he taken of him. Big hotels about 
 the Strand, I am told, have always a dozen such casual 
 bachelor guests every evening.* 
 
 HE COULD ClIAKCJli IN SOMK COl'SR. 
 
 ' And then ? ' 
 
 * And then, this morning, he would buy a new bicycle — 
 a different make from his own, at the nearest shop ; would 
 rig himself out, at some ready-made tailor's, with a fresh 
 
 
 \i 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE iii 
 
 tourist suit — probably an ostentatiously tweedy bicycling 
 suit ; and with that in his luggage carrier, would make 
 straight on his machine for the country. He could change 
 in some copse, and bury his own clothes, avoiding the 
 blunders he has seen in others. Perhaps he might ride for the 
 first twenty or thirty miles out of London to some minor side- 
 station, and then go on by train towards his destination, quitting 
 the rail again at some unimportant point where the main west 
 road crosses the Great Western or the South- Western line.' 
 
 * Great Western or South Western ? Why those two in 
 particular ? Then you have settled in your own mind which 
 direction he has taken ? ' 
 
 ' Pretty well. I judge by analogy. Lina, your brother 
 was brought up in the West Country, was he not ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Mallet gave a weary nod. * In North Devon,' she 
 answered : 'on the wild stretch of moor about Hartland and 
 Clovelly.' 
 
 Hilda Wade seemed to collect herself. * Now, Mr. Le 
 Geyt is essentially a Celt — a Celt in temperament,' she 
 went on : * he comes by origin and ancestry from a rough, 
 heather-clad country: he belongs to the moorland. In 
 other words, his type is the mountaineer's. But a moun- 
 taineer's instinct in similar circumstances is — what? Why, 
 to fly straight to his native mountains. In an agony of terror, 
 in an access of despair, when all else fails, he strikes a bee- 
 line for the hills he loves: rationally or irrationally, he 
 seems to think he can hide there. Hugo Le Geyt, with his 
 frank boyish nature, his great Devonian frame, is sure to 
 have done so. I know his mood. He has made for the 
 West Country ! ' 
 
 * You are right, Hilda,' Mrs. Mallet exclaimed, with con- 
 viction. ' I'm quite sure from what I know of Hugo that to 
 go to the west would be his first impulse.' 
 
112 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' And the Le Geyts are always governed by first im- 
 pulses,' my character-reader added. 
 
 She was quite correct. From the time wc two were at 
 Oxford together — I ns an undergraduate, he as a don — I 
 had ahvays noticed that marked trait in my dear old friend's 
 temperament. 
 
 After a short pause, Hilda broke the silence again. 
 ' The sea, again ; the sea ! The Le Geyts love the water. 
 Was there any place on the sea where he went much as a 
 boy — any lonely place, I mean, in that North Devon district?' 
 
 Mrs. Mallet reflected a moment. * Yes, there was a little 
 bay — a mere gap in high cliffs, with some fishermen's huts 
 and a few yards of beach — where he used to spend much of 
 his holidays. It was a weird-looking break in a grim sea- 
 wall of dark-red rocks, where the tide rose high, rolling in 
 from the Atlantic' 
 
 ' The very thing ! Has he visited it since he grew up ? ' 
 
 * To my knowledge, never.' 
 
 Hilda's voice had a ring of certainty. ' Then t/tdi is 
 where we shall find him, dear ! We must look there first. 
 He is sure to revisit just such a solitary spot by the sea 
 when trouble overtakes him.' 
 
 Later in the evening, as we were walking home towards 
 Nathaniel's together, I asked Hilda why she had spoken 
 throughout with such unwavering confidence. * Oh, it was 
 simple enough,' she answered. ' There were two things that 
 helped me through, which I didn't like to mention in detail 
 before Lina. One was this : the Le Geyts have all of them 
 an instinctive horror of the sight of blood : therefore, they 
 almost never commit suicide by shooting themselves or 
 cutting their throats. Marcus, who shot himself in the 
 gun-room, was an exception to both rules : he never minded 
 blood : he could cut up a deer. But Hugo refused to be a 
 
 » 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 113 
 
 # 
 
 doctor, because he could not stand the sight of an operation : 
 and even, as a sportsman, he never Hkcd to pick up or 
 handle the game he had shot himself: he said it sickened 
 him. He rushed from that room last night, I feel sure, in a 
 physical horror at the deed he had done : and by now he is 
 as far as he can get from London. The sight of his act 
 drove him away, not craven fear of an arrest. If the Le 
 Geyts kill themselves — a seafaring race on the whole — their 
 impulse is — to trust to water.' 
 
 * And the other thing ? ' 
 
 * Well, that was about the mountaineer's homing instinct. 
 I have often noticed it. I could give you fifty instances, 
 only I didn't like to speak of them before Lina. There was 
 Williams, for example, the Dolgelly man who killed a game- 
 keeper at Petworth in a poaching affray: he was taken on Cader 
 Idris, skulking among rocks, a week later. Then there was 
 that unhappy young fellow Mackinnon, who shot his sweetheart 
 at Leicester : he made, straight as the crow flies, for his home 
 in the Lsle of Skye, and there drowned himself in familiar 
 waters. Lindner, the Tyrolese, again, who stabbed the 
 American swindler at Monte Carlo, was tracked after a few 
 days to his native place, St. Valentin in the Zillerthal. It 
 is always so. Mountaineers in distress fly to their moun- 
 tains. It is a part of their nostalgia. I know it from 
 within, too : if / were in poor Hugo Le Geyt"s place, what 
 do you think I would do? — why, hide myself at once in the 
 greenest recesses of our Carnarvonshire mountains.' 
 
 * What an extraordinary insight into character you have!' 
 I cried. 'You seem to divine whnt everybody's action will 
 be under given circumstances.' 
 
 She paused and held her parasol half poised in her hand. 
 ' Character determines action,' she said, slowly at last. * That 
 is the secret of the great novelists. They put themselves 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I 
 
 behind and within their characters, and so make us feel that 
 every act of their personages is not only natural but even, 
 given the conditions,- inevitable. We recognise that their 
 story is the sole logical outcome of the interaction of their 
 dramatis personcs. Now, / am not a great novelist : I can- 
 
 THE DOI-GELLY MAN. 
 
 not create and imagine characters and situations. But I 
 have something of the novelist's gift : I apply the same 
 method to the real life of the people around me. I try to 
 throw myself into the person of others, and to feel how 
 their character will compel them to act in each set of 
 circumstances to which they may expose themselves.' 
 • In one word,' I said, 'you are a psychologist.* 
 
 
I 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 15 
 
 'A psychologist,' she assented: 'I suppose so: and the 
 police — well, the police arc not : they are at best but buii;^- 
 ling materialists. They require a clue. What need of a clue 
 if you can interpret character? ' 
 
 So certain was Hilda Wade of her conclusions, indeed, 
 that Mrs. MalK-^t begged me next day to take my holiday at 
 once — which I could easily do — and go down to the little 
 bay in the Hartland district of which she had spoken, in 
 search of Hugo. I consented. She herself proposed to set 
 out quietly for Bideford, where she would be within easy 
 reach of me, in order to hear of my success or failure ; while 
 Hilda Wade, whose summer vacation was to have begun in 
 two days' time, offered to ask for an extra day's leave so as 
 to accompany her. The broken-hearted sister accepted the 
 offer : and, secrecy being above all things necessary, we set 
 off by different routes : the two women by Waterloo, myself 
 by Paddington. 
 
 We stopped that night at different hotels in Bideford ; 
 but next morning, Hilda rode out on her bicycle, and accom- 
 panied me on mine for a mile or two along the tortuous way 
 towards Hartland. * Take nothing for granted,' she said, as 
 we parted ; * and be prepared to find poor Hugo Le Geyt's 
 appearance greatly changed. He has eluded the police and 
 their " clues " so far ; therefore, I imagine he must have 
 largely altered his dress and exterior.' 
 
 * I will find him,' I answered, * if he is anywhere within 
 twenty miles of Hartland.' 
 
 She waved her hand to me in farewell. I rode on after 
 she left me towards the high promontory in front, the wildest 
 and lecist-visited part of North Devon. Torrents of rain had 
 fallen during the night : the slimy cart-ruts and cattle-tracks 
 on the moor were brimming with water. It was a lowering 
 day. The clouds drifted low. Black peat-bogs filled the 
 
 %, 
 .# 
 
n6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 hollows : ^rcy stone homesteads, lonely and forbidding, stood 
 out here and there against the curved sky line. Even the 
 
 
 I CONSULTED MY ORDNANCE MAP. 
 
 high-road was uneven, and in places flooded. For an hour 
 I passed har lly a soul : at last, near a cross-road, with a 
 defaced finger-post, I descended from my machine and con- 
 sulted my ordnance map, on which Mrs. Mallet had marked 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMTT SUICIDE 117 
 
 ominously, with a cross of red ink, the exact position of the 
 ,ttle fishing hamlet where Hugo used to spend his holidays. 
 I took the turning, which seemed to me most likely to lead 
 to it : but the tracks were so confused and the run of the 
 lanes so uncertain — let alone the map being some years out 
 of date — that I soon felt I had lost my bearings. By a 
 little wayside inn, half hidden in a deep combe, with bog on 
 every side, I descended and asked for a bottle of ginger- 
 beer ; for the day was hot and close, in spite of the packed 
 clouds. As they were opening the bottle, I inquired casually 
 the way to the Red Gap bathing-place. 
 
 The landlord gave me directions which confused me 
 worse than ever, ending at last with the concise remark, * An* 
 then, zur, two or dree more turns to the right an' to the left 
 'ull bring 'ee right up alongzide o' ut.* 
 
 I despaired of finding the way by these unintelligible 
 sailing-orders : but just at that moment, as luck would have 
 it, another cyclist flew past — the first soul I had seen on the 
 road that morning. He was a man with the loose-knit air 
 of a shop-assistant, badly got up in a rather loud and 
 obtrusive tourist suit of brown homespun, with baggy knicker- 
 bockers and thin thread stockings. I judged him a gentle- 
 man on the cheap at sight : * Very Stylish ; this Suit Com- 
 plete, only thirty - seven and sixpence 1 * The landlady 
 glanced out at him with a friendly nod. He turned and 
 smiled at her, but did not see me : for I stood in the shade 
 behind the half-open door. He had a short, black moustache, 
 and a not unpleasing, careless face. His features, I thought, 
 were better than his garments. 
 
 However, the stranger did not interest me just then : I 
 was far too full of more important matters. * Why don't 'ec 
 taake an' vollow thik ther gen'leman, zur ? ' the landlady 
 said, pointing one large red hand after him. ' Ur do go 
 
ii8 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 a 
 
 \\ 
 
 down to Urd Gap to zwim every marnin'. Mr. Jan Smith, 
 o' Oxford, they do call un. 'Ee can't go wrong if 'ee do 
 vollow un to the Gap. Ur's lodgin' up to wold Varmer 
 Moore's, an' ur's that vond o' the zay, the vishermen do tell 
 me, as wasn't never any gen'leman like un.' 
 
 I tossed off my ginger-beer, jumped on to my machine, 
 and followed the retreating brown back of Mr. John Smith, 
 of Oxford — surely a most non - committing name — round 
 sharp Corners and over rutty lanes, tyre-deep in mud, across 
 the rusty-red moor, till, all at once at a turn, a gap of stormy 
 sea appeared wedge-shape between two shelving rock-walls. 
 
 It was a lonely spot. Rocks hemmed it in : big 
 breakers walled it. The sou'-wester roared through the gap. 
 I rode down among loose stones and water-worn channels in 
 the solid grit very carefully. But the man in brown had 
 torn over the wild path with reckless haste, zigzagging 
 madly, and wn.s now on the little three-cornered patch of 
 beach, undressing himself with a sort of careless glee, and 
 flinging his clothes down anyhow on the shingle beside him. 
 Something about the action caught my eye. That move- 
 ment of the arm ! It was not — it could not be — no, no, not 
 Hugo ! 
 
 A very ordinary person : and Le Geyt bore the stamp 
 of a born gentleman. 
 
 He stood up bare at last. He flung out his arms as if 
 to welcome the boisterous wind to his naked bosom. Then, 
 with a sudde.i burst of recognition, the man stood revealed. 
 We hr/i bathed togethei a hundred times in London and 
 elsewhere. The face, the clad figure, the dress, all v/ere 
 different. But the body — the actual frame and make of the 
 man — the well-knit limbs, the splendid trunk — no disguise 
 could alter. It was Le Geyt himself — big, powerful, vigor- 
 ous. 
 
 '»5 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 119 
 
 
 That ill-made suit, those baggy knicker-bockers, the 
 slouched cap, the thin thread stockings, had only distorted 
 and hidden his figure : now that I saw him as he was, he 
 came out the same bold and manly form as ever. 
 
 ^^-' ^ 
 
 HE FLUNG OUT HIS ARMS. 
 
 He did not notice me. He rushed down with a certain 
 wild joy into the turbulent water, and plunging in with 
 a loud cry, buffeted the huge waves with those strong curv- 
 ing arms of his. The sou'-wester was rising. Each breaker 
 as it reared caught him on its crest and tumbled him over 
 
\ff^ 
 
 1 20 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 like a cork : but like a cork he rose again. He was swim- 
 ming now, arm over arm, straight out seaward. I saw the 
 lifted hands between the crest and the trough. For a 
 moment I hesitated whether I ought to strip and follow 
 him. Was he doing as so many other of his house had 
 done — courting death from the water ? 
 
 But some strange hand restrained me. Who was I that 
 I should stand between Hugo Le Geyt and the ways of Pro- 
 vidence ? 
 
 The Le Geyts loved ever the ordeal by water. 
 
 Presently, he turned again. Before he turned, I had 
 taken the opportunity to look hastily at his clothes. Hilda 
 Wade had surmised aright once more. The outer suit was 
 a cheap affair from a big ready-made tailor's in St. Martin's 
 Lane — turned out by the thousand : the underclothing, on 
 the other hand, was new and unmarked, but fine in quality 
 — bought, no doubt, at Bideford. An eerie sense of doom 
 stole over me. I felt the end was near. I withdrew behind 
 a big rock, and waited there unseen till Hugo had landed. 
 He began to dress again, without troubling to dry himself. 
 I drew a deep breath of relief. Then this was not suicide ! 
 
 By the time he had pulled on his vest and drawers, I 
 came out suddenly from my ambush and faced him. A 
 fresh shock awaited me. I could hardly believe my eyes. 
 It was not Le Geyt — no, nor anything like him ! 
 
 Nevertheless, the man rose with a little cry and advanced, 
 half crouching, towards me. * You are not hunting me 
 down — with the police ? ' he exclaimed, his neck held low 
 and his forehead wrinkling. 
 
 The voice — the voice was Le Gcyt's. It was an un- 
 speakable mystery. * Hugo,' I cried, * dear Hugo — hunting 
 you down ? — could you imagine it ? ' 
 
 He raised his head, strode forward, and grasped my 
 
 ^ 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 121 
 
 hand. * Forgive me, Cumberledge,' he cried. * But a pro- 
 scribed and hounded man ! If you knew what a relief it is 
 to me to get out on the water I ' 
 ' You forget all' there ? ' 
 
 i 
 
 THE MAN ROSE WITH A LITTLE CRY AND ADVANCED, 
 
 ' I forget IT — the red horror ! ' 
 'You meant just now to drown yourself?' 
 ' No ! If I had meant it I would have done it. . . . 
 Hubert, for my children's sake, I will not commit suicide 1 ' 
 * Then listen ! ' I cried. I told him in a few words his 
 
122 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 sister's scheme — Sebastian's defence — the plausibiHty of the 
 explanation — the whole long story. He gazed at me 
 moodily. Yet it was not Hugo ! 
 
 ' No, no,' he said, shortly ; and as he spoke it was he. 
 ' I have done it ; I have killed her ; I will not owe my life 
 to a falsehood.' 
 
 * Not for the children's sake ? ' 
 
 He dashed his hand down impatiently. ' I have a better 
 way for the children. I will save them still. . . . Hubert, 
 you are not afraid to speak to a murderer ? * 
 
 * Dear Hugo — I know all : and to know all is to for- 
 give all.' 
 
 He grasped my hand once more. ' Know all ! ' he 
 cried, with a despairing gesture. * Oh no : no one knows 
 all but myself: not even the children. But the children 
 know much : l/iey will forgive me. Lina knows something : 
 s/ie will forgive me. You know a little : you forgive me. 
 The world can never know. It will brand my darlings as 
 a murderer's children.* 
 
 ' It was the act of a minute,' I interposed. * And — 
 thoiigh she is dead, poor lady, and one must speak no ill of 
 her — we can at least gather dimly, for your children's sake, 
 how deep was the provocation.' 
 
 He gazed at me fixedly. His voice was like lead. 
 
 * For the children's sake — yes,' he answered, as in a dream. 
 
 * It was all for the children ! I have killed her — murdered 
 her — she has paid her penalty ; and, poor dead soul, I will 
 utter no word against her — the womai. I have murdered ! 
 But one thing I will say : If omniscient justice sends me 
 for this to eternal punishment, I can endure it gladly, like a 
 man, knowing that so I have redeemed my Marian's mother- 
 less girls from a deadly tyranny.' 
 
 It was the only sentence in which he ever alluded to her. 
 

 THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMTT SUICIDE 123 
 
 I sat down by his side and watched him close. Mechan- 
 ically, methodically, he went on with his dressing. The 
 more he dressed, the less could I believe it was Hugo. I 
 had expected to find him close-shaven : so did the police, 
 by their printed notices. Instead of that, he had shaved his 
 beard and whiskers, but only trimmed his moustache, trimmed 
 it quite short, so as to reveal the boyish corners of the 
 mouth — a trick which entirely altered his rugged expression. 
 But that was not all : what puzzled me most was the eyes 
 — they were not Hugo's. At first I could not imagine 
 why : by degrees, the truth dawned upon me. His eye- 
 brows were naturally thick and shaggy — great overhanging 
 growth, interspersed with many of those stiff long hairs to 
 which Darwin called attention in certain men as surviving 
 traits from a monkey-like ancestor. In order to disguise 
 himself, Hugo had pulled out all these coarser hairs, leaving 
 nothing on his brows but the soft and closely-presF ::d coat 
 of down which underlies the longer bristles in all such cases. 
 This had wholly altered the expression of the eyes, which no 
 longer looked out keenly from their cavernous penthouse, 
 but being deprived of their relief, had acquired a much more 
 ordinary and less individual aspect. From a good-natured 
 but shaggy giant my old friend was transformed by his 
 shaving and his costume into a well-fed and well-grown, but 
 not very colossal, commercial gentleman. Hugo was scarcely 
 six feet high, indeed, though by his broad shoulders and 
 bushy beard he had always impressed one with such a sense 
 of size : and now that the hirsuteness had been got rid of, 
 and the dress altered, he hardly struck one as taller or bigger 
 than the average of his fellows. 
 
 We sat for some minutes and talked. Le Geyt would nol 
 speak of Clara : and when I asked him his intentions, he 
 shook his head moodily. * I shall act for the best,' he said 
 
I 
 
 124 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 — 'what of best Js left — to guard the dear children. It was 
 a terrible price to pay for their redemption ; but it was the 
 only one possible : and, in a moment of wrath, I paid it. 
 Now, I have to pay, in turn, myself. I do not shirk it.' 
 
 * You will come back to London, then, and stand your 
 trial ?' I asked, eagerly. 
 
 * Come back to London ? ' he cried, with a face of white 
 panic. Hitherto he had seemed to me rather relieved in 
 expression than otherwise : his countenance had lost its 
 worn and anxious look : he was no longer watching each 
 moment over his children's safety. ' Come back . . . to 
 London . . . and face my trial ! Why, did you think, 
 Hubert, 'twas the court or the hanging I was shirking ? No, 
 no, not that ; but IT — the red horror ! I must get away 
 from it to the sea — to the water — to wash away the stain — 
 as far from it — that red pool — as possible ! ' 
 
 I answered nothing. I left him to face his own remorse 
 in silence. 
 
 At last he rose to go, and held one foot undecided on 
 his bicycle. 
 
 * I leave myself in Heaven's hands,' he said, as he 
 lingered. ' // will requite. . . . The ordeal is by water.' 
 
 * So I judged,' I answered. 
 
 ' Tell Lina this from me,' he went on, still loitering : 
 * that if she will trust me, I will strive to do the best that 
 remains for my darlings. I will do it. Heaven helping. She 
 will know whaiy to-morrow.' 
 
 He mounted his machine and sailed off. My eyes 
 followed him up the path with sad forebodings. 
 
 All day long I loitered about the Gap. It consisted of 
 two bays — the one I had already seen, and another, divided 
 from it by a saw-edge of rock. In the further cove crouched 
 a few low, ^tone cottages, A broad-bottomed sailing-boat 
 
4 " 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 125 
 
 lay there, pulled up high on the beach. About three o'clock, 
 as I sat and watched, two men began to launch it. The sea 
 ran high : tide coming in : the sou'-wester still increasing in 
 force to a gale : at the signal-staff on the cliff, the danger- 
 cone hoisted. White spray danced in air. Big black 
 clouds rolled up seething from windward : low thunder 
 rumbling : a storm threatened. 
 
 One of the men was Le Geyt : the other, a fisherman. 
 
 He jumped in and put off through the surf with an air 
 of triumph. He was a splendid sailor. His boat leapt 
 through the breakers and flew before the wind with a mere 
 rag of canvas. * Dangerous weather to be out ! ' I exclaimed 
 to the fisherman, who stood with hands buried in his pockets, 
 watching him. 
 
 * Ay, that ur be, zur ! ' the man answered. * Doan't like 
 the look o' ut But thik there gen'leman, 'e's one o' Oxford, 
 'e do tell me : and they 'm a main venturesome lot, they 
 college volk. *E's off by 'isself droo the starm, all so var as 
 Lundy ! ' 
 
 * Will he reach it ? ' I asked, anxiously, having my own 
 idea on the subject. 
 
 ' Doan't seem like ut, zur, do ut ? Ur murt, an' ur 
 murtn't, an' yit again ur murt. Powerful 'ard place ur be to 
 maake in a starm, to be zure, Lundy. Zaid the Lord 'ould 
 dezide. But ur 'ouldn't be warned, ur 'ouldn't ; an' vool- 
 hardy volk, as the zayin' is, must go their own voolhardy 
 waay to perdition 1 ' 
 
 It was the last I saw of Le Geyt alive. Next morning 
 the lifeless body of * the man who was wanted for the Camp- 
 den Hill mystery ' was cast up by the waves on the shore of 
 Lundy. The Lord had decided. 
 
 Hugo had not miscalculated. * Luck in their suicides,' 
 Hilda Wade said : and, strange to say, the luck of the Le 
 
 
 
 1!! 
 
 'ill 
 
 
• 
 
 'I 
 
 126 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Geyts stood him in good stead still. By a miracle of fate, 
 
 his children were not branded as a murderer's daughters. 
 Sebastian gave evidence at the inquest on the wife's body : 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT COMMIT SUICIDE 127 
 
 * self-inflicted — a recoil — accidental — I am sure of it.* His 
 specialist knowledge — his assertive certainty, combined with 
 that arrogant, masterful manner of his, and his keen, eagle 
 eye, overbore the jury. Awed by the great man's look, thc>' 
 brought in a submissive verdict of * Death by misadventure.' 
 The coroner thought it a most proper finding. Mrs. Mallet 
 had made the most of the innate Le Geyt horror of blood : 
 the newspapers charitably surmised that the unhappy hus- 
 band, crazed by the instantaneous unexpectedness of his loss, 
 had wandered away like a madman to the scenes of his 
 childhood, and had there been drowned by accident while 
 trying to cross a stormy sea to Lundy, under some wild 
 impression that he would find his dead wife i.live on the 
 island. Nobody whispered murder. Everybody dwelt on 
 the utter absence of motive — a model husband ! — such a 
 charming young wife and such a devoted step-mother. We 
 three alone knew — we three, and the children. 
 
 On the day when the jury brought in their verdict at 
 the adjourned inquest on Mrs. Le Geyt, Hilda Wade stood 
 in the room trembling and white-faced, awaiting their decision. 
 When the foreman uttered the words, ' Death by misadven- 
 ture,' she burst into tears of relief. * He did well ! ' she cried 
 to me, passionately. * He did well, that poor father ! He 
 placed his life in the hands of his Maker, asking only for 
 mercy to his innocent children. And mercy has been shown 
 to him, and to them. He was taken gently in the way he 
 wished. It would have broken my heart for those two poor 
 girls if the verdict had gone otherwise. He knew how 
 terrible a lot it is to be called a murderer's daughter.' 
 
 I did not realise at the time with what profound depth 
 of personal feeling she said it. 
 
I 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 * Sebastian is a great man,' I said to Hilda Wade, as I sat 
 one afternoon over a cup of tea she had brewed for me in 
 her own Httle sitting-room : it is one of the alleviations of 
 an hospital doctor's lot that he may drink tea now and again 
 with the Sister of his ward. * Whatever else you choose to 
 think of him, you must at least admit he is a very great man.' 
 
 I admired our famous Professor, and I admired Hilda 
 Wade : 'twas a matter of regret to me that my two admira- 
 tions did not seem in return sufficiently to admire one 
 another. 
 
 * Oh yes,' Hilda answered, pouring out my second cup. 
 
 • He is a very great man. I never denied that. The 
 greatest man, on the whole, I think, that I have ever come 
 across.' 
 
 * And he has done splendid work for humanity,' I went 
 on, growing enthusiastic. 
 
 * Splendid work ! Yes. Splendid ! (Two lumps, I 
 believe?) He has done more, I admit, for medical science 
 than any other man I ever met.' 
 
 I gazed at her with a curious glance. ' Then why, dear 
 lady, do you keep telling me he is cruel ? ' I inquired, toast- 
 ing my feet on the fender. * It seems contradictory,' 
 
THE NEEDLE THA T DID NO T MA TCI I 
 
 129 
 
 She passed me the muffins, and smiled her restrained 
 smile. 
 
 ' Does the desire to do good to humanity in itself imply 
 a benevolent disposition ? ' she answered, obliquely. 
 
 ' Now you are talking paradox. Surely if a man works 
 all his life long for the good of mankind, that shows he is 
 devoured by sympathy for his species.' 
 
 * And when your friend Mr. Bates works all his life long 
 at observing and classifying lady-birds, I suppose that shows 
 he is devoured by sympathy for the race of beetles ! * 
 
 I laughed at her comical face, she looked at me so 
 quizzically. * But then,' I objected, * the cases are not 
 parallel. Bates kills and collects his lady-birds : Sebastian 
 cures and benefits humanity.' 
 
 Hilda smiled her wise smile once more and fingered her 
 apron. ' Are the cases so different as you suppose ? ' she 
 went on, with her quick glance. ' Is it not partly accident ? 
 A man of science, you see, early in life takes up, half by 
 chance, this, that, or the other particular form of study. 
 But what the study is in itself, I fancy, does not greatly 
 matter : do not mere circumstances as often as not determine 
 it ? Surely it is the temperament, on the whole, that tells : 
 the temperament that is or is not scientific* 
 
 ' How do you mean ? You are so enigmatic 1 * 
 
 ' Well, in a family of the scientific temperament, it seems 
 to me, one brother may happen to go in for butterflies — may 
 he not? — and another for geology or for submarine tele- 
 graphs. Now, the man who happens to take up butterflies 
 does not make a fortune out of his hobby — there is no 
 money in butterflies : so we say, accordingly, he is an un- 
 practical person, who cares nothing for business, and who is 
 only happy when he is out in the fields with a net, chasing 
 emperors and tortoiseshells. But the man who happens to 
 
 K 
 
I30 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I \ 
 
 fancy submarine telegraphy most likely invents a lot of new 
 improvements, takes out dozens of patents, finds money flow 
 in upon him as he sits in his study, and becomes at last a 
 peer and a millionaire : so then we say, what a splendid 
 business head he has got, to be sure, and how immensely he 
 differs from his poor wool-gathering brother, the entomolo- 
 
 AN UNI'KACTICAL PEKSON. 
 
 gist, who can only invent new ways of hatching out wire- 
 worms. Yet all may really depend on the first chance 
 direction which led one brother as a boy to buy a butterfly- 
 net, and sent the other into the school laboratory to dabble 
 with an electric wheel and a cheap battery.' 
 
 ' Then you mean to say it is chance that has made 
 Sebastian ? ' 
 
 Hilda shook her pretty head. ' By no means. Don't 
 be so stupid. We both know Sebastian has a wonderful 
 
 
I 
 
 THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 '51 
 
 brain. Whatever was the work he undertook with that 
 brain in science, he would carry it out consummately. He 
 is a born thinker. It is like this, don't you know.' She 
 tried to arrange her thoughts. ' The particular branch of 
 science to which Mr. Hiram Maxim's mind happens to have 
 been directed was the making of machine-guns — and he 
 slays his thousands. The particular branch to which 
 Sebastian's mind happens to have been directed was medicine 
 — and he cures as many as Mr. Maxim kills. It is a turn 
 of the hand that make*? all the difference.* , 
 
 ' I see,' I said. * The aim of medicine happens to be a 
 benevolent one.' 
 
 ' Quite so ; that's just what I mean. The aim is 
 benevolent : and Sebastian pursues that aim with the 
 single-minded energy of <i lofty, gifted, and devoted nature 
 — but not a good one.' 
 
 ' Not good ? ' 
 
 * Oh no. To be quite frank, he seems to me to pursue 
 it ruthlessly, cruelly, unscrupulously. He is a man of high 
 ideals, but without principle. In that respect he reminds 
 one of the great spirits of the Italian Renaissance — Ben- 
 venuto Cellini and so forth — men who could pore for hours 
 with conscientious artistic care over the detail of a hem in a 
 sculptured robe, yet could steal out in the midst of their 
 disinterested toil, to plunge a knife in the back of a rival.' 
 
 ' Sebastian would not do that,' I cried. * He is wholly 
 free from the mean spirit of jealousy.' 
 
 ' No, Sebastian would not do that. You are quite right 
 there : there is no tinge of meanness in the man's nature. 
 He likes to be first in the field : but he would acclaim with 
 delight another man's scientific triumph — if another anti- 
 cipated him — for would it not mean a triumph for universal 
 science ? — and is not the advancement of science Sebastian's 
 
132 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I 
 
 It 5, 
 
 i f 
 
 rf^ligion ? But ... he would do almost as much — or more. 
 He would stab a man without remorse, if he thought that 
 by stabbing him he could advance knowledge.' 
 
 I recognised at once the truth of her diagnosis. ' Nurse 
 Wade/ I cried, * you are a wonderful woman ! I believe you 
 are right ; but — how did you come to think of it ? ' 
 
 A cloud passed over her brow. * I have reason to know 
 it,' she answered, slowly. Then her voice changed. ' Take 
 another muffin ! ' 
 
 I helped myself and paused. I laid down my cup and 
 gazed at her. What a beautiful, tender, sympathetic face ! 
 And yet, how able ! She stirred the fire uneasily. I looked 
 and hesitated. I had often wondered why I never dared 
 ask Hilda Wade one question that was nearest my heart. 
 I think it must have been because I respected her so pro- 
 foundly. The deeper your admiration and respect for a 
 woman, the harder you find it in the end to ask her. At 
 last I almost made up my mind. ' I cannot think,' I began, 
 
 * what can have induced a girl like you, with means and 
 friends, with brains and ' — I drew back, then I plumped it out 
 — * beauty, to take to such a life as this — a life which seems, 
 in many ways, so unworthy of you ! ' 
 
 She stirred the fire more pensively than ever, and re- 
 arranged the muffin-dish on the little wrought-iron stand in 
 front of the grate. ' And yet,' she murmured, looking down, 
 
 * what life can be better than the service of one's kind ? You 
 think it a great life, for Sebastian ! ' 
 
 ' Sebastian ! He is a man. That is different, quite 
 different. But a woman ! especially you^ dear lady, for whom 
 one feels that nothing is quite high enough, quite pure 
 enough, quite good enough : I cannot imagine how ' 
 
 She checked me with one wave of her gracious hand. 
 Her movements were always slow and dignified. * I have a 
 

 THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 m 
 
 Plan in my life,' she answered earnestly, her eyes meeting 
 mine with a sincere, frank gaze ; * a Plan to which I have 
 resolved to sacrifice everything. It absorbs my being. Till 
 
 that Plan is fulfilled ' I saw the tears were gathering 
 
 fast on her lashes. Sue suppressed them with an effort. 
 
 * Say no more,* she added, faltering. ' Infirm of purpose, I 
 will not listen.* 
 
 I leant forward eagerly, pressing my advantage. The 
 air was electric. Waves of emotion passed to and fro. 
 ' But surely,' I cried, * you do not mean to say ' 
 
 She waved me aside once more. * I will not put my 
 hand to the plough, and then look back,' she answered firmly. 
 
 • Dr. Cumberledge, spare me. I came to Nathaniel's for a 
 purpose. I told you at the time what that purpose was — 
 in part : to be near Sebastian. I want to be near him . . . 
 for an object I have at heart. Do not ask me to reveal it : 
 do not ask me to forgo it. I am a woman, therefore weak. 
 But I need your aid. Help me, instead of hindering me.' 
 
 ' F'lu. ,' I cried, leaning forward, with quiverings of my 
 heart, * 1 will help you in whatever way you will allow me. 
 But let me at any rate help you with the feeling that I am 
 helping one who means in time * 
 
 At that moment, as unkindly fate would have it, the 
 door opened, and Sebastian entered. 
 
 * Nurse Wade,' he began, in his iron voice, glancing about 
 him with stern eyes, * where are those needles I ordered for 
 that operation ? We must be ready in time before Nielsen 
 comes. . . . Cumberledge, I shall want you.* 
 
 The golden opportunity had come and gone. It was 
 long before I found a similar occasion for speaking to Hilda. 
 
 Every day after that the feeling deepened upon me that 
 Hilda was there to watch Sebastian. Why^ I did not know : 
 but it was growing certain that a life-long duel was in pro- 
 
134 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 gress between those two — a duel of some strange and 
 mysterious import. 
 
 The first approach to a solution of the problem which I 
 
 THE DOUk OPE.VEP, AND SEBASTIAN ENTERED. 
 
 obtained came a week or two later. Sebastian was engaged 
 in observing a case where certain unusual symptoms had 
 suddenly supervened : it was a case of some obscure affection 
 of the heart : I will not trouble you here with the particular 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 •35 
 
 details : we all suspected a tendency to aneurism. Hilda 
 Wade was in attendance, as she always was on Sebastian's 
 observation cases.- We crowded round, watching. The 
 Professor himself leaned over the cot with some medicine for 
 external application in a basin. He gave it to Hilda to 
 hold. I noticed that as she held it her fingers trembled, and 
 that her eyes were fixed harder than ever upon Sebastian. 
 He turned round to his students. * Now, this,* he began in 
 a very unconcerned voice, as if the patient were a toad, * is 
 a most unwonted turn for the disease to take. It occurs 
 very seldom. In point of fact, I have only observed the 
 symptom once before ; and then it was fatal. The patient 
 in that instance ' — he paused dramatically — ' was the notori- 
 ous poisoner, Dr. Yorke-Bannerman.' 
 
 As he uttered the words, Hilda Wade's hands trembled 
 more than ever, and with a little scream she let the basin 
 fall, breaking" it into fragments. 
 
 Sebastian's keen eyes had transfixed her in a second. 
 ' How did you manage to do that ? ' he asked, with quiet 
 sarcasm, but in a tone full of meaning. 
 
 * The basin was heavy,' Hilda faltered. * IVIy hands 
 were trembling — and it somehow slipped through them. I 
 am not . . . quite myself . . . not quite well this afternoon. 
 I ought not to have attempted it.' 
 
 The Professor's deep-set eyes peered out like gleaming 
 lights from beneath their overhanging brows. * No, you 
 ouglit not to have attempted it,' he answered, withering her 
 with his glance. ' You might have let the thing fall on the 
 patient and killed him. As it is, can't you see you have 
 agitated him with the flurry? Don't stand there holding 
 your breath, woman : repair your mischief: get a cloth and 
 wipe it up, and give me the bottle.' 
 
 With skilful haste he administered a little sal volatile 
 
\ 
 
 136 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 
 and nux vomica to the swooning patient ; while Hilda set 
 
 •J 
 
 < 
 
 < 
 
 PQ 
 U 
 
 a 
 
 H 
 U 
 hJ 
 
 U 
 
 s 
 
 (A 
 
 «;: 
 u 
 « 
 o 
 
 1/1 
 
 u 
 _] 
 
 H 
 
 ? < 
 
 about remedying the damage. * That's better,' Sebastian 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 137 
 
 (i 
 
 
 said, in a mollified tone, when she had brought another 
 basin. There was a singular note of cloaked triumph in his 
 voice. * Now, weTl begin again. ... I was just saying, 
 gentlemen, before this accident, that I had seen only one case 
 of this peculiar form of the tendency before : and that case 
 was the notorious ' — he kept his glittering eyes fixed harder 
 on Hilda than ever — * the notorious Dr. Yorke-Bannerman.' 
 
 / was watching Hilda, too. At the words, she trembled 
 violently all over once more, but with an effort restrained 
 herself. Their looks met in a searching glance. Hilda's 
 air was proud and fearless : in Sebastian's, I fancied I 
 detected after a second just a tinge of wavering. 
 
 ' You remember Yorke-Bannerman's case,' he went on. 
 ' He committed a murder ' 
 
 ' Let me take the basin ! ' I cried, for I saw Hilda's 
 hands giving way a second time, and I was anxious to spare 
 her. 
 
 * No, thank you,' she answered low, but in a voice that 
 was full of suppressed defiance. * I will wait and hear this 
 out. I prefer to stop here.' 
 
 As for Sebastian, he seemed now not to notice her, 
 though I was aware all the time of a side-long glance of his 
 eye, parrot-wise, in her direction. * He committed a murder,' 
 he went on, * by means of aconitine — then an almost un- 
 known poison ; and after committing it, his heart being 
 already weak, he was taken himself with symptoms of 
 aneurism in a curious form, essentially similar to these ; so 
 that he died before the trial — a lucky escape for him." 
 
 He paused rhetorically once more ; then he added in the 
 same tone, * Mental agitation and the terror of detection no 
 doubt accelerated the fatal result in that instance. He died 
 at once from the shock of the arrest. It was a natural con- 
 clusion. Here, wc may hope for a more successful is.sue,' 
 
•38 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 He spoke to the students, of course, but 1 could see for 
 all that that he was keeping his falcon eye fixed hard on 
 Hilda's face. I glanced aside a*- her. She never flinched for 
 a second. Neither said anything directly to the other : still, 
 by their eyes and mouths, I knew some strange passage of 
 arms had taken place between them. Sebastian's tone was 
 one of provocation, of defiance, I might almost say of 
 challenge : Hilda's air I took rather for the air of calm and 
 resolute, but assured, resistance. He expected her to 
 answer ; she said nothing. Instead of that, she went on 
 holding the basin now with fingers that ivould not tremble. 
 Every muscle was strained. Every tendon was strung. I 
 could see she held herself in with a will of iron. 
 
 The rest of the episode passed off quietly. Sebastian, 
 having delivered his bolt, began i.o think less of Hilda and 
 more of the patient. He went on with his demonstration. 
 As for Hilda, she gradually relaxed her muscles, and, with 
 a deep-drawn breath, resumed her natural attitude. The 
 tension was over. They had had their little skirmish, what- 
 ever it might mean, and had it out : now, they called a 
 truce over the patient's body. 
 
 When the case had been disposed of, and the students 
 dismissed, I went straight into the laboratory to get a few 
 surgical instruments I had chanced to leave there. For a 
 minute or two I mislaid my clinical thermometer, and began 
 hunting for it behind a wooden partition in the corner of the 
 room by the place for washing test-tubes. As I stooped 
 down, turning over the various objects about the tap in my 
 search, Sebastian's voice came to me. He had paused 
 outside the door, and was speaking in his calm, clear tone, 
 very low, to Hilda. 'So 7iow we understand one another, 
 Nurse Wade,' he said, with a significant sneer. * I know 
 whom I have to deal with ! ' 
 
 i 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 139 
 
 % 
 
 ' And / know too,' Hilda answered, in a voice of placid 
 confidence. 
 
 ' Yet you are not afraid ? ' 
 
 ' It is not / who have cause for fear. The accused may 
 tremble, not the prosecutor.' 
 
 * What ? You threaten ? ' 
 
 * No ; I do not threaten. Not in words, I mean. My 
 presence here is in itself a threat, but I make no other. 
 You know now, unfortunately, why I have come. That 
 makes my task harder. But I will not give it up. I will 
 wait and conquer.' 
 
 Sebastian answered nothing. He strode into the labor- 
 atory alone, tall, grim, unbending, and let himself sink into 
 his easy-chair, looking up with a singular and somewhat 
 sinister smile at his bottles of microbes. After a minute he 
 stirred the fire, and bent his head forward, brooding. He 
 held it between his hands, with his elbows on his knees, and 
 gazed moodily straight before him into the glowing caves of 
 white-hot coal in the fire-place. That sinister smile still 
 played lambent round the corners of his grizzled moustaches. 
 
 I moved noiselessly towards the door, trying to pass 
 behind him unnoticed. But, alert as ever, his quick ears 
 detected me. With a sudden start, he raised his head and 
 glanced round. * What ! you here ? ' he cried, taken aback. 
 For a second he appeared almost to lose his self-possession. 
 
 * I came for my clinical,' I answered, with an uncon- 
 cerned air. * I have somehow managed to mislay it in the 
 laboratory.' 
 
 My carefully casual tone seemed to reassure him. He 
 peered about him with knit brows. ' Cumberledge,' he 
 asked at last, in a suspicious voice, * did you hear that 
 woman ? ' 
 
 * The woman in 93 ? Delirious ? ' 
 
I40 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 \ 
 
 ' No, no : Nurse Wade ? ' 
 
 * Hear her ? ' I echoed, I must candidly admit with 
 intent to deceive. * When she broke the basin ? ' 
 
 His forehead relaxed., ' Oh, it is nothing,' he muttered. 
 
 BUT DANGEROUS — DANGEROUS ! 
 
 hastily. * A mere point of discipline. She spoke to 
 me just now, and I thought her tone unbecoming in 
 a subordinate. . . . Like Korah and his crew, she takes 
 too much upon her. . . . We must get rid of her, Cum- 
 berledge : we must get rid of her. She is a dangerous 
 woman ! ' 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 \\\ 
 
 \ 
 
 ' She is the most intelligent nurse we have ever had in 
 the place, sir,* I objected, stoutly. 
 
 He nodded his head twice. 'Intelligent — je vous 
 Vaccorde ; but dangerous — dangerous ! ' 
 
 Then he turned to his papers, sorting them out one by 
 one with a preoccupied face and twitching fingers. I 
 recognised that he desired to be left alone, so I quitted the 
 laboratory. 
 
 I cannot quite say why, but ever since Hilda Wade first 
 came to Nathaniel's, my enthusiasm for Sebastian had been 
 cooling continuously. Admiring his greatness still, I had 
 doubts as to his goodness. That day I felt I positively 
 mistrusted him. I wondered what his passage of arms with 
 Hilda might mean. Yet, somehow, I was shy of alluding to 
 it before her. 
 
 One thing, however, was clear to me now — this great 
 campaign that was being waged between the nurse and the 
 Professor had reference to the case of Dr. Yorkc-Bannerman. 
 
 For a time, nothing came of it : the routine of the 
 hospital went on as usual. The patient with the suspected 
 predisposition to aneurism kept fairly well for a week or two, 
 and then took a sudden turn for the worse, presenting at 
 times most unwonted symptoms. He died unexpectedly. 
 Sebastian, who had watched him every hour, regarded the 
 matter as of prime importance. ' I'm glad it happened 
 here,' he said, rubbing his hands. * A grand opportunity. 
 I wanted to catch an instance like this before that fellow in 
 Paris had time to anticipate m.c. They're all on the look- 
 out. Von Strahlendorff, of Vienna, has been waiting for 
 just such a patient for years. So have I. Now, fortune has 
 favoured me. Lucky for us he died ! We shall find out 
 everything.' 
 
 We held a post-mortem, of course, the condition of the 
 
143 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 blood being what we most wished to observe ; and the 
 autopsy revealed some unexpected details. One remarkable 
 feature consisted in a certain undescribcd and impoverished 
 state of the contained bodies, which Sebastian, with his 
 eager zeal for science, desired his students to see and 
 identify. He said it was likely to throw much light on 
 other ill-understood conditions of the brain and nervous 
 system, as well as on the peculiar faint odour of the insane, 
 now so well recognised in all large asylums. In order to 
 compare this abnormal state with the aspect of the healthy 
 circulating medium, he proposed to examine a little good 
 living blood side by side with the morbid specimen under 
 the microscope. Nurse Wade was in attendance in the 
 laboratory as usual. The Professor, standing by the instru- 
 ment, with one hand on the brass screw, had got the diseased 
 drop ready arranged for our inspection beforehand, and was 
 gloating over it himself with scientific enthusiasm. * Grey 
 corpuscles, you will observe,* he said, * almost entirely de- 
 ficient. Red, poor in number, and irregular in outline. 
 Plasma, thin. Nuclei, feeble. A state of body which tells 
 severely against the due rebuilding of the wasted tissues. 
 Now, compare with typical normal specimen.' He removed 
 his eye from the microscope, and wiped a glass slide with a 
 clean cloth as he spoke. ' Nurse Wade, we know of old 
 the purity and vigour of your circulating fluid. You shall 
 have the honour of advancing science once more. Hold up 
 your finger.' 
 
 Hilda held up her forefinger unhesitatingly. She was 
 used to such requests : and, indeed, Sebastian had acquired 
 by long experience the faculty of pinching the finger-tip so 
 hard, and pressing the point of a needle so dexterously into 
 a minor vessel, that he could draw at once a small drop of 
 blood without the subject even feeling it. 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 •43 
 
 The Professor nipped the last joint between his finger 
 and thumb for a moment till it was black at the end : then 
 he turned to the saucer at his side, which Hilda herself had 
 placed there, and chose from it, cat-like, with great delibera- 
 tion and selective care, a particular needle. Hilda's eyes 
 followed his every movement as closely and as fearlessly as 
 ever. Sebastian's hand was raised, and he was just about to 
 pierce the delicate white skin, when, with a sudden, quick 
 scream of terror, she snatched her hand away hastily. 
 
 The Professor let the needle drop in his astonishment. 
 * What did you do that for ? ' he cried, with an angry dart 
 of the keen eyes. ' This is not the first time 1 have drawn 
 your blood. You kneiv I would not hurt you.' 
 
 Hilda's face had grown strangely pale. But that was 
 not all. I believe 1 was the only person present who 
 noticed one unobtrusive piece of sleight-of-hand which she 
 hurriedly and skilfully executed. When the needle slipped 
 from Sebastian's hand, she leant forward even as she 
 screamed, and caught it, unobserved, in the folds of her 
 apron. Then her nimble fingers closed over it as if by 
 magic, and conveyed it with a rapid movement at once to her 
 pocket. I do not think even Sebastian himself noticed the 
 quick forward jerk of her eager hands, which would have 
 done honour to a conjurer. He was too much taken aback 
 by her unexpected behaviour to observe the needle. 
 
 Just as she caught it Hilda answered his question in a 
 somewhat flurried voice. * I — I was afraid,' she broke out, 
 * One gets these little accesses of terror now and 
 I — I feel rather weak. I don't think I will volun- 
 teer to supply any more normal blood this morning.' 
 
 Sebastian's acute eyes read her through, as so often. 
 With a trenchant dart he cflanced from her to me. I could 
 see he began to suspect a confederacy. ' That will do,' he 
 
 gaspmg. 
 again. 
 
'44 
 
 HII.DA WADE 
 
 went on, with slow dcliberateness. * Better so. Nurse 
 Wade, I don't know what's beginning to come over you. 
 You are losing your nerve — which is fatal in a nurse. Only 
 the other day you let fall and broke a basin at a most 
 critical moment ; and now, you scream aloud on a trifling 
 apprehension.' He paused and glanced around him. * Mr. 
 Callaghan,' he said, turning to our tall, red-haired Irish 
 student, ^ your blood is good normal: and you are not 
 hysterical.' He selected another needle with studious care. 
 ' Give me your finger.' 
 
 As he picked out the needle, I saw Hilda lean forward 
 again, alert and watchful, eyeing him with a piercing glance ; 
 but, after a second's consideration, she seemed to satisfy her- 
 self, and foil back without a word. I gathered that she was 
 ready to mterfere, hi^d occasion demanded. But occasion 
 did not demand : and she held her peace quietly. 
 
 The rest of the -examination proceeded without a hitch. 
 For a minute or two, it is true, 1 fancied that Sebastian 
 betrayed a certain suppressed agitation - a trifling lack of his 
 accustomed perspicuity and his luminous exposition. But 
 after meandering for a wnile through a few vague sentences, 
 he soon recovered his wonted calm ; and as he went on with 
 his demonstration, throwing himself eagerly into the case, 
 his usual scientific enthusiasm came back to him undiminished. 
 He waxed eloquent (after his fashion) over the ' beautiful * 
 contrast between Callaghan's wholesome blood, * rich in the 
 vivifying architectonic grey corpuscles which rebuild worn 
 tissues,' and the effete, impoverished, unvitaliscd fluid which 
 stagnated in the sluggish veins of the dead patien. The 
 carriers of oxygen had neglected their proper task : the 
 granules whose duty it was to bring elaborated food-stuffs to 
 supply the waste of brain and nerve and muscle had forgotten 
 their cunning. The bricklayers of the bodily fabric had 
 
THE iXEEULE THAI DID NOT MATCH 
 
 MS 
 
 gone out on strike : the weary scavengers had declined to 
 remove the useless by-products. His vivid tongue, his 
 picturesque fancy, ran away with him. I had never heard 
 him talk better or more incisively before ; one could feel sure 
 as he spoke that the arteries of his own acute and teeming 
 brain at that moment of exaltation were by nt) means 
 deficient in those energetic and highly vital globules on 
 whose reparative worth he so eloquently descanted. * Sure, 
 the JVofessor makes annywan sec right inside wan's own 
 vascular system,' Callaghan whispered aside to me, in un- 
 feigned admiration. 
 
 The demonstration ended in impressive silence. As 
 we streamed out of the laboratory, aglow with his electric fire, 
 Sebastian held me back with a bent motion of his shrivelled 
 forefinger. I stayed behind unwillingly. ' Yes, sir?' I said, 
 in an interrogative voice. 
 
 The Professor's eyes were fixed intently on the ceiling. 
 I lis look was one of rapt inspiration. I stood and waited. 
 ' Cumberledge,' he said at last, coming back to earth with a 
 start, * I see it more plainly each day that goes. We must 
 get rid of that woman.' 
 
 ' Of Nurse Wade ? ' I asked, catching my breath. 
 
 He roped the grizzled moustache and blinked the sunken 
 eyes. ' She has lost nerve,' he went on. ' Lost nerve 
 entirely. I shall suggest that she be dismissed. Her sudden 
 failures of stamina are most embarrassing at critical junctures.' 
 
 * Very well, sir,' I answered, swallowing a lump in my 
 throat. To say the truth, I was beginning to be afraid on 
 Hilda's account. That morning's events had thoroughly 
 disquieted me. 
 
 He seemed relieved at my unquestioning acquiescence. 
 * She is a dangerous edged-tool, that's the truth of it,' he 
 went on, still twirling his moustache with a preoccupied air, 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I 
 
 and turning over his stock of needles. * When she's clothed 
 and in her right mind, she is a valuable accessory — sharp 
 and trenchant like a clean, bright lancet : but when she 
 allows one of these causeless hysterical fits to override her 
 tone, she plays one false at once — like a lancet that slips, or 
 grows dull and rusty.' He polished one of the needles on a 
 soft square of new chamois-leather while he spoke, as if to 
 give point and illustration to his simile. 
 
 I went out from him, much perturbed. The Sebastian I 
 had once admired and worshipped was beginning to pass 
 from me : in his place I found a very complex and inferior 
 creat^'on. My idol had feet of clay. I was loth to acknow- 
 ledge it. 
 
 I stalked along the corridor moodily towards my own 
 room. As I passed Hilda Wade's door I saw it half ajar. 
 She stood a little within and beckoned me to enter. 
 
 I passed in and closed the door behind me. Hilda 
 looked at me with trustful eyes. Resolute still, her face was 
 yet that of a hunted creature. * Thank Heaven I have one 
 friend here at least,' she said, slowly, seating herself. ' You 
 saw me catch and conceal the needle ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw you.' 
 
 She drew it forth from her purse, carefully but loosely 
 wrapped up in a small tag of tissue-paper. * Here it is ! ' 
 she said, displaying it. ' Now, I want you to test it' 
 
 * In a culture ? * I asked, for I guessed her meaning. 
 She nodded. ' Yes, to see what that man has done to it.' 
 
 * What do you suspect ? ' 
 
 She shrugged her graceful shoulders half imperceptibly. 
 ' How should I know? Anything ! ' 
 
 I gazed at the needle close. ' What made you distrust 
 it ? ' I inquired at last, still eyeing it. 
 
 She opened a drawer and took out several others. * See 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 •47 
 
 here,' she said, handing me one : ' tlicse are the needles I 
 keep in antiseptic, wool — the needles with which I always 
 supply the Professor. You observe their shape — the 
 common surgical patterns. Now, look at tJiis needle with 
 which the Professor was just going to prick my finger ! 
 
 I HAD MY SUSPICIONS. 
 
 You can see for yourself at once it is of bluer steel 
 and of a different manufacture.' 
 
 * That is quite true,' I answered, examining it with my 
 pocket lens, which I always carry. * I see the difference. 
 But how did you detect it ? ' 
 
 'From his face, partly, but partly, too, from the needle itself. 
 I had my suspicions, and I was watching him close. Just 
 
148 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 
 as he raised the thing in his hand, half concealing it, so, and 
 showing only the point, I caught the blue gleam of the steel 
 as the light glanced off it. It was not the kind I knew. 
 Then I withdrew my hand at once, feeling sure he meant 
 mischief.' 
 
 * That was wonderfully quick of you ! ' 
 
 ' Quick ? Well, yes. Thank Heaven, my mind works 
 
 fast : my perceptions arc rapid. Otherwise ' she looked 
 
 grave. * One second more, and it would have been too late. 
 The man might have killed me.' 
 
 ' You think it is poisoned, then ? ' 
 
 Hilda shook her head with confident dissent. ' Poisoned ? 
 Oh no. He is wiser now. Fifteen years ago, he used 
 poison. But science has made gigantic strides since then. 
 He would not needlessly expose himself to-day to the risks 
 of the poisonci.' 
 
 'Fifteen years ago he used poison !' 
 
 She nodded with the air of one who knows. * I am not 
 speaking at random,' she answered. ' I say what I know. 
 Some day I will explain. For the present, it is enough to 
 tell you, I know it.* 
 
 * And what do you suspect now ? ' I asked, the weird 
 sense of her strange power deepening on me every second. 
 
 She held up the incriminated needle again. * Do you see 
 this groove ? ' she asked, pointing to it with the tip of another. 
 
 I examined it once more at the light with the lens. A 
 longitudinal groove, apparently ground into one side of the 
 needle, lengthwise, by means of a small grinding-stonc and 
 emery powder, ran for a quarter of an inch above the point. 
 This groove seemed to me to have been produced by an 
 amateur, though he must have been one accustomed to 
 delicate microscopic manipulation : for the edges under the 
 lens showed slightly rough, like the surface of a file on a 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 149 
 
 small scale, not smooth and polishc^ as a needle -maker 
 would have left them. I said so to Hilda. 
 
 ' You are quite right,' she answered. ' That is just what 
 it shows. I feel sure Sebastian made that groove himself. 
 Ke could have bought grooved needles, it is true, such as 
 they sometimes use for retaining small quantities of lymphs 
 and medicines, but we had none in stock, and to buy them 
 would be to manufacture evidence against himself, in case o^' 
 detection. Besides, the rough jagged edge would hold the 
 material he wished to inject all the better, while its saw-like 
 points would tear the flesh, imperceptibly but minutely, and 
 so serve his purpose.' 
 
 * Which was ? ' 
 
 * Try the needle, and judge for yourself. I prefer you 
 should find cut. You can tell me to-morrow.' 
 
 * It was quick of you to detect it ! ' I c' d, still turning 
 the suspicious object over. ' The difference is so slight.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but you tell me my eyes are as sharp as the 
 needle. Besides, I had reason to doubt, and Sebastian him- 
 self gave me the clue by selecting his instrument with too 
 great deliberation. He had put it there with the rest, but 
 it lay a little apart : and as he picked it up, gingerly, I began 
 to doubt. W en I saw the blue gleam, my doubt was at 
 once converted into certainty. Then his eyes, too, had the 
 look which 1 know means victory. Benign or baleful, it 
 goes with his triumphs. I have seen that look before, and 
 when once it lurks scintillating in the luminous depths of his 
 gleaming eyeballs, I recognise at once that, whatever his 
 aim, he has succeeded in it.' 
 
 'Still, Hilda, I am loth ' 
 
 She waved her hand impatiently. ' Waste no time,* she 
 cried, in an authoritative voice. ' If you happen to let that 
 needle rub carelessly against the sleeve of your coat, you 
 
 % 
 
I50 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 may destroy the evidence. Take it at once to your room, 
 plunge it into a culture, and lock it up safe at a proper 
 temperature where Sebastian cannot get at it — till the conse- 
 quences develop.' 
 
 T did as she bid me. By this time, T was not wholly 
 unprepared for the result she anticipated. My belief in 
 Sebastian had sunk to zero, and was rapidly reaching a 
 negative quantity. 
 
 At nine the next morning, I tested one drop of the 
 culture under the microscope. Clear and limpid to the 
 naked eye, it was alive with small objects of a most sus- 
 picious nature, when properly magnified. I knew those 
 hungry forms. Still, I would not decide off-hand on my 
 own authority in a matter of such moment. Sebastian's 
 character was at stake — the character of the man who led 
 the profession. I called in Callaghan, who happened to be 
 in the ward, and asked him to put his eye to the instrument 
 for a moment. He was a splendid fellow for the use of high 
 powers, and I had magnified the culture 300 diameters. 
 ' What do you call those ? ' I asked, breathless. 
 
 He scanned them carefully with his experienced eye. 
 * Is it the microbes ye mean ? ' he answered. ' An' what 'ud 
 they be, then, if it wasn't the bacillus of pyaemia ? ' 
 
 ' Blood-poisoning ! ' I ejaculated, horror-struck. 
 
 * Ay : blood-poisoning : that's the English of it.* 
 
 I assumed an air of indifference. ' I made them that 
 myself,' I rejoined, as if they were mere ordinary experimental 
 germs : * but I wanted confirmation of my own opinion. 
 You're sure of the bacillus ? ' 
 
 * An' haven't I been keeping swarms of those very same 
 bacteria under close observation for Sebastian for seven 
 weeks past ? Why, I know them as well as I know me own 
 mother.' 
 
 1 ! 
 
THE NEEDLE THA T DID NOT MA TCH 151 
 
 * Thank you/ I said. ' That will do.' And I carried off 
 the microscope, bacilli and all, into Hilda Wade's sitting- 
 room. * Look yourself ! ' I cried to her. 
 
 I 
 
 I KNOW THEM AS WELL AS I KNOW ME OWN MOTHER. 
 
 She stared at them through the instrument with an 
 unmoved face. ' I thought so,' she answered shortly. * The 
 bacillus of pyaemia. A most virulent type. Exactly what 
 I e;:pected.' 
 
 ' You anticipated that result ? ' 
 
I 
 
 152 
 
 ///LDA IVADE 
 
 * Absolutely. You see, blood-poisoning matures quick, 
 and kills almost to a certainty. Delirium supervenes so soon 
 that the patient has no chance of explaining suspicions. 
 Besides, it would all seem so very natural ! Everybody 
 would say, " She got some slight wound, which microbes 
 from some case she was attending contaminated." You may 
 be sure Sebastian thought out all that. He plans with con- 
 summate skill. He had designed everything.' 
 
 I gazed at her, uncertain. ' And what will you do?* I 
 asked. * Expose him ? ' 
 
 She opened both her palms with a blank gesture of help- 
 lessness. * It is useless,' she answered. * Nobody would 
 believe me. Consider the situation. Yoti know the needle 
 I gave you was the one Sebastian meant to use — the one 
 he dropped and I caught — because you are a friend of mine, 
 and because you have learned to trust me. But who else 
 would credit it? I have only my word against his — an 
 unknown nurse's against the great Professor's. Everybody 
 would say I was malicious or hysterical. Hysteria is always 
 an easy stone to fling at an injured woman who asks for 
 justice. They would declare I had trumped up the case to 
 forestall my dismissal. They would set it down to spite. 
 We can do nothing against him. Remember, on his part, 
 the utter absence of overt motive.' 
 
 * And you mean to stop on here, in close attendance on 
 a man who has attempted your life ? ' I cried, really alarmed 
 for her safety. 
 
 * I am not sure about that,' she answered. ' I must take 
 time to think. My presence at Nathaniel's was necessary to 
 my Plan. The Plan fails for the present. I have now to 
 look round and reconsider my position.' 
 
 ' But you are not safe here now,' I urged, growing warm. 
 If Sebastian really wishes to get rid of you, and is as un- 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ," 
 
iV 
 
 THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 153 
 
 i 
 
 scrupulous as you suppose, with his gigantic brain he can 
 soon compass his end. What he plans he executes. You 
 ought not to remain within the Professor's reach one hour 
 longer.' 
 
 ' I have thought of that too,' she replied, with an almost 
 unearthly calm. ' But there are difficulties either way. At 
 any rate, i am glad he did not succeed this time. For to 
 have killed me now would have frustrated my Plan. And 
 my Plan * — she clasped her hands — * my Plan is ten thou- 
 sand times dearer than life to me.' 
 
 * Dear lady,* I cried, drawing a deep breath, ' I implore 
 you in this strait, listen to what I urge. Why fight your 
 battle alone? Why refuse assistance? I have admired 
 you so long — I am so eager to help you. If only you will 
 allow me to call you ' 
 
 Her eyes brightened and softened. Her whole bosom 
 heaved. I felt in a flash she was not wholly indifferent to 
 me. Strange tremors in the air seemed to play about us. 
 But she waved me aside once more. ' Don't press me,' she 
 said, in a very low voice. * Let me go my own way. It is 
 hard enough already, this task I have undertaken, without 
 your making it harder. . . . Dear friend, dear friend, you 
 don't quite understand. There are two men at Nathaniel's 
 whom I desire to escape — because they both alike stand in 
 the way of my purpose.* She took my hand in hers. 
 ' Each in a different way,' she murmured once more. * But 
 
 each I must avoid. One is Sebastian. The other ' 
 
 she let my hand drop again and broke off suddenly. * Dear 
 Hubert,' she cried, ,vith a catch, ' I cannot help it : for- 
 give me ! ' 
 
 It was the first time she had ever called me by my 
 Christian name. The mere sound of the word made me 
 unspeakably happy. 
 
— .— — — ^ .-^ 
 
 '54 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 \\ 
 
 Yet she waved me away. 'Must I go?* I asked, 
 quivering. 
 
 * Yes, yes, you must go. I cannot stand it. I must 
 
 think this thing out, undisturbed. It is a very great crisis.' 
 
 don't press me, she said. 
 
 That afternoon and evening, by some unhappy chance, I 
 was fully engaged in work at the hospital. Late at night, a 
 letter arrived for me. I glanced at it in dismay. It bore 
 the Basingstoke postmark. But to my alarm and surprise, 
 it was in Hilda's hand. What could this change portend ? 
 I opened it, all tremulous. 
 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH 
 
 •>S 
 
 
 'Dear Hubert • I gave a sigh of relief. It was 
 
 no longer 'Dear Dr. Cumbcrledge ' now, but 'Hubert.* 
 That was something gained, at any rate. I read on with a 
 beating heart. What had Hilda to say to me? 
 
 'Dear Hubert — By the time this reaches you, I shall 
 be far away, irrevocably far, from London. With deep 
 regret, with fierce searchings of spirit, I have come to the 
 conclusion that, for the Purpose I have in view, it would be 
 better for me at once to leave Nathaniel's. Where I go or 
 what I mean to do, I do not wish to tell you. Of your 
 charity, I pray, refrain from asking me. 1 am aware that 
 your kindness and generosity deserve better recognition. 
 But, like Sebastian himself, I am the slave of my Purpose. 
 I have lived for it all these years, and it is still very dear to 
 me. To tell you my plans would interfere with thai end. 
 Do not, therefore, suppose I am insensible to your goodness. 
 . . . Dear Hubert, spare me — I dare not say more, lest I 
 say too much. I dare not trust myself. But one thing I 
 must say. I am flying from you quite as much as from 
 Sebastian. Flying from my own heart quite as much as 
 from my enemy. Some day, perhaps, if I accomplish my 
 object, I may tell you all. Meanwhile I can only beg of 
 you of your kindness to trust me. We shall not meet 
 again, I fear, for years. But I shall never forget you — you, 
 the kind counsellor, who have half turned me aside from my 
 life's purpose. One word more and I should falter. — In 
 very great haste and amid much disturbance, yours ever 
 affectionately and gratefully, Hilda.* 
 
 It was a hurried scrawl in pencil, as if written in a 
 train. I felt utterly dejected. Was Hilda then leaving 
 England ? 
 
 Rousing myself after some minutes, I went straight to 
 
156 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Sebastian's rooms, and told him in brief terms thai Nurse 
 Wade had disappeared at a moment's notice, and had sent 
 a note to tell me so. 
 
 He looked up from his work and scanned me hard, as 
 was his wont. ' That is well,' he said at last, his eyes 
 glowing deep : ' she was getting too great a hold on you, 
 that young woman ! * 
 
 * She retains that hold upon me, sir,' I answered, curtly. 
 
 ' You are making a grave mistake in life, my dear 
 Cumberledge,' he went on, in his old genial tone, which I 
 had almost forgotten. * Before you go further and entangle 
 yourself more deeply, I think it is only right that I should 
 undeceive you as to this girl's true position. She is passing 
 under a false name, and she comes of a tainted stock. . . . 
 Nurse Wade, as she chooses to call hei If, is a daughter 
 of the notorious murderer, Yorke-Barnerman.' 
 
 My mind leapt back to the incident of the broken basin. 
 Yorke-Bannerman's name had profoundly moved her. Then 
 I thought of Hilda's face. Murderers, I said to myself, do 
 not beget such daughters as that. Not even accidental 
 murderers like my poor friend Le Geyt. I saw at once the 
 prima facie evidence was strongly against her. But I had 
 faith in her still. I drew myself up firmly and stared him 
 back full in the face. ' 1 do not believe it,' I answered, 
 shortly. 
 
 * You do not believe it ? I tell you it is so. The girl 
 herself as good as acknowledged it to mc.' 
 
 I spoke slowly and distinctly. * Dr. Sebastian,' I said, 
 confronting him, * let us be quite clear with one another. I 
 have found you out. I know how you tried to poison that 
 lady. To poison her with bacilli which / detected. I 
 cannot trust your word : I cannot trust your inferences. 
 Either she is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter at all, or 
 
THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MA TCH 
 
 •5/ 
 
 else . . . Yorke-BaiHicnnan was mH a inurdcrer, ..." I 
 watched his face clo^c. Conviction leaped upon me. ' And 
 
 Tins IlOSI'i TAL IS NOT BIG ENOUGH FOR YOU AND ME, ABREAST. 
 
 some one else was,' I went on. ' I might put a name to 
 
 him.' 
 
 With a stern white face, he rose and opened the door. 
 
 He pointed to it slowly. ' This hospital is not big enough 
 
•58 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 for you and mc abreast,* he said with cold politeness. ' One 
 or other of us must go. Which, I leave it to your good 
 sense to determine.* 
 
 Even at that moment of detection and tlisgrace, in one 
 man's eyes at least, Sebastian retained his full measure of 
 dignity. 
 
 t 
 
 ; 5 I 
 
VI 
 
 THE EriSODI': Ol«" Till-: LETTER WITH THE IJASINCISTOKIC 
 
 POSTMARK 
 
 
 I HAVE a vast respect for my grandfather. He was a man 
 of forethought. He left me a modest little income of seven 
 hundred a year, well invested. Now, seven hundred a year 
 is not exactly wealth ; but it is an unobtrusive competence : 
 it permits a bachelor to move about the world and choose at 
 will his own profession. / chose medicine : but I was not 
 wholly dependent upon it. So I honoured my grandfather's 
 wise disposition of his worldly goods : though, oddly enough, 
 my cousin Tom (to ^'1; on; he left his watch and five hundred 
 pounds) spep.ks v/c/i/ u. ^respectfully of his character and 
 intellect. 
 
 Thanks 1(. my gr.v ;, father's silken-sailed barque, there- 
 fore, when 1 found myself practically dismissed from Nath- 
 aniel's, I was not thrown on my beam-ends, as most young 
 men in my position would have been : I had time and 
 opportunity for the favourite pastime of looking about me. 
 Of course, had I chosen, I might have fought the case to 
 the bitter end against Sebastian : he could not dismiss me 
 — that lay with the committee. But I hardly cared to fight. 
 In the first place, though I had found him out as a man, I 
 still respected him as a great teacher : and in the second 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
zss:. 
 
 IHMHfl 
 
 1 60 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 place (which is always more important), I wanted to find 
 and follow Hilda. 
 
 To be sure, Hilda, in that enigmatic letter of hers, had 
 implored me not to seek her out : but I think you will 
 admit there is one request which no man can grant to the 
 girl he loves — and that is the request to keep away from her. 
 If Hilda did not want ine^ 1 wanted Hilda : and being a 
 man, I meant to find her. 
 
 My chances of discovering her whereabouts, however, I 
 had to confess to myself (when it came to the point) were 
 extremely slender. She had vanished from my horizoi , 
 melted into space : my sole hint of a clue consisted in the 
 fact that the letter she sent me had been posted at Basing- 
 stoke. Here then was my problem : given an envelope with 
 the Basingstoke postmark, to find in what part of Europe 
 Asia, Africa, or America the writer of it might be discovered 
 It opened up a fine field for speculation. 
 
 When I set out to face this broad puzzle, my first idea 
 was : ' I must ask Hilda.' In all circumstances of difficulty 
 I had grown accustomed to submitting my doubts and sur- 
 mises to her acute intelligence ; and her instinct almost 
 always supplied the right solution. But now Hilda was 
 gone ; it was Hilda herself I wished to track through the 
 labyrinth of the world ; I could expect no assistance in* 
 tracking her from Hilda. 
 
 * Let me think,' I said to myself, over a reflective pipe, 
 with feet poised on the fender. ' How would Hilda herself 
 have approached this problem? Imagine I'm Hilda. I 
 must try to strike a trail by applying her own methods to 
 her own character. She would have attacked the question, 
 no doubt ' — here I eyed my pipe wisely — * from the psycho- 
 logical side : she would have asked herself — I stroked my 
 chin — * what such a temperament as hers was likely to do 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK i6i 
 
 under such-and-such circumstances. And she would have 
 answered it aright. But then ' — I puffed away once or 
 twice — ^ she is Hilda.' ■ 
 
 When 1 came to reconnoitre the matter in this light, I 
 became at once aware how great a gulf separated the clumsy 
 
 OVER A REFI.ECTIVK PIPE. 
 
 male intelligence from the immediate and almost unerring 
 intuitions of a clever woman. I am considered no fool : in 
 my own profession, I may venture to say, I was Sebastian's 
 favourite pupil. Yet, the ugh I asked myself over and over 
 again where Hilda would be likely to go — Canada, China, 
 Australia — as the outcome of her character, in these given 
 conditions, I got no answer. I stared at the fire and re- 
 
 M 
 
1 62 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 fleeted. I smoked two successive pipes, and shook out the 
 ashes. ' Let me consider how Hilda's temperament would 
 work/ I said, looking sagacious. I said it several times — 
 but there I stuck. I went no further. The solution would 
 not come. I felt that in order to play Hilda's part it was 
 necessary first to have Hilda's headpiece. Not every man 
 can bend the bow of Ulysses. 
 
 As I turned the problem over in my mind, however, one 
 phrase at last came back to me — a phrase which Hilda her- 
 self had let fall when we were debating a very similar point 
 about poor Hugo Le Geyt : ' If I were in his place, what do 
 you think I would do ? — why, hide myself at once in the 
 greenest recesses of our Carnarvonshire mountains.' 
 
 She must have gone to Wales, then. I had her own 
 authority for saying so. . . . And yet — Wales ? Wales ? 
 I pulled myself up with a jerk : in that case, how did she 
 come to be passing by Basingstoke ? 
 
 Was the postmark a blind ? Had she hired some one to 
 take the letter somewhere for her, on purpose to put me off 
 on a false track ? I could hardly think so. Besides, the 
 time was against it. I saw Hilda at Nathaniel's in the 
 morning : the very same evening I received the envelope 
 with the Basingstoke postmark. 
 
 ' If I were in his place': yes, true ; but, now I come to 
 think on it, were the positions really parallel ? Hilda was 
 not flying for her life from justice : she was only endeavour- 
 ing to escape Sebastian — and myself. The instances she 
 had quoted of the mountaineer's curious homing instinct — 
 the wild yearning he feels at moments of great straits to 
 bury himself among the nooks of his native hills — were they 
 not all instances of murderers pursued by the police ? It 
 was abject terror that drove these men to their burrows. 
 But Hilda was not a murderer : she was not dogged by 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 163 
 
 remorse, despair, or the myrmidons of the law : it was 
 murder she was avoiding, not the punishment of murder. 
 That made, of course, an obvious difference. * Irrevocably- 
 far from London,' she said. Wales is a suburb. I gave up 
 the idea that it was likely to prove her place of refuge from 
 the two men she was bent on escaping. Hong-Kong, after 
 all, seemed more probable than Llanberis. 
 
 That first failure gave me a clue, however, as to the best 
 way of applying Hilda's own methods. * What would such 
 a person do under the circumstances ? * that was her way of 
 putting the question. Clearly, then, I must first decide what 
 ivere the circumstances. Was Sebastian speaking the truth ? 
 Was Hilda Wade, or was she not, the daughter of the sup- 
 posed murderer, Dr. Yorke-Ban nerman ? 
 
 I looked up as much of the case as I could, in unobtru- 
 sive ways, among the old law-reports, and found that the 
 barrister who had had charge of the defence was my father's 
 old friend, Mr. Horace Mayfield, a man of elegant tastes, 
 and the means to gratify them. 
 
 I went to call on him on Sunday evening at his artistic- 
 ally luxurious house in Onslow Gardens. A sedate foot- 
 man answered the bell. Fortunately, Mr. Mayfield was at 
 home, and, what is rarer, disengaged. You do not always 
 find a successful Q.C. at his ease among his books, beneath 
 the electric light, ready to give up a vacant hour to friendly 
 colloquy. 
 
 • Remember Yorke-Bannerman's case ? ' he said, a huge 
 smile breaking slowly like a wave over his genial fat face — 
 Horace Mayfield resembles a great good-humoured toad, 
 with bland manners and a capacious double chin — ' I should 
 just say I did ! Bless my soul — why, yes,' he beamed, ' I 
 was Yorke-Bannerman's counsel. Excellent fellow, Yorke- 
 Bannerman — most unfortunate end, though — precious clever 
 
1 64 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 chap, too ! Had an astounding memory. Recollected every 
 symptom of every patient he ever attended. And such an 
 eye ! Diagnosis ? It was clairvoyance ! A gift — no less. 
 Knew what was the matter with you the moment he looked 
 at you.' 
 
 That sounded like Hilda. The same surprising power 
 of recalling facts : the same keen faculty for interpreting 
 character or the signs of feeling. ' He poisoned somebody, 
 I believe,' I murmured, casually. ' An uncle of his, or some- 
 thing.' 
 
 Mayfield's great squat face wrinkled : the double chin, 
 folding down on the neck, became more ostentatiously double 
 than ever. ' Well, I can't admit that,' he said, in his suave 
 voice, twirling the string of hii, eye-glass. ' I was Yorke- 
 Bannerman's advocate, you see ; and therefore I was paid 
 not to admit it. Besides, he was a friend of mine, and I 
 always liked him. But I ivill allow that the case did look 
 a trifle black against him.' 
 
 ' Ha ? Looked black, did it ? ' I faltered. 
 
 The judicious barrister shrugged his shoulders. A genial 
 smile spread oilily once more over his smooth face. ' None 
 of my business to say so,' he answered, puckering the corners 
 of his eyes. * Still, it was a long time ago : and the circum- 
 stances certainly were suspicious. Perhaps on the whole, 
 Hubert, it was just as well the poor fellow died before the 
 trial came off: otherwise' — he pouted his lips — * I might 
 have had my work cut out to save him.' And he eyed the 
 blue china gods on the mantelpiece affectionately. 
 
 ' 1 believe the Crown urged money as the motive,' I 
 suggested. 
 
 Mayfield glanced inquiry at me. ' Now, why do you 
 want to know all this?' he asked, in a suspicious voice, 
 coming back from his dragons. * It is irregular, very, ic 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE PCSTAIARK 165 
 
 worm information out of an innocent barrister in his hours 
 of ease about a former client. We are a guileless race, we 
 lawyers : don't abuse- our confidence.' 
 
 He seemed an honest man, I thought, in spite of his 
 mocking tone. I trusted him, and made a clean breast of 
 it. * I believe,' I answered, with an impressive little pause, 
 ' I want to marry Yorke-Bannerman's daughter.' 
 
 He gave a quick start. • What, Maisie?' he exclaimed. 
 
 I shook my head. ' No, no ; that is not the name,' I 
 replied. 
 
 He hesitated a moment. * But there is no other,' he 
 hazarded cautiously at last. ' I knew the family.' 
 
 * I am not sure of it,' I went on. ' i have merely my 
 suspicions. I am in love with a girl, and something about 
 her makes me think she is probably a Yorke-Bannerman.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Hubert, if that is so,' the great lawyer 
 went on, waving me off with one fat hand, ' it must be at 
 once apparent to you that / am the last person on earth to 
 whom yoi. ought to apply for information. Remember my 
 oath. The practice of our clan : the seal of secrecy ! ' 
 
 I was frank once more. ' I do not know whether the 
 lady I mean is or is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter,' I 
 persisted. ' She may be, and she may not. She gives 
 another name — that's certain. But whether she is or isn't, 
 one thing I know — I mean to marry her. I believe in her : 
 I trust her. I only seek to gain this information now 
 because 1 don't know where she is — and I want to track 
 her.' 
 
 He crossed his big hands with an air of Christian resig- 
 nation, and looked up at the panels of the coffered ceiling. 
 ' In that,' he answered, ' I may honestly say, I can't help 
 you. Humbug apart, I have not known Mrs. Yorke-Banner- 
 man's address — or Maisie's either — ever since my poor 
 
 II: 
 
 ^J 
 
 \ , 
 
1 66 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 
 friend's death. Prudent woman, Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman ! 
 She went away, I believe, to somewhere in North Wales, 
 and afterwards to Brittany. But she probably changed her 
 name : and — she did not confide in me.' 
 
 I went on to ask him a few questions about the case, 
 premising that I did so in the most friendly spirit. * Oh, I 
 can only tell you what is publicly known,* he answered, 
 beaming, with the usual professional pretence of the most 
 sphinx-like reticence. * But the plain facts, as universally 
 admitted, were these. I break no confidence. Yorke- 
 Bannerman had a rich uncle from whom he had expecta- 
 tions — a certain Admiral Scott Prideaux. This uncle had 
 lately made a will in Yorke-Bannerman's favour ; but he 
 was a cantankerous old chap — naval, you know — autocratic 
 — crusty — given to changing his mind with each change of 
 the wind, and easily offended by his relations — the sort of 
 cheerful old party who makes a new will once every month, 
 disinheriting the nephew he last dined with. Well, one day 
 the Admiral was taken ill at his own house, and Yorke- 
 Bannerman attended him. Our contention was — I speak 
 now as my old friend's counsel — that Scott Prideaux, getting 
 as tired of life as we were all tired of him, and weary of this 
 recurrent worry of will-making, determined at last to clear 
 out for good from a world where he was so little appreciated, 
 and, therefore, tried to poison himself.' 
 
 * With aconitine ? ' I suggested, eagerly. 
 
 ' Unfortunately, yes : he made use of aconitine for that 
 otherwise laudable purpose. Now, as ill luck would have 
 it ' — Mayfield's wrinkles deepened — ' Yorke-Bannerman and 
 Sebastian, then two rising doctors engaged in physiological 
 researches together, had hist been occupied in experimenting 
 upon this very drug — testing the use of aconitine — indeed, 
 you will no doubt remember ' — he crossed his fat hands 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 167 
 
 again comfortably — * it was these precise researches on a 
 then little -known poison that first brought Sebastian 
 prominently before the p.iblic. What was the consequence ? ' 
 His smooth, persuasive voice flowed on as if I were a 
 concentrated jury. * The Admiral grew rapidly worse, and 
 insisted upon calling in a second opinion. No doubt he 
 
 THE ADMIRAL WAS TAKEN ILL. 
 
 didn't like the aconitine when it came to the pinch — for it 
 does pinch, I can tell you — and repented him of his evil. 
 Yorke-Bannerman suggested Sebastian as the second 
 opinion ; the uncle acquiesced ; Sebastian was called in, and, 
 of course, being fresh from his researches, immediately 
 recognised the symptoms of aconitine poisoning.' 
 
 * What, Sebastian found it out ? ' I cried, starting. 
 
 ' Oh yes. Sebastian. He watched the case from that 
 
 ^ 
 
1 68 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 point to the end ; and the oddest part of it all was this — 
 that though he communicated with the police, and himself 
 prepared every morsel of food that the poor old Admiral 
 took from that moment forth, the symptoms continually 
 increased in severity. The police contention was that Yorke- 
 Bannerman somehow managed to put the stuff into the milk 
 beforehand ; my own theory was — as counsel for the 
 accused ' — he blinked his fat eyes — * that old Prideaux had 
 concealed a large quantity of aconitine in the bed, before 
 his illness, and went on taking it from time to time — just to 
 spite his nephew.' 
 
 * And you believe that, Mr. Mayfield ? ' 
 
 The broad smile broke concentrically in ripples over the 
 great lawyer's face. His smile was Mayfield's main feature. 
 He shrugged his shoulders and expanded his big hands wide 
 open before him. * My dear Hubert,' he said, with a most 
 humorous expression of countenance, * you are a professional 
 man yourself: therefore you know that every profession has 
 its own little courtesies — its own small fictions. I was 
 Yorke-Bannerman's counsel as well as his friend. 'Tis a 
 point of honour with us that no barrister will ever admit a 
 doubt as to a client's innocence — is he not paid to maintain 
 it ? — and to my dying day I will constantly maintain that 
 old Prideaux poisoned himself. Maintain it with that 
 dogged and meaningless obstinacy with which we always 
 cling to whatever is least provable. . . . Oh yes. He 
 poisoned himself. And Yorke-Bannerman was innocent. . . . 
 But still, you know, it was the sort of case where an acute 
 lawyer, with a reputation to make, would prefer to be for the 
 Crown rather than for the prisoner.' 
 
 * But it was never tried,' I ejaculated. 
 
 * No, happily for us, it was never tried. Fortune favoured 
 us. Yorke-Bannerman had a weak heart, a conveniently 
 
THE LETTER WITH liASJA'GSTOKE POSTMAKK 169 
 
 i 
 
 f 
 
 A 
 
 weak heart, vvhi'^:h the inquest sorely affected : and jesides, 
 he was deeply angry at what he persisted in calling Sebastian's 
 defection. He evidently thought Sebastian ought to have 
 stood by him. His colleague preferred the claims of public 
 duty — as he understood them, I mean — to those of private 
 friendship. It was a very sad case — for Yorke-Bannerman 
 was really a charming fellow. But I confess I ivas relieved 
 when he died unexpectedly on the morning of his arrest. 
 It took off my shoulders a most serious burden.' 
 
 * You think, then, the case would have gone against 
 him?' 
 
 ' My dear Hubert,' his whole face puckered with an 
 indulgent smile. ' Of course the case must have gone against 
 us. Juries are fools, but they are not such fools as to 
 swallow everything — like ostriches : to let me throw dust in 
 their eyes about so plain an issue. Consider the facts, 
 consider them impartially: Yorke-Bannerman had easy 
 access to aconitine, had whole ounces of it in his possession : 
 he treated the uncle from whom he was to inherit : he was 
 in temporary embarrassments — that came out at the inquest : 
 it was known that the Admiral had just made a twenty-third 
 will in his favour, and that the Admiral's wills were liable to 
 alteration every time a nephew ventured upon an opinion in 
 politics, religion, science, navigation, or the right card at 
 whist, differing by a shade from that of the uncle. The 
 Admiral died of aconitine poisoning : and Sebastian observed 
 and detailed the symptoms. Could anything be plainer — I 
 mean, could any combination of fortuitous circumstances ' — 
 he blinked pleasantly again — ' be more adverse to an advocate 
 sincerely convinced of his client's innocence — as a professional 
 duty ? ' And he gazed at me comically. 
 
 The more he piled up the case against the man who I 
 now felt sure was Hilda's father, the less did I believe him. 
 
 
 f 
 
I70 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 A dark conspiracy seemed to loom up in the background. 
 * Has it ever occurred to you,* I asked at last, in a very 
 tentative tone, * that perhaps — I throw out the hint as the 
 merest suggestion — perhaps it may have been Sebastian 
 who * 
 
 I THOUGHT HIS SMILE WOULD SWALLOW HIM. 
 
 He smiled this time till I thought his smile would 
 swallow him. 
 
 * If Yorke-Bannerman had not been my client,' he mused 
 aloud, * I might have been inclined to suspect rather that 
 Sebastian aided him to avoid justice by giving him some- 
 thing violent to take, if he wished it : something which 
 might accelerate the inevitable action of the heart-disease 
 from which he was suffering. Isn't that more likely ? ' 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 171 
 
 I saw there was nothing further to be got out of May- 
 field. His opinion was fixed : he was a placid ruminant. 
 But he had given me already much food for thought. I 
 thanked him for his assistance, and returned on foot to my 
 rooms at the hospital. 
 
 I was now, however, in a somewhat different position 
 for tracking Hilda from that which I occupied before my 
 interview with the famous counsel. I felt certain by this 
 time that Hilda Wade and Maisie Yorke-Bannerman were one 
 and the same person. To be sure, it gave me a twinge to think 
 that Hilda should be masquerading under an assumed name: 
 but I waived that question for the moment, and awaited her 
 explanations. The great point now was to find Hilda. She 
 was flying from Sebastian to mature a new plan. But 
 whither ? I proceeded to argue it out on her own principles, 
 oh, how lamely ! The world is still so big ! Mauritius, the 
 Argentine, British Columbia, New Zealand I 
 
 The letter I had received bore the Basingstoke post- 
 mark. Now, a person may be passing Basingstoke on his 
 way either to Southampton or Plymouth, both of which are 
 ports of embarkation for various foreign countries. I attached 
 importance to that clue. Something about the tone of 
 Hilda's letter made me realise that she intended to put the 
 sea between us. In concluding so much, I felt sure I was 
 not mistaken. Hilda had too big and too cosmopolitan a 
 mind to speak of being * irrevocably far from London,' if she 
 were only going to some town in England, or even to 
 Normandy or the Channel Islands. ' Irrevocably far ' 
 pointed rather to a destination outside Europe altogether — to 
 India, Africa, America, not to Jersey, Dieppe, or Saint-Malo. 
 
 Was it Southampton or Plymouth to which she was first 
 bound ? — that was the next question. I inclined to South- 
 ampton. For the sprawling lines (so different from her 
 
 
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 HILDA WADE 
 
 usual neat hand) were written hurriedly in a train, I could 
 see : and on consulting Bradshaw, I found that the Plymouth 
 expresses stop longest at Salisbury, where Hilda would 
 therefore have been likely to post her note if she were going 
 to the far west : while some of the Southampton trains stop 
 at Basingstoke, which is indeed the most convenient point 
 on that route for sending off a letter. This was mere blind 
 guess-work, to be sure, compared with Hilda's immediate 
 and unerring intuition : but it had some probability in its 
 favour, at any rate. Try both : of the two, she was likelier 
 to be going to Southampton. 
 
 My next move was to consult the list of outgoing 
 steamers. Hilda had left London on a Saturday morning. 
 Now, on alternate Saturdays, the steamers of the Castle Line 
 sail from Southampton, where they call to take up passengers 
 and mails. Was this one of these alternate Saturdays? 
 I looked at the list of dates : it was. That told further in 
 favour of Southampton. But did any steamer of any 
 passenger line sail from Plymouth on the same day ? 
 None, that I could find. Or from Southampton elsewhere ? 
 I looked them all up. The Royal Mail Company's boats 
 start on Wednesdays : the North German Lloyd's on 
 Wednesdays and Sundays. Those were the only likely 
 vessels I could discover. Either, then, I concluded, Hilda 
 meant to sail on Saturday by the Castle Line for South 
 Africa, or else on Sunday by North German Lloyd for some 
 part of America. 
 
 How I longed for one hour of Hilda to help me out 
 w^'th her almost infallible instinct. 1 realised how feeble and 
 fallacious was my own groping in the dark. Her know- 
 ledge of temperament would have revealed to her at once 
 what I was trying to discover, like the police she despised, 
 by the clumsy * clues ' which so roused her sarcasm. 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 173 
 
 However, I went to bed and slept on it. Next morning, 
 I determined to set out for Southampton on a tour of 
 inquiry to all the steamboat agencies. If that failed, I 
 could go on to Plymouth. 
 
 But, as chance would have i^ the morning post brought 
 me an unexpected letter, which helped me not a little in 
 unravelling the problem. It was a crumpled letter, written 
 
 THE BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK. 
 
 
 on rather soiled paper, in an uneducated hand, and it bore, 
 like Hilda's, the Basingstoke postmark. 
 
 ' Charlotte Churtwood sends her duty to Dr. Cumber- 
 ledge,* it said, with somewhat uncertain spelling, ' and I am 
 very sorry that I was not able to Post the letter to you in 
 London, as the lady ast me, but after her train ad left has I 
 was stepping into mine the Ingine started and I was knocked 
 down and badly hurt and the lady give me a half-sovering 
 to Post it in London has soon as I got there but bein 
 unable to do so I now return it dear sir not knowing the 
 lady's name and adress she having trusted me through seeing 
 
174 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 me on the platform, and perhaps you can send it back to 
 her, and was very sorry I could not Post it were she ast me, 
 but time bein an objeck put it in the box in Basingstoke 
 station and row inclose post office order for ten Shillings 
 whitch dear sir kindly let the young lady have from your 
 obedient servant, Charlotte Churtwood.' In the corner was 
 the address, ' 1 1 Chubb's Cottages, Basingstoke.' 
 
 The happy accident of this letter advanced things for 
 me greatly — though it also made me feel how dependent I 
 was upon happy accidents, where Hilda would have guessed 
 right at once by mere knowledge of character. Still, the 
 letter explained many things which had hitherto puzzled me. 
 I had felt not a little surprise that Hilda, wishing to with- 
 draw from me and leave no traces, should have sent off her 
 farewell letter from Basingstoke — so as to let me see at 
 once in what direction she was travelling. Nay, I even 
 wondered at times whether she had really posted it herself 
 at Basingstoke, or given it to somebody who chanced to be 
 going there to post for her as a blind. But I did not think she 
 would deliberately deceive me ; and, in my opinion, to get a 
 letter posted at Basingstoke would be deliberate deception, 
 while to get it posted in London was mere vague precaution. 
 I understood now that she had written it in the train, and 
 then picked out a likely person as she passed to take it to 
 Waterloo for her. 
 
 Of course I went straight down to Basingstoke, and 
 called at once at Chubb's Cottages. It was a squalid little 
 row on the outskirts of the town. I found Charlotte Churt- 
 wood herself exactly such a girl as Hilda, with her quick 
 judgment of character, might have hit upon for such a 
 purpose. She was a conspicuously honest and transparent 
 country servant, of the lumpy type, on her way to London 
 to take a place as housemaid. Her injuries were severe, but 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 175 
 
 not dangerous. * The lady saw me on the platform/ she 
 said, • and beckoned to me to come to her. She ast me 
 where I was going, and I says, " To London, miss." Says 
 she, smiling kind-likej " Could you post a letter for me, certain 
 
 SHE AST ME VVUEKK I WAS GOING. 
 
 sure ? " Says I, " You can depend upon me." An' then 
 she give me the arf-sovering, an' says, says she, " Mind, it's 
 very partickler : if the gentleman don't get it, 'e'll fret 'is 
 'eart out." An' through 'aving a young man o' my own, as 
 
176 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 is a groom at Andover, o' course I understood *er, sir. An' 
 then, feeling all full of it, as you may say, what with the arf- 
 sovering, and what with one thing and what with another, 
 an' all of a fluster with not being used to travelling, I 
 run up, when the train for London come in, an' tried to 
 scramble into it, afore it 'ad quite stopped moving. An' a 
 guard, 'e rushes up, an' " Stand back ! " says 'e ; " wait till 
 the train stops ! " says 'e, an' waves his red flag at me. But 
 afore I could stand back, with one foot on the step, the 
 train sort of jumped away from me, and knocked me down 
 like this : and they say it'll be a week now afore I'm well 
 enough to go on to London. But I posted the letter all the 
 same, at Basingstoke station, as they was carrying me off : 
 an' I took down the address, so as to return the arf-sovering.* 
 
 Hilda was right, as always. She had chosen instinctively 
 the trustworthy person. Chosen her at first sight, and hit 
 the bull's-eye. 
 
 * Do you know what train the lady was in ? ' I asked, as 
 she paused. * Where was it going, did you notice ? ' 
 
 ' It was the Southampton train, sir. I saw the board on 
 the carriage.' 
 
 That settled the question. 'You are a good and an 
 honest girl,' I said, pulling out my purse : * and you came to 
 this misfortune through trying — too eagerly — to help the 
 young lady. A ten-pound note is not over-much as com- 
 pensation for your accident. Take it, and get well. I 
 should be sorry to think you lost a good place through your 
 anxiety to help us.' 
 
 The rest of my way was plain sailing now. I hurried 
 on straight to Southampton. There, my first visit was to 
 the office of the Castle Line. I went to the point at once. 
 Was there a Miss Wade among the passengers by the 
 Dunottar Castle ? 
 
m 
 
 THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 177 
 
 No : nobody of that name on the h'st. 
 
 Had any lady taken a passage at the last moment ? 
 
 The clerk perpended. Yes : a lady had come by the 
 mail train from London, with no heavy baggage, and had 
 gone on board direct, taking what cabin she could get. A 
 young lady in grey. Quite unprepared. Gave no name. 
 Called away in a hurry. 
 
 What sort of lady ? 
 
 Youngish : good-looking : brown hair and eyes, the clerk 
 thought : a sort of creamy skin : and a — well, a mesmeric 
 kind of glance that seemed to go right through you. 
 
 'That will do,' I answered, sure now of my quarry. 
 * To which port did she book ? ' 
 
 ' To Cape Town.* 
 
 ' Very well,' I said, promptly. * You may reserve me a 
 good berth in the next outgoing steamer.' 
 
 It was just like Hilda's impulsive character to rush off 
 in this way at a moment's notice. And just like mine to 
 follow her. But it piqued me a little to think that but for 
 the accident of an accident I might never have tracked her 
 down. If the letter had been posted in London as she 
 intended, and not at Basingstoke, I might have sought in 
 vain for her from then till Doomsday. 
 
 Ten days later, I was afloat on the Channel, bound for 
 South Africa. 
 
 I always admired Hilda's astonishing insight into char- 
 acter and motive : but I never admired it quite so profoundly 
 as on the glorious day when we arrived at Cape Town. I 
 was standing on deck, looking out for the first time in my 
 life on that tremendous view — the steep and massive bulk of 
 Table Mountain, a mere lump of rock, dropped loose from 
 the sky, with the long white town spread gleaming at its 
 base, and the silver-tree plantations that cling to its lower 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 slopes and merge by degrees into gardens and vineyards — 
 when a messenger from the shore came up to me tentatively. 
 
 ' Dr. Cumberledge ? * he said, in an inquiring tone. 
 
 I nodded. ' That is my name.* 
 
 * I have a letter for you, sir.' 
 
 I took it, in great surprise. Who on earth in Cape Town 
 could have known I was coming ? I had not a friend to my 
 knowledge in the colony. I glanced at the envelope. My 
 wonder deepened. That prescient brain ! It was in Hilda's 
 handwriting. 
 
 I tore it open and read : 
 
 • My dear Hubert — I knoiv you will come : I knoiu 
 you will follow me. So I am leaving this letter at Donald 
 Currie and Co.'s office, giving their agent instructions to 
 hand it to you as soon as you reach Cape Town. I am 
 quite sure you will track me so far at least : I understand 
 your temperament. But I beg you, I implore you, to go no 
 further. You will ruin my plan if you do. And 1 still 
 adhere to it. It is good of you to come so far : I cannot 
 blame you for that. I know your motives. But do not try 
 to find me out. I warn you beforehand, it will be quite 
 useless. I have made up my mind. I have an object in life, 
 and dear as you are to me — that I will not pretend to deny 
 — I can never allow even you to interfere with it. So be 
 warned in time. Go back quietly by the next steamer. — 
 Your ever attached and grateful, HILDA.' 
 
 I read it twice through with a little thrill of joy. Did 
 any man ever court so strange a love ? Her very strangeness 
 drew me. But go back by the next steamer ! I felt sure 
 of one thing : Hilda was far too good a judge of character 
 to believe that I was likely to obey that mandate. 
 
 I will not trouble you with the remaining stages of my 
 
^ 
 
 THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 179 
 
 % 
 
 quest. Except for the slowness of South African mail 
 coaches, they were comparatively easy. It is not so hard 
 to track strangers in Cape Town as strangers in London. 
 I followed Hilda to ber hotel, and from her hotel up country, 
 stage after stage — jolted by rail, worse jolted by mule- 
 waggon — inquiring, inquiring, inquiring — till I learned at 
 last she was somewhere in Rhodesia. 
 
 That is a big address ; but it does not cover as many 
 names as it covers square miles. In time, I found her. 
 Still, it took time : and before we met, Hilda had had 
 leisure to settle down quietly to her new existence. People 
 in Rhodesia had noted her coming, as a new portent, because 
 of one strange peculiarity. She was the only woman of means 
 who had ever gone up of her own free will to Rhodesia. 
 Other women had gone there to accompany their husbands, 
 or to earn their livings : but that a lady should freely select 
 that half-baked land as a place of residence — a lady of 
 position with all the world before her where to choose — that 
 puzzled the Rhodesians. So she was a marked person. 
 Most people solved the vexed problem, indeed, by suggesting 
 that she had designs against the stern celibacy of a leading 
 South African poHtician. • Depend upon it,' they said, * it's 
 Rhodes she's after.' The moment I arrived at Salisbury and 
 stated my object in coming, all the world in the new town 
 was ready to assist me. The lady was to be found (vaguely 
 speaking) on a young farm to the north — a budding farm 
 whose general direction was expansively indicated to me 
 by a wave of the arm, with South African uncertainty. 
 
 I bought a pony at Salisbury — a pretty little seasoned 
 sorrel mare — and set out to find Hilda. My way lay over a 
 brand-new road — or what passes for a road in South Africa 
 — very soft and lumpy, like an English cart-track. I am a 
 fair cross-country rider in our own Midlands, but I never 
 
¥ 
 
 i8o 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 rode a more tedious journey than that one. I had crawled 
 several miles under a blazing sun along the shadeless new 
 track, on my African pony, when to my surprise I saw, of 
 all sights in the world, a bicycle coming towards me. 
 
 I could hardly believe my eyes. Civilisation indeed ! 
 A bicycle in these remotect wilds of Africa I 
 
 4 
 
 n 
 
 ..^JL 
 
 «■/• ■' 
 
 
 > ' 
 
 •) .^'c 
 
 I COULD I .RDLY BELIEVE MY EYES. 
 
 I had been picking my way for some hours through a 
 desolate plateau — the high veldt — about five thousand feet 
 above the sea level, and entirely treeless. In places, to be 
 sure, a few low bushes of prickly aspect rose in tangled 
 clumps ; but for the most part the arid table-land was 
 covered by a thick growth of short brown grass, about nine 
 inches high, burnt up in the sun, and most wearisome to 
 look at. The distressing nakedness of a new country 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK i8i 
 
 I 
 
 confronted mc. Here and there a bald farm or two had 
 been literally pegged out — the pegs were almost all one 
 saw of them as yet : the fields were in the future. Here 
 and there, again, a scattered range of low granite hills, 
 known locally as kopjes — red, rocky prominences, flaunting 
 in the sunshine — diversified the distance. But the road 
 itself, such as it was, lay all on the high plain, looking down 
 now and again into gorges or kloofs, wooded on their slopes 
 with scrubby trees, and comparatively well-watered. In the 
 midst of all this crude, unfinished land the mere sight of a 
 bicycle, bumping over the rubbly road, was a sufficient 
 surprise: but my astonishment reached a climax when I 
 saw as it drew near that it was ridden by a woman ! 
 
 One moment later I had burst into a wild cry, and rode 
 forward to her hurriedly. * Hilda ! ' I shouted aloud in my 
 excitement, ' Hilda ! ' 
 
 She stepped lightly from her pedals as if it had been in 
 the park : head erect and proud : eyes liquid, lustrous. I 
 dismounted, trembling, and stood beside her. In the wild 
 joy of the moment, for the first time in my life, I kissed her 
 fervently. Hilda took the kiss, unreproving. She did not 
 attempt to refuse me. 
 
 ' So you have come at last ! ' she murmured, with a glow 
 on her face, half nestling towards me, half withdrawing, as if 
 two wills tore her in different directions. ' I have been 
 expecting you for some days, and somehow, to-day, I v/as 
 almost certain you were coming ! ' 
 
 ' Then you are not angry with me ? ' I cried. * You 
 remember, you forbade me ! ' 
 
 * Angry with you ? Dear Hubert, could I ever be angry 
 with you, especially for thus showing me your devotion and 
 your trust ? I am never angry with you. When one knows, 
 one understands. I have thought of you so often : sometimes. 
 
 I 
 
1 82 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 alone here in this raw new land, I have longed for you to 
 come. It is inconsistent of me, of course : but I am so 
 solitary, so lonely ! ' 
 
 * And yet you begged me not to follow you ! ' 
 
 She looked up at me shyly — I was not accustomed to 
 see Hilda shy. Her eyes gazed deep into mine beneath 
 the long soft lashes. * I begged you not to follow mc,' she 
 repeated, a strange gladness in her tone. 'Yes, dear Hubert, 
 I begged you — and I meant it. Cannot you understand 
 that sometimes one hopes a thing may never happen — 
 and is supremely happy because it happens in spite of one ? 
 I have a purpose in life for which I live : I live for it still : 
 for its sake I told you you must not come to me. Yet you 
 
 have come against my orders : and * she paused and 
 
 drew a deep sigh — ' oh, Hubert, I thank you for daring to 
 disobey me.* 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom. She allowed me, half 
 resisting. ' I am too weak,' she murmured. * Only this* 
 morning I made up my mind that when I saw you I would 
 implore you to return at once. And now that you are 
 
 here ' she laid her little hand confidingly in mine — 
 
 ' see how foolish I am ! — I cannot dismiss you.* 
 
 * Which means to say, Hilda, that after all you are still a 
 woman ! ' 
 
 * A woman : oh yes : very much a woman ! Hubert, I 
 love you : I half wish I did not.* 
 
 * Why, darling ? * I drew her to me. 
 
 ' Because — if I did not, I could send you away — so 
 easily ! As it is — I cannot let you stop — and ... I cannot 
 dismiss you.' 
 
 ' Then divide it,' I cried gaily : ' do neither : come away 
 with me ! ' 
 
 * No, no : nor that either. I will not stultify my 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTAfARK 183 
 
 whole past life : I will not dishonour my dear father's 
 memory.' 
 
 I looked around for something to which to tether my 
 horse. A bridle is in one's way — when one has to discuss 
 important business. There was really nothing about that 
 seemed fit for the purpose. Hilda saw what I sought, and 
 pointed mutely to a stunted bush beside a big granite 
 boulder which rose abruptly from the dead level of the grass, 
 affording a little shade from that sweltering sunlight. I tied 
 my mare to the gnarled root — it was the only part big 
 enough — and sat down by Hilda's side under the shadow of 
 a great rock in a thirsty land. I realised at that moment 
 the force and appropriateness of the Psalmist's simile. The 
 sun beat fiercely on the seeding grasses. Away on the 
 southern horizon we could faintly perceive the floating 
 yellow haze of the prairie fires lit by the Mashonas. 
 
 * Then you knew I would co/tk- ? ' \ began, as she seated 
 herself on the burnt-up herbage, while . 1/ hand stole into 
 hers to nestle there natura 'v. 
 
 She pressed it in return. ' Oh yes, I kncv\ yoC ifould 
 come,' she answered, with that strange t\n^ of confidcnet 'n 
 her voice. * Of course y^ ii got my letter at k "(/*- '^nwn ? ' 
 
 * I did, Hila — and I wondeted ^t you more thai') *ivcr 
 as I read it. But if you kneiv I -wotild come, vhy write to 
 prevent me ? ' 
 
 Her eyes had their mysterious far-away air. She lookcccf 
 out upon infinity. 'Well, I wanted to do my c^,--^ to \.m.\ 
 you aside,' she said, slowly. ' One must always Ao one's 
 best, even when one feels and believes it is useless. That 
 surely is the first clause in a doctor's or a nurse's rubric' 
 
 'But why didn't you want me to come?' I persisted 
 'Why fight against your own heart? Hilda, I am sure - 
 I kr ow you love me.' 
 
i84 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes dilated. 'Love 
 you ? ' she cried, looking away over the bushy ridges, as if 
 afraid to trust herself. ' Oh yes, Hubert, I love you. It is 
 not for that that I wish to avoid you. Or rather, it is just 
 because of that. I cannot endure to spoil your life — by a 
 fruitless affection.' 
 
 .0m 
 0"d 
 
 THEN you KNEW I WOULD COME ? 
 
 ' Why fruitless ? ' I asked, leaning forward. 
 
 She crossed her hands resignedly. * You know all by 
 this time,' she answered. * Sebastian would tell you, of 
 course, when you went to announce that you were leaving 
 Nathaniel's. He could not do otherwise : it is the outcome 
 of his temperament — an integral part of his nature.' 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 185 
 
 \ 
 
 ' Hilda,' I cried, * you are a witch ! How could you 
 know that? 1 can't imagine.' 
 
 She smiled her restrained Chaldean smile. • Because I 
 know Sebastian,' she Answered, quietly. * I can read that 
 man to the core. He is simple as a book. His composition 
 is plain, straightforward, quite natural, uniform. There are 
 no twists and turns in him. Once learn the key, and it 
 discloses everything, like an open sesame I He has a gigantic 
 intellect, a burning thirst for knowledge : one love, one 
 hobby — science : and no moral instincts. He goes straight 
 for his ends : and whatever comes in his way,' she dug her 
 little heel in the brown soil, 'he tramples on it as ruthlessly 
 as a child will trample on a worm or a beetle.' 
 
 * And yet,' I said, ' he is so great.' 
 
 'Yes, great I grant you, but the easiest character to 
 unravel that I have ever met : it is calm, austere, unbending, 
 yet not in the least degree complex. He has the impassioned 
 temperament, pushed to its highest pitch : the temperament 
 that runs deep, with irresistible force : but the passion that 
 inspires him, that carries him away headlong, as love carries 
 some men — is a rare and abstract one — the passion of 
 science.' 
 
 T gazed at her as she spoke, with a feeling akin to awe. 
 ' It must destroy the plot-interest of life for you, Hilda,' I 
 cried — out there in the vast void of that wild African plateau 
 — *to foresee so well what each person will do — how each 
 will act under such given circumstances.' 
 
 She pulled a bent of grass and plucked off its dry spike- 
 lets one by one. ' Perhaps so,' she answered, after a medita- 
 tive pause ; ' though, of course, all natures are not equally 
 simple. Only with great souls can you be sure beforehand 
 like that, for good or for evil. It is essential to anything 
 worth calling character that one should be able to predict 
 
 
1 86 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 91 
 
 in what way it will act under given circumstances— -to feel 
 certain, " This man will do nothing small or mean," " That 
 one could never act dishonestly, or speak deceitfully." But 
 smaller natures are more complex. They defy analysis, 
 because their motives are not consistent.' 
 
 * Most people think to be complex is to be great,' I 
 objected. 
 
 She shook her head. ' That is quite a mistake,' she 
 answered. * Great natures are simple and relatively predict- 
 able, since their motives balance one another justly. Small 
 natures are complex and hard to predict, because small 
 passions, small jealousies, small discords and perturbations 
 come in at all moments, and override for a time the per- 
 manent underlying factors of character. Great natures, good 
 or bad, are equably poised : small natures let petty motives 
 intervene to upset their balance.' 
 
 * Then you knew I would come,' I exclaimed, half pleased 
 to find I belonged inferentially to her higher category. 
 
 Her eyes beamed on me with a beautiful light. ' Knew 
 you would come ? Oh yes. I begged you not to come : 
 but I felt sure you were too deeply in earnest to obey me. 
 I asked a friend in Cape Town to telegraph your arrival : 
 and almost ever since the telegram reached me I have been 
 expecting you and awaiting you.' 
 
 ' So you believed in me ? ' 
 
 * Implicitly — as you in me. That is the worst of it, 
 Hubert. If you did not believe in me I could have told you 
 all — and then, you would have left me. But, as it is, you 
 know all — and yet, you want to cling to me.' 
 
 ' You know I know all — because Sebastian told me ? ' 
 ' Yes : and I think I even know how you answered him.' 
 ' How ? ' 
 She paused. The calm smile lighted up her face once 
 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 187 
 
 more. Then she drew out a pencil. ' You think life must 
 lack plot-interest for me,' she began, slowly, ' because, with 
 certain natures, I can partially guess beforehand what is 
 coming. But have you not observed that, in reading a 
 novel, part of the pleasure you feel arises from your conscious 
 anticipation of the end, and your satisfaction in seeing that 
 you anticipated correctly? Or part, sometimes, from the 
 occasional unexpectedness of the real denouement? Well, 
 life is like that. I enjoy observing my successes, and, in a 
 way, my failures. Let me show you what I mean. I think 
 I know what you said to Sebastian — not the words, of 
 course, but the purport : and I will write it down now for 
 you. Set down your version, too. And then we will com- 
 pare them.' 
 
 It was a crucial test. We both wrote for a minute or 
 two. Somehow, in Hilda's presence, I forgot at once the 
 strangeness of the scene, the weird oddity of the moment. 
 That sombre plain disappeared for me. I was only aware 
 that I was with Hilda once more — and therefore in Paradise. 
 Pison and Gihon watered the desolate land. Whatever she 
 did seemed to me supremely right. If she had proposed to 
 me to begin a ponderous work on Medical Jurisprudence 
 under the shadow of the big rock, I should have begun it 
 incontinently. 
 
 She handed me her slip of paper ; I took it and read, 
 • Sebastian told you I was Dr. Yorke-Bannerman's daughter. 
 And you answered, " If so, Yorke-Bannerman was innocent, 
 and you are the poisoner." Is not that correct ? ' 
 
 I handed her in answer my own paper. She read it 
 with a faint flush. When she came to the words, • Either 
 she is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter; or else, Yorke- 
 Bannerman was not a poisoner, and some one else was — I 
 might put a name to him,' she rose to her feet with a great 
 
 ' i! 
 
 1;, 
 
 Hill 
 
1 88 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 rush of long-suppressed feeling and clasped me passionately. 
 ' My Hubert,' she cried, ' I read you aright. I knew it ! I 
 was sure of you ! ' 
 
 MY HUBERT. 
 
 I folded her in my arms, there on the rusty-red South 
 African desert. ' Then, Hilda dear,' I murmured, ' you will 
 consent to marry me ? ' 
 
 The words brought her back to herself. She unfolded 
 
THE LETTER WITH BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK 189 
 
 my arms with slow reluctance. * No, dearest/ she said, 
 earnestly, with a face where pride fought hard against love. 
 * That is why above all things I did not want you to follow 
 me. I love you ; I trust you : you love me ; you trust me. 
 But I never will marry any one till I have succeeded in clear- 
 ing my father's memory. I know he did not do it : I know 
 Sebastian did. But that is not enough. I must prove it, I 
 must prove it ! ' 
 
 ' I believe it already,' I answered. * What need then to 
 prove it ? ' 
 
 ' To you, Hubert ? Oh no, not to you. There, I am 
 safe. But to the world that condemned him. Condemned 
 him untried. I must vindicate him : I must clear him 1 ' 
 
 I bent my face close to hers. * But may I not marry 
 you first ? ' I asked — ' and after that, I can help you to clear 
 him.' 
 
 She gazed at me fearlessly. ' No, no,' she cried, clasping 
 her hands ; * much as I love you, dear Hubert, I cannot 
 consent to it. I am too proud, too proud ! I will not allow 
 the world to say — not even to say falsely ' — her face flushed 
 crimson ; her voice dropped low — * I will not allow them 
 to say those hateful words, " He married a murderer's 
 daughter." ' 
 
 I bowed my head. ' As you will, my darling,' I answered. 
 • I am content to wait. I trust you in this too. Some day, 
 we will prove it.* 
 
 And all this time, preoccupied as I was with these deeper 
 concerns, I had not even asked where Hilda lived or what 
 she was doing ! 
 
 i ; 
 
VII 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 Hilda took me back with her to the embryo farm where 
 she had pitched her tent for the moment : a rough, wild 
 place : it lay close to the main road from Salisbury to 
 Chimoio. 
 
 Setting aside the inevitable rawness and newness of all 
 things Rhodesian, however, the situation itself was not 
 wholly unpicturesque. A ramping rock or tor of granite, 
 which I should judge at a rough guess to extend to an acre 
 in size, sprang abruptly from the brown grass of the upland 
 plain. It rose like a huge boulder. Its summit was 
 crowned by the covered grave of some old Kaffir chief — a 
 rude cairn of big stones under a thatched awning. At the 
 foot of this jagged and cleft rock the farm-house nestled — 
 four square walls of wattle-and-daub, she'';ered by its mass 
 from the sweeping winds of the South African plateau. A 
 stream brought water from a spring close by : in front of 
 the house — rare sight in that thirsty land — spread a garden 
 of flowers. It was an oasis in the desert. But the desert 
 itself stretched grimly all round : I could never quite decide 
 how far the oasis was caused by the water from the spring, 
 and how far by Hilda's presence. 
 
 ' Then you live here ? ' I cried, gazing round — my voice, 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED AIWUT IT 
 
 191 
 
 I suppose, betraying my latent sense of the unworthinej ^ of 
 the position. 
 
 ' For the present,' Hilda answered, smiling. ' You know, 
 Hubert, I have no abiding city anywhere, till my Purpose 
 is fulfilled. I came here because Rhodesia seemed the 
 furthest spot of earth where a white woman just now 
 could safely penetrate — in order to get away from you and 
 Sebastian.' 
 
 * That is an unkind conjunction ! ' I exclaimed, red- 
 dening. 
 
 * But I mean it,* she answered, with a wayward little nod. 
 ' I wanted breathing-space to form fresh plans. I wanted 
 to get clear away for a time from all who knew me. And. 
 this promised best. . . . But nowadays, really, one is never 
 safe from intrusion anywhere.' 
 
 * You are cruel, Hilda 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh no. You deserve it. I asked you not to come — 
 and you came in spite of me. I have treated you very 
 nicely under the circumstances, I think. I have behaved 
 like an angel. The question is now, What ought I to do 
 next ? You have upset my plans so.* 
 
 ' Upset your plans ? How ? ' 
 
 * Dear Hubert ' — she turned to me witli an indulgent 
 smile — * for a clever man, you are really too foolish ! Can't 
 you see that you have betrayed my whereabouts to Sebastian? 
 / crept away secretly, like a thief in the night, giving no 
 name or place ; and, having the world to ransack, he might 
 have found it hard to track me ; for he had not your clue of 
 the Basingstoke letter — nor your reason for seeking me. 
 But now that you have followed me openly, with your name 
 blazoned forth in the company's passenger-lists, and your 
 traces left plain in hotels and stages across the map of 
 South Africa — why, the spoor is easy. If Sebastian cares 
 
192 
 
 HILD.. WADE 
 
 to find us, he can follow the scent all through without 
 trouble.' 
 
 * I never thought of that ! ' I cried, aghast. 
 
 I ASKED YOU NOT TO COME, AND YOU CAME IN SPITE OK ME. 
 
 She was forbearance itself. * No, I knew you would 
 never think of it. You are a man, you see. I counted that 
 in. I was afraid from the first you would wreck all by 
 following me.' 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 193 
 
 I was mutely penitent. * And yet, you forgive me, 
 Hilda ! ' 
 
 Her eyes beamed tenderness. * To know all, is to 
 forgive all,* she answered. ' I have to remind you of that so 
 often ! How can I help forgiving, when I know wJiy you 
 came — what spur it was that drove you ? But it is the 
 future we have to think of now, not the past. And I must 
 wait and reflect. I have no plan just at present.* 
 
 ' What arc you doing at this farm ? ' I gazed round at 
 it, dissatisfied. 
 
 * I board here,* Hilda answered, amused at my crestfallen 
 face. * But, of course, I cannot be idle ; so I have found 
 work to do. I ride out on my bicycle to two or three 
 isolated houses about, and give lessons to children in this 
 desolate place, who would otherwise grow up ignorant. It 
 fills my time, and supplies me with something besides myself 
 to think about.* 
 
 * And what am / to do ? ' I cried, oppressed with a 
 sudden sense of helplessness. 
 
 She laughed at me outright. * And is this the first 
 moment that that difficulty has occurred to you ? ' she asked, 
 gaily. ' You have hurried all the way from London to 
 Rhodesia without the slightest idea of what you mean to do 
 now you have got there ? * 
 
 I laughed at myself in turn. ' Upon my word, Hilda,* 
 I cried, ' I set out to find you. Beyond the desire to find 
 you, I had no plan in my head. That was an end in itself. 
 My thoughts went no further.' 
 
 She gazed at me half saucily. * Then don't you think, 
 sir, the best thing you can do, now you have found me, is — 
 to turn back and go home again ? * 
 
 * I am a man,' I said, promptly, taking a firm stand. 
 ' And you are a judge of character. If you really mean to 
 
 
 
194 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 tell mc you think that likely — well, I shall have a lower 
 opinion of your insight into men than I have been accus- 
 tomed to harbour.' 
 
 Her smile was not wholly without a touch of triumph. 
 
 * In that case/ she went on, ' I suppose the only alter- 
 native is for you to remain here.* 
 
 * That would appear to be logic,* I replied. * But what 
 can I do ? Set up in practice ? * 
 
 ' I don*t see much opening,' she answered. ' If you ask 
 my advice, I should say there is only one thing to be done 
 in Rhodesia just now — turn farmer.' 
 
 ' It is done,' I answered, with my usual impetuosity. 
 ' Since yon say the word, I am a farmer alread)'. I feel an 
 interest in oats that is simply absorbing. What steps ought 
 I to take first in my present condition ? ' 
 
 She looked at me, all brown with the dust of my long 
 ride. * I would suggest,' she said, slowly, ' a good wash, and 
 some dinner.' 
 
 ' Hilda,' I cried, surveying my boots, or what was visible of 
 them, 'that is really clever of you. A wash and some dinner ! 
 So practical, so timely ! The very thing ! I will see to it.* 
 
 Before night fell I had arranged everything. I was to 
 buy the next farm from the owner of the one where Hilda 
 lodged : I was also to learn the rudiments of South African 
 agriculture from him for a valuable consideration : and I was 
 to lodge in his house while my own was building. He gave 
 me his views on the cultivation of oats. He gave them 
 at some length — more length than perspicuity. I knew 
 nothing about oats, save that they were employed in the 
 manufacture of porridge — which I detest : but I was to be 
 near Hilda once more, and I was prepared to undertake the 
 superintendence of the oat from its birth to its reaping, if 
 only I might be allowed to live so close to Hilda. 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 '95 
 
 The farmer and his wife were Hocrs, but they spoke 
 English. Mr. Jan Willcm Klaas himself was a fine specimen 
 of the breed — tall, erect, broad-shouldered, and genial. Mrs. 
 Klaas, his wife, was -mainly sug^^cstive, in mind and person, 
 of suet-pudding. There was one prattling little girl of three 
 
 HR GAVE ME HIS VIEWS ON THE CULTIVATION OK OATS. 
 
 years old, by name Sannie, a most engaging child ; and also 
 a chubby baby. 
 
 • You are betrothed, of course ? ' Mrs. Klaas said to 
 Hilda before me, with the curious tactlessness of her race, 
 when we made our first arrangement. 
 
 Hilda's face flushed. ' No ; we are nothing to one 
 another,' she answered — which was only true formally. • Dr. 
 
196 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Cumbcrlcdge had a post at the same hospital in London 
 where I was a nurse ; and he thou<^ht he would like to try 
 Rhodesia. That is all.' 
 
 Mrs. Klaas gazed from one to other of us suspiciously. 
 ' You English are strange ! ' she answered, with a complacent 
 little shrug. * But there — from Europe ! Your ways, we 
 know, arc different.' 
 
 Hilda did not attempt to explain. It would have been 
 impossible to make the good soul understand. Her horizon 
 was so simple. She was a harmless housewife, given mostly 
 to dyspepsia and the care of her little ones. Hilda had won 
 her heart by unfeigned admiration for the chubby baby. To 
 a mother that covers a multitude of eccentricities, such as one 
 expects to find in incomprehensible English. Mrs. Klaas put 
 up with me because she liked Hilda. 
 
 We spent some months together on Klaas's farm. It 
 was a dreary place, save for Hilda. The bare daub-and- 
 wattle walls ; the clumps of misshapen and dusty prickly- 
 pears that girt round the thatched huts of the Kaffir work- 
 people ; the stone-penned sheep-kraals and the corrugated 
 iron roof of the bald stable for the waggon-oxen — all was 
 as crude and ugly as a new country can make things. It 
 seemed to me a desecration that Hilda should live in such an 
 unfinished land — Hilda whom I imagined as moving by 
 nature through broad English parks, with Elizabethan 
 cottages and immemorial oaks — Hilda whose proper atmo- 
 sphere seemed to be one of coffee-coloured laces, ivy-clad 
 abbeys, lichen-encrusted walls, all that is beautiful and gracious 
 in time-honoured civilisations. 
 
 Nevertheless, we lived on there in a meaningless sort 
 of way — I hardly knew why. To me it was a puzzle. 
 When I asked Hilda, she shook her head with her sibylline 
 air and answered confidently, * You do npt understand Sebas- 
 
THE STONE THAT TOOK El) AliOUT //' 
 
 197 
 
 tfan as well as I do. Wc have to waif for //////. The next 
 move is his. Till he plays his piece, I cannot tell how I may 
 have to checkmate him.' 
 
 So we waited for Sebastian to advance a pawn. Mean- 
 while, I toyed with South African farminj^ — not very success- 
 fully, I must admit. Nature did not design me for growing 
 oats. I am no judge of oxen, and my views on the feeding 
 of Kafifir sheep raised broad smiles on the black faces of my 
 Mashona labourers. 
 
 I still lodged at Tant Mettle's, as everybody called Mrs. 
 Klaas : she was courtesy aunt to the community at large, 
 while Oom Jan Willem was its courtesy uncle. They were 
 simple homely folk, who lived up to their religious principles 
 on an unvaried diet of stewed ox-beef and bread : they 
 suffered much from chronic dyspepsia, due in part at least, 
 no doubt, to the monotony of their food, their life, their 
 interests. One could hardly believe one was still in the 
 nineteenth century : these people had the calm, the local 
 seclusion of the prehistoric epoch. For them, Europe did 
 not exist : they knew it merely as a place where settlers 
 came from. What the Czar intended, what the Kaiser 
 designed, never disturbed their rest. A sick ox, a rattling 
 tile on the roof, meant more to their lives than war in 
 Europe. The one break in the sameness of their daily 
 routine was family prayers : the one weekly event, going to 
 church at Salisbury. Still, they had a single enthusiasm. 
 Like everybody else for fifty miles around, they believed pro- 
 foundly in • the future of Rhodesia.' When I gazed about 
 me at the raw new land — the weary flat of red soil and 
 brown grasses — I felt at least that, with a present like that, 
 it had need of a future. 
 
 I am not by disposition a pioneer : 1 belong instinctively 
 to the old civilisations. In the midst of rudimentary towns 
 
r 
 
 198 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 and incipient fields, I yearn for grey houses, a Norman 
 church, an English thatched cottage. 
 
 However, for Hilda's sake I braved it out, and continued 
 to learn the A B C of agriculture on an unmade farm with 
 great assiduity from Oom Jan Willem. 
 
 We had been stopping some months at Klaas's together 
 when business compelled me one day to ride into Salisbury. 
 
 
 ;^^'*^' 
 'i^-_ 
 
 
 , /Sa 
 
 jv-- 
 
 
 W' 'C/./,/ 
 
 I GAZED ABOUT ME AT THE RAW NEW LAND. 
 
 /f' c 
 
 I had ordered some goods for my farm from England, which 
 had at last arrived. I had now to arrange for their convey- 
 ance from the town to my plot of land — a portentous matter. 
 Just as I was on the point of leaving Klaas's, and was tighten- 
 ing the saddle-girth on my sturdy little pony, Oom Jan 
 Willem himself sidled up to me with a mysterious air, his 
 broad face all wrinkled with anticipatory pleasure. He 
 placed a sixpence in my palm, glancing about him on every 
 side as he did so, like a conspirator. 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 199 
 
 ' What am I to buy with it ? ' I asked, much puzzled, and 
 suspecting tobacco. Tant Mettie declared he smoked too 
 much for a church elder. 
 
 He put his finger to his lips, nodded, and peered round. 
 ' Lollipops for Sannie,' he whispered low, at last, with a guilty 
 smile. * But ' — he glanced about him again — ' give them to 
 me, please, when Tant Mettie isn't looking.' His nod was 
 all mystery. 
 
 ' You may rely on my discretion,' I replied, throwing the 
 time-honoured prejudices of the profession to the winds, and 
 well pleased to aid and abet the simple-minded soul in his 
 nefarious designs against little Sannie's digestive apparatus. 
 
 He patted me on the back. 'Peppermint lollipops, 
 mind ! ' he went on in the same solemn undertone. * Sannie 
 likes them best peppermint.' 
 
 I put my foot in the stirrup, and vaulted into my saddle. 
 ' They shall not be forgotten,' I answered, with a quiet smile 
 at this pretty little evidence of fatherly feeling. 
 
 I rode off. It was early morning, before the heat of the 
 day began. Hilda accompanied me part of the way on her 
 bicycle. She was going to the other young farm, some eight 
 miles off, across the red-brown plateau, where she gave 
 lessons daily to the ten-year-old daughter of an English 
 settler. It was a labour of love, for settlers in Rhodesia 
 cannot afford to pay for what are beautifully described as 
 * finishing governesses ' ; but Hilda was of the sort who 
 cannot eat the bread of idleness. She had to justify herself 
 to her kind by finding some work to do which should vindi- 
 cate her existence. 
 
 I parted from her at a point on the monotonous plain 
 where one rubbly road branched off from another. Then I 
 j'ogged on in the full morning sun over that scorching plain 
 of loose red sand all the way to Salisbury. Not a green leaf 
 
 : K 
 
200 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 \i 
 
 I 1; 
 
 or a fresh flower anywhere. The eye ached at the hot glare 
 of the reflected sunh'ght from the sandy level. 
 
 My business detained me most of the day in the half- 
 built town, with its flaunting stores and its rough new offices ; 
 it was not till towards afternoon that I could get away 
 again on my sorrel, across the blazing plain once more to 
 Klaas's. 
 
 I moved on over the plateau at an easy trot, full of 
 thoughts of Hilda. What could be the step she expected 
 Sebastian to take next ? She did not know, herself, she had 
 told me : there, her faculty failed her. But some step he 
 would take : and till he took it, she must rest and be 
 watchful. 
 
 I passed the great tree that stands up like an obelisk 
 in the midst of the plain beyond the deserted Matabele 
 village. I passed the low clumps of dry karroo-bushes by 
 the rocky kopje. I passed the turning of the rubbly roads 
 where I had parted from Hilda. At last I reached the long, 
 rolling ridge which looks down upon Klaas's, and could see 
 in the slant sunlight the mud farmhouse and the corrugated 
 iron roof where the oxen were stabled. 
 
 The place looked more deserted, more dead-alive than 
 ever. Not a black boy moved in it. Even the cattle and 
 Kaffir sheep were nowhere to be seen. . . . But, then, it was 
 always quiet : and perhaps I noticed the obtrusive air of 
 solitude and sleepiness even more than usual, because I had 
 just returned from Salisbury. All things are comparative. 
 After the lost loneliness of Klaas's farm, even brand-new 
 Salisbury seemed busy and bustling. 
 
 I hurried on, ill at ease. But Tant Mettie would, doubt- 
 less, have a cup of tea ready for me as soon as I arrived, 
 and Hilda would be waiting at the gate to welcome me. 
 
 I reached the stone enclosure and passed up through the 
 
k 
 
 THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 20 r 
 
 flower-garden. To my great surprise, Hilda was not there. 
 As a rule, she came to meet me with her sunny smile. But 
 perhaps she was tired, or the sun on the road might have 
 given her a headache. ' I dismounted from my mare, and 
 called one of the Kaffir boys to take her to the stable- 
 Nobody answered. ... I called again. Still silence. . . . 
 i tied her up to the post, and strode over to the door, 
 astonished at the solitude. I began to feel there was some- 
 thing weird and uncanny about this home-coming. Never 
 before had I known Klaas's so entirely deserted. 
 
 I lifted the latch and opened the door. It gave access 
 at once to the single plain living-room. There, all was 
 huddled. For a moment my eyes hardly took in the truth. 
 There are sights so sickening that the brain at the first shock 
 wholly fails to realise them. 
 
 On the stone slab floor of the low living-room Tant 
 Mettie lay dead. Her body was pierced through by in- 
 numerable thrusts, which I somehow instinctively recog- 
 nised as assegai wounds. By her side lay Sannie, the little 
 prattling girl of three, my constant playmate, whom I had 
 instructed in cat's cradle and taught the tales of Cinderella 
 and Red Riding Hood. My hand grasped the lollipops in 
 my pocket convulsively. She would never need them. 
 Nobody else was about. What had become of Oom Jan 
 Willem — and the baby? 
 
 I wandered out into the yard, sick with the sight I had 
 already seen. There Oom Jan Willem himself lay stretched 
 at full lengfth : a bullet had pierced his left temple : his body 
 
 was also riddled through with assegai thrusts. 
 
 rismg 
 
 of the 
 
 I saw at once what this meant. A 
 Matabele ! 
 
 I had come back from Salisbury, unknowing it, into the 
 midst of a revolt of bloodthirsty savages. 
 
202 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Yet, even if I had known, I must still have hurried home 
 with all speed to Klaas's — to protect Hilda. 
 
 Hilda? Where was Hilda? A breathless sinking crept 
 over me. 
 
 I staggered out into the open. It was impossible to say 
 
 OOM JAN WILI-EM LAY STRETCHED AT FULL LENGTH. 
 
 what horror might not have happened. The Matabele might 
 even now be lurking about the kraal — for the bodies were 
 hardly cold. But Hilda ? Hilda ? Whatever came, I must 
 find Hilda. 
 
 Fortunately, I had my loaded revolver in my belt. 
 Though we had not in the least anticipated this sudden 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 203 
 
 revolt — it broke like a thunder-clap from a clear sky — the 
 unsettled state of the country made even women go armed 
 about their daily avocations. 
 
 I strode on, half maddened. Beside the great block of 
 granite which sheltered the farm there rose one of those 
 rocky little hillocks of loose boulders which are locally known 
 in South Africa by the Dutch name of kopjes. I looked 
 out upon it drearily. Its round brown ironstones lay piled 
 irregularly together, almost as if placed there in some earlier 
 age by the mighty hands of prehistoric giants. My gaze on 
 it was blank. I was thinking, not of it but of Hilda, Hilda. 
 
 I called the name aloud : ' Hilda ! Hilda ! Hilda ! ' 
 
 As I called, to my immense surprise, one of the smooth 
 round boulders on the hillside seemed slowly to uncurl, and 
 to peer about it cautiously. Then it raised itself in the slant 
 sunlight, put a hand to its eyes, and gazed out upon me with 
 a human face for a moment. After that it descended, step 
 by step, among the other stones, with a white object in its 
 arms. As the boulder uncurled and came to life, I was 
 aware, by degrees . . . yes, yes, it was Hilda, with Tant 
 Mettie's baby ! 
 
 In the fierce joy of that discovery I rushed forward to 
 her, trembling, and clasped her in my arms. I could find no 
 words but 'Hilda! Hilda!' 
 
 ' Are they gone ? ' she asked, staring about her with a 
 terrified air, though still strangely preserving her wonted 
 composure of manner. 
 
 ' Who gone ? The Matabcle ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! ' 
 
 ' Did you see them, Hilda ? ' 
 
 ' For a moment — with black shields and assegais, all 
 shouting madly. You have been to the house, Hubert? 
 You know what has happened ? ' 
 
204 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 IT WAS HILDA, VVini lANT METTIE^S BABY I 
 
 ' Yes, ye:, I know— a rising. They have massacred the 
 Klaases.' 
 
Tim STONE THA T LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 20: 
 
 She nodded. ' I came back on my bicycle, and, when I 
 opened the door, found Tant Mettie and little Sannie dead. 
 Poor, sweet little Sannie ! Oom Jan was lying shot in the 
 yard outside. I saw the- cradle overturned, and looked under 
 it for the baby. They did not kill her — perhaps did not 
 notice her. I caught her up in my arms, and rushed out to 
 my machine, thinking to make for Salisbury and give the 
 alarm to the men there. One must try to save others — 
 and you were coming, Hubert ! Then I heard horses' hoofs 
 — the Matabele returning. They dashed back, mounted — 
 stolen horses from other farms — they have taken poor Oom 
 Jan's — and they have gone on, shouting, to murder else- 
 where ! I flung down my machine among the bushes as 
 they came — I hope they have not seen it : and I crouched 
 here between the boulders, with the baby in my arms, trust- 
 ing for protection to the colour of my dress, which is just 
 like the ironstone.' 
 
 ' It is a perfect deception,' I answered, admiring her in- 
 stinctive cleverness even then. * I never so much as noticed 
 you.' 
 
 * No, nor the Matabele- either, for all their sharp eyes. 
 They passed by without stopping. I clasped the baby hard, 
 and tried to keep it from crying — if it had cried, all would 
 have been lost : but they passed just below, and swept on 
 towards Rozenboom's. I lay still for a while, not daring to 
 look out : then I raised myself warily and tried to listen. 
 Just at that moment, I heard a horse's hoofs ring out once 
 more. I couldn't tell, of course, whether it was you return- 
 ing, or one of the Matabele, left behind by the others. So 
 I crouched again. . . . Thank God, you are safe, Hubert ! ' 
 
 All this took a moment to say, or was less said than 
 hinted. ' Now, what must we do ? ' I cried. ' Bolt back 
 again to Salisbury?' 
 
2o6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' It is the only thing possible — if my machine is unhurt. 
 They may have taken it ... or ridden over and broken it.' 
 
 We went down to the spot, and picked it up where it 
 lay, h^lf-concealed among the brittle, dry scrub of milk- 
 bushes. I examined the bearings carefully ; though there 
 
 THEY PASSED JUST BELOW. 
 
 were hoof-marks close by, it had received no hurt. I blew 
 up the tyre, which was somewhat flabby, and went on to 
 untie my sturdy pony. The moment I looked at her, I saw 
 the poor little brute was wearied out with her two long 
 rides in the sweltering sun. Her flanks quivered. ' It is no 
 use,' I cried, patting her, as she turned to me with appealing 
 eyes that asked for water. ' She canH go back as far as Sal is- 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 207 
 
 bury, at least till she has had a feed of corn and a drink. 
 Even then, it will be rough on her.* 
 
 • Give her bread ! ' Hilda suggested. ' That will hearten 
 her more than corn. There is plenty in the house : Tant 
 Mettie baked this morning.' 
 
 I crept in reluctantly to fetch it. I also brought out 
 from the dresser a few raw eggs, to break into a tumbler and 
 swallow whole : for Hilda and I needed food almost as sorely 
 as the poor beast herself. There was something gruesome 
 in thus rummaging about for bread and meat in the dead 
 woman's cupboard, while she herself lay there on the 
 floor : but one never realises how one will act in these 
 great emergencies until they come upon one. Hilda, 
 still calm with unearthly calmness, took a couple of 
 loaves from my hand and began feeding the pony with 
 them. ' Go and draw water for her,' she said, simply, 
 * while I give her the bread : that will save time : every 
 minute is precious.' 
 
 I did as I was bid, not knowing each moment but that 
 the insurgents would return. When I came back from the 
 spring with the bucket, the mare had demolished the whole 
 two loaves, and was going on upon some grass which Hilda 
 had plucked for her. 
 
 ' She hasn't had enough, poor dear,' Hilda said, patting 
 her neck. ' A couple of loaves are penny buns to her 
 appetite. Let her drink the water, while I go in and fetch 
 out the rest of the baking.' 
 
 I hesitated. ' You can't go in there again, Hilda ! ' I 
 cried. ' Wait and let me do it.' 
 
 Her white face was resolute. ' Yes, I can', she answered. 
 'It is a work of necessity : and in works of necessity a 
 woman, I think, should flinch at nothing. Have I not seen 
 already every varied aspect of death at Nathaniel's ? ' And 
 
 
308 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 in she went, undaunted, to that chamber of horrors, still 
 clasping the baby. 
 
 The pony made short work of the remaining loaves, 
 which she devoured with great zest. As Hilda had pre- 
 dicted, they seemed to hearten her. The food and drink, 
 with a bucket of water dashed on her hoofs, gave her new 
 vigour like wine. We gulped down our eggs in silence. 
 Then I held Hilda's bicycle. She vaulted lightly on to the 
 seat, white and tired as she was, with the baby in her left 
 arm, and her right hand on the handle-bar. 
 
 * I must take the baby,' I said. 
 She shook her head. 
 
 * Oh no. I will not trust her to you.' 
 ' Hilda, I insist.' 
 
 * And I insist too. It is my place to take her.* 
 ' But can you ride so? ' I asked, anxiously. 
 
 She began to pedal. ' Oh, dear, yes. It is quite, quite 
 easy. I shall get there all right — if the Matabele don't 
 burst upon us.' 
 
 Tired as I was with my long day's work, I jumped into 
 my saddle. I saw I should only lose time if I disputed 
 about the baby. My little horse seemed to understand 
 that something grave had occurred, for, weary as she must 
 have been, she set out with a will once more over that great 
 red level. Hilda pedalled bravely by my side. The road 
 was bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it. I could 
 have ridden faster than she went, for the baby weighted her. 
 Still, we rode for dear life. It was a grim experience. 
 
 All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds 
 of black smoke which went up from burning farms and plun- 
 dered homesteads. The smoke did not rise high : it hung 
 sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering masses, like 
 the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England. The sun 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED Ah i ^ IT 
 
 was nearing the horizon : his slant red rays lijjht^cd up the 
 red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, wiMi a )iiurky, 
 spectral glow of crimson. After those red pools of bloO'fi, 
 this universal burst of redness appalled one. It sccmcj 
 
 HILDA PEDAIXED BRAVELY BY MV SIDE. 
 
 as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league 
 with the Matabelc. We rode on without a word. The red 
 sky grew redder. 
 
 * They may have sacked Salisbury ! ' I exclaimed at 
 last, looking out towards the brand-new town. 
 
 P 
 
310 
 
 JULDA lf'A/>/i 
 
 • I doubt it,* Hilda answered. Her very doubt reassured 
 me. 
 
 Wc began to mount a long slope. Hilda pedalled with 
 difficulty. Not a sound was heard save the light fall of my 
 pony's feet on the soft new road, and the shrill cry of the 
 cicalas. Then, suddenly, we started. What was that noise 
 in our rear? Once, twice, it rang out. The loud pm^ of 
 a riflo ! 
 
 Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten mounted Mata- 
 bele ! Stalwart warriors they were — half naked, and riding 
 stolen horses. They were coming our way ! They had 
 seen us ! They were pursuing us ! 
 
 * Put on all speed ! ' I cried, in my agony. * Hilda, can 
 you manage it ? ' 
 
 She pedalled with a will. But as we mounted the slope, 
 I saw they were gaining upon us. A few hundred yards 
 were all our start. They had the descent of the opposite 
 hill as yet in their favour. 
 
 One man, astride on a better horse than the rest, galloped 
 on in front and came within range of us. He had a rifle in 
 his hand. He pointed it twice, and covered us. But he 
 did not shoot. Hilda gave a cry of relief. * Don't you 
 see?' she exclaimed. ' It is Oom Jan Willem's rifle ! That 
 was their last cartridge. They have no more ammunition.' 
 
 I saw she was probably right : for Klaas was out of 
 cartridges, and was waiting for my new stock to arrive from 
 England. If that were correct, they must get near enough 
 to attack us with assegais. They are more dangerous so. 
 I remembered what an old Boer had said to me at Bulawayo : 
 ' The Zulu with his assegai is an enemy to be feared : with 
 a gun, he is a bungler.' 
 
 We pounded on up the hill. It was deadly work with 
 those brutes at our heels. The child on Hilda's arm was 
 
TUK srOiMi THAI LOOKED ^iliOi/T JT 
 
 II 
 
 visibly wearying her. It kept on \vhillin^^ ' Hilda,' I cricil, 
 ' that baby will lose your life ! You cannot f;o on carrying it.' 
 
 She turned to mcvvith a flash of her eyes. 'What! 
 you are a man/ she broke out, ' and you ask a woman to 
 save her life by abandoning a baby! Hubert, you shame 
 me!' 
 
 I felt she was right. If she had been capable of giving 
 it up, she would not have been Hilda. There wa^ but one 
 other way left. 
 
 'ThQwyoti must take the pony,' I called out, ' anJ. let me 
 have the bicycle ! ' 
 
 * You couldn't ride it,' she called back. * It is a woman's 
 machine, remember.* 
 
 'Yes, I could,' I replied, without slowing. * It is not 
 much too short : and I can bend my knees a bit. Quick, 
 quick ! No words ! Do as I tell you ! ' 
 
 She hesitated a second. The child's weight distressed 
 her. ' We should lose time in changing,* she answered at 
 last, doubtful but still pedalling, though my hand was on the 
 rein, ready to pull up the pony. 
 
 ' Not if we manage it right. Obey orders ! The moment 
 I say " Halt," I shall slacken my mare's pace. When you 
 see me leave the saddle, jump oft' instantly, you, and mount 
 her ! I will catch the machine before it falls. Are you 
 ready ? Halt, then ! ' 
 
 She obeyed the word without one second's delay. I 
 slipped off, held the bridle, caught the bicycle, and led it 
 inslantaneously. Then I ran beside the pony — bridle in one 
 hand, machine in the other — till Hilda had sprung with a 
 light bound into the stirrup. At that, a little leap, and I 
 mounted the bicycle. It was all done nimbly in less time 
 than the telling takes, for we are both of us naturally quick 
 in our movements. Hilda rode like a man, astride — her 
 
212 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 short bicycling skirt, unobtrusively divided in front and 
 at the back, made this easily possible. Looking behind me 
 with a hasty glance, I could see that the savages, taken 
 aback, had reined in to deliberate at our unwonted evolution. 
 I feel sure that the novelty of the iron horse, with a woman 
 riding it, played not a little on their superstitious fears ; they 
 suspected, no doubt, this was some ingenious new engine of 
 war devised against them by the unaccountable white man : 
 it might go off unexpectedly in their faces at any moment. 
 Most of them, I observed as they halted, carried on their 
 backs black ox-hide shields, interlaced with white thongs ; 
 they were armed with two or three assegais apiece and a 
 knobkerry. 
 
 Instead of losing time by the change, as it turned out, 
 we had actually gained it. Hilda was able to put on my 
 sorrel to her full pace, which I had not dared to do, for fear 
 of outrunning my companion ; the wise little beast, for her 
 part, seemed to rise to the occasion, and to understand that 
 we were pursued, for she stepped out bravely. On the other 
 hand, in spite of the low seat and the short crank of a 
 woman's machine, I could pedal up the slope with more 
 force than Hilda, for I am a practised hill-climber : so that 
 in both ways we gained, besides having momentarily dis- 
 concerted and checked the enemy. Their ponies were tired, 
 and they rode them full tilt with savage recklessness, making 
 them canter up-hill, and so needlessly fatiguing them. The 
 Matabele, indeed, are unused to horses, and manage them but 
 ili. It is as foot soldiers, creeping stealthily through bush 
 or long grass, that they are really formidable. Only one of 
 their mounts was tolerably fresh : the one which had once 
 already almost overtaken us. As we neared the top of the 
 slope, Hilda, glancing behind her, exclaimed, with a sudden 
 thrill, ' He is spurting again, Hubert ! ' 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 213 
 
 I drew my revolver and held it in my right hand, using 
 my left for steering. I did not look back : time was far too 
 precious. I set my teeth hard. * Tell me when he draws 
 near enough for a shot,' I said, quietly. 
 
 Hilda only nodded. Being mounted on the marc, she 
 could see behind her more steadily now than I could from 
 the machine ; and her eye was trustworthy. As for the 
 baby, rocked by the heave and fall of the pony's withers, it 
 had fallen asleep placidly in the very midst of this terror ! 
 
 After a second I asked once more, with bated breath, * Is 
 he gaining ? ' 
 
 She looked back. ' Yes : gaining.' 
 
 A pause. * And now ? ' 
 
 * Still gaining. He is poising an assegai.' 
 
 Ten seconds more passed in breathless suspense. The 
 thud of their horses' hoofs alone told me their nearness. 
 My finger was on the trigger. I awaited the word. * Fire ! ' 
 she said at last, in a calm, unflinching voice. * He is well 
 within distance.' 
 
 I turned half round and levelled as true as I could at 
 the advancing black man. He rode nearly naked, showing 
 all his teeth and brandishing his assegai ; the long white 
 feathers stuck upright in his hair gave him a wild and 
 terrifying barbaric aspect. It was difficult to preserve one's 
 balance, keep the way on, and shoot, all at the same time ; 
 but spurred by necessity, I somehow did it. I fired three 
 shots in quick succession. My first bullet missed : my 
 second knocked the man over : my third grazed the horse. 
 With a ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road, a black 
 writhing mass ; his horse, terrified, dashed back with 
 maddened snorts into the midst of the others. Its plunging 
 disconcerted the whole party for a minute. 
 
 We did not wait to see the rest. Taking advantage of 
 
214 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 this momentary diversion in our favour, we rode on at full 
 speed to the top of the slope — I never knew before how 
 hard I could pedal — and began to descend at a dash into 
 the opposite hollow. 
 
 The sun had set by this time. There is no twilight in 
 
 WITH A KINGING SHRIEK, THE MATABELK FKLL IN THK ROAD. 
 
 those latitudes. It grew dark at once. We could see now 
 in the plain all round, where black clouds of smoke had 
 rolled before, one lurid red glare of burning houses, mixed 
 with a sullen haze of tawny light from the columns of prairie 
 fire kindled by the insurgents. 
 
 We made our way still onward across the open plain 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 without one word towards Salisbury. The mare was giving 
 out. She strode with a will : but her flanks were white with 
 froth : her breath came short : foam flew from her nostrils. 
 
 As we mounted the next ridge, still distancing our 
 pursuers, I saw suddenly, on its crest, defined against the 
 livid red sky like a silhouette, two more mounted black men ! 
 
 * It's all up, Hilda ! ' I cried, losing heart at last. * They 
 are on both sides of us now ! The mare is spent : we are 
 surrounded ! ' 
 
 She drew rein and gazed at them. For a moment sus- 
 pense spoke in all her attitude. Then she burst into a 
 sudden deep sigh of relief. ' No, no,' she cried ; * these are 
 friendlies ! ' 
 
 * How do you know ? ' I gasped. But I believed her. 
 
 * They are looking out this way, with hands shading their 
 eyes against the red glare. They are looking away from 
 Salisbury, in the direction of the attack. They are expecting 
 the enemy. They must be friendlies ! — See, see ! they have 
 caught sight of us ! ' 
 
 As she spoke, one of the men lifted his rifle and half 
 pointed it. * Don't shoot ! don't shoot ! ' I shrieked aloud. 
 * We are English ! English ! ' 
 
 The men let their rifles drop and rode down towards 
 us. ' Who are you ? ' I cried. 
 
 They saluted us, military fashion. * Matabele police, 
 sah,' the leader answered, recognising me. ' You are flying 
 from Klaas's ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' I answered. * They have murdered Klaas, with 
 his wife and child. Some of them are now following us.' 
 
 The spokesman was a well-educated Cape Town negro. 
 ' All right, sah,' he answered. * I have forty men here right 
 behind de kopje. Let dem come ! We can give a good 
 account of dem. Ride on straight wit de lady to Salisbury !' 
 
2l6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * The Salisbury people know of this rising, then ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 * Yes, sah. Dcm know since five o'clock. Kaffir boys 
 from Klaas's brought in de news : and a white man escaped 
 from Rozenboom's confirm it. We have pickets all round. 
 You is safe now : you can ride on into Salisbury witout 
 fear of de Matabele.' 
 
 I rode on, relieved. Mechanically, my feet worked to 
 and fro on the pedals. It was a gentle down-gradient now 
 towards the town ; I had no further need for special exertion. 
 
 Suddenly, Hilda's voice came wafted to me as through 
 a mist. ' What are you doing, Hubert ? You'll be off in 
 a minute ! ' 
 
 I started, and recovered my balance with difficulty. Then 
 I was aware at once that one second before I had all but 
 dropped asleep, dog tired, on the bicycle. Worn out with my 
 long day and with the nervous strain, I began to doze off, 
 with my feet still moving round and round automatically, the 
 moment the anxiety of the chase was relieved, and an easy 
 down-grade gave me a little respite. 
 
 I kept myself awake even then with difficulty. Riding 
 on through the lurid gloom, we reached Salisbury at last, and 
 found the town already crowded with refugees from the 
 plateau. However, we succeeded in securing two rooms at a 
 house in the long street, and were soon sitting down to a 
 much-needed supper. 
 
 As we rested an hour or two later, in the ill-furnished 
 back-room, discussing this sudden turn of affairs with our 
 host and some neighbours — for, of course, all Salisbury was 
 eager for news from the scene of the massacres — I happened 
 to raise my head, and saw, to my great surprise ... a hag- 
 gard white face peering in at us through the window. 
 
 It peered round a corner, stealthily. It was an ascetic 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 217 
 
 face, very sharp and clear-cut. It had a stately profile. The 
 long and wiry grizzled moustache, the deep-set, hawk-like 
 eyes, the acute, intense; intellectual features, all were very 
 familiar. So was the outer setting of long, white hair, 
 straight and silvery as it fell, and just curled in one wave-like 
 inward sweep where it turned and rested on th** stooping 
 shoulders. But the expression on the face was even stranger 
 than the sudden apparition. It was an expression of keen 
 and poignant disappointment — as of a man whom fate has 
 baulked of some well-planned end, his due by right, which 
 mere chance has evaded. 
 
 ' They say there's a white man at the bottom of all this 
 trouble,' our host had been remarking, one second earlier. 
 ' The niggers know too much : and where did they get their 
 rifles? People at Rozenboom's believe some black-livered 
 traitor has been stirring up the Matab* le for weeks and weeks. 
 An enemy of Rhodes's, of course : jealous of our advance : a 
 French agent, perhaps : but more likely one of these con- 
 founded Transvaal Dutchmen. Depend upon it, it's Kruger's 
 doing.' 
 
 As the words fell from his lips, I saw the face. I gave a 
 quick little start, then recovered my composure. 
 
 But Hilda noted it. She looked up at me hastily. She 
 was sitting with her back to the window, and therefore, of 
 course, could not see the face itself, which indeed was with- 
 drawn with a hurried movement, yet with a certain strange 
 dignity, almost before I could feel sure of having seen it. 
 Still, she caught my startled expression and the gleam of 
 surprise and recognition in my eye. She laid one hand upon 
 my arm. ' You have seen him ? ' she asked quietly, almost 
 below her breath. 
 
 ' Seen whom ? ' 
 
 ' Sebastian.' 
 
 ; t: 
 
:i8 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 It was useless denying it to Jier. ' Yes, I have seen him,' 
 I answered, in a confidential aside. 
 
 * Just now — this moment — at the back of the house — 
 looking in at the window upon us ? ' 
 
 ' You are right — as always.' 
 
 She drew a deep breath. ' He has played his game,' she 
 
 I SAW THE FACR. 
 
 said low to me, in an awed undertone. * I felt sure it was 
 he. I expected him to play ; though what piece, I knew 
 not ; and when I saw those poor dead souls, I was certain he 
 had done it — indirectly done it. The Matabele are his 
 pawns. He wanted to aim a blow at me ; and tJiis was the 
 wa he chose to aim it.' 
 
THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT 
 
 :i9 
 
 * Do you think he is capable of that ? ' I cried. For in 
 spite of all, I had still a sort of lingering respect for Sebas- 
 tian. ' It seems so reckless — like the worst of anarchists — 
 when he strikes at one head, to involve so many irrelevant 
 lives in one common destruction.' 
 
 Hilda's face was like a drowned man's. 
 
 * To Sebastian,' she answered, shuddering, ' the End is all : 
 the Means are unessential. Who wills the End, wills the 
 Means : that is the sum and substance of his philosophy of 
 life. From first to last, he has always acted up to it. Did 
 I not tell you once he was a snow-clad volcano ? ' 
 
 * Still, I am loth to believe ' I cried. 
 
 She interrupted me calmly. ' I knew it,' she said. ' I 
 expected it. Beneath that cold exterior, the fires of his life 
 Hurn fiercely still. I told you we must wait for Sebastian's 
 next move ; though I confess, even from him, I hardly dreamt 
 of this one. But from the moment when I opened the door 
 on poor Tant Mettie's body, lying there in its red horror, I 
 felt it must be he. And when you started just now, I said 
 to myself in a flash of intuition — " Sebastian has come ! He 
 has come to see how his devil's work has prospered." He 
 sees it has gone wrong. So now he will try to devise some 
 other.' 
 
 I thought of the malign expression on that cruel white 
 face as it stared in at the window from the outer gloom, and 
 I felt convinced she was right. She had read her man once 
 more. For it was the desperate contorted face of one 
 appalled to discover that a great crime attempted and 
 successfully carried out has failed, by mere accident, of its 
 central intention. 
 
 ? I 
 
VIII 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR 
 
 HEART 
 
 Unfashionable as it is to say so, I am a man of peace : 
 I belong to a profession whose province is to heal, not to 
 destroy. Still, there are times which turn even the most 
 peaceful of us perforce into fighters — times when those we 
 love, those we are bound to protect, stand in danger of their 
 lives ; and at moments like that no man can doubt what is 
 his plain duty. The Matabele revolt was one such moment. 
 In a conflict of race we must back our own colour. I d 
 not know whether the natives were justified in rising or not ; 
 most likely, yes ; for we had stolen their country : but when 
 once they rose, when the security of white women depended 
 upon repelling them, I Telt I had no alternative. For Hilda's 
 sake, for the sake of every woman and child in Salisbury 
 and in all Rhodesia, I was bound to bear my part in restor- 
 ing order. 
 
 For the immediate future, it is true, we were safe enough 
 in the little town ; but we did not know how far the revolt 
 might have spread ; we could not tell what had happened at 
 Charter, at Bulawayo, at the outlying stations. The Mata- 
 bele, perhaps, had risen in force over the whole vast area 
 which was once Lo-Bengula's country ; if so, their first 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFUi HEART 221 
 
 object would certainly be to cut us off from communication 
 with the main body of English settlers at Bulawayo. 
 
 ' I trust to you, Hil-da,' I said on the day after the 
 massacre at Klaas's, * to divine for us where these savages are 
 next likely to attack us.' 
 
 She cooed at the motherless baby, raising one bent 
 finger, and then turned to me with a white smile. * There 
 you ask too much of me,* she answered. ' Just think what 
 a correct answer would imply ! First, a knowledge of these 
 savages* character : next, a knowledge of their mode of 
 fighting. Can't you see that only a person who possessed 
 my trick of intuition, and who had also spent years in war- 
 fare among the Matabele, would be really able to answer 
 your question ? * 
 
 * And yet such questions have been answered before now 
 by people far less intuitive than you,' I went on. * Why, 
 I've read somewhere how, when the war between Napoleon 
 the First and the Prussians broke out in 1806, Jomini pre- 
 dicted that the decisive battle of the campaign would be 
 fought near Jena : and near Jena it was fought. Are not 
 you better than many Jominis ? * 
 
 Hilda tickled the baby's cheek. * Smile, then, baby, 
 smile ! ' she said, pouncing one soft finger on a gathering 
 dimple. ' And who wan your friend Jomini ? ' 
 
 * The greatest military critic and tactician of his age,' I 
 answered. * One of Napoleon's generals. I fancy he wrote 
 a book, don't you know — a book on war — Des Grandes 
 Operations Militaires^ or something of that sort.* 
 
 ' Well, there you are, then ! That's just it ! Your 
 Jomini, or Hominy, or whatever you call him, not only 
 understood Napoleon's temperament, but understood war 
 and understood tactics. It was all a question of the lie of 
 the land, and strategy, and so forth. If / had been asked, I 
 
222 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 could never have answered a quarter as well as Jomini 
 Piccolomini — could I, baby? Jomini would have been 
 worth a great many mc's. There, there, a dear, motherless 
 
 darling ! Why, she 
 crows just as if she 
 hadn't lost all her 
 family ! ' 
 
 ' But, Hilda, wc 
 must be serious. I 
 count upon you to 
 help us in this 
 matter. Wc are 
 still in danger. Even 
 now these Matabele 
 may attack and 
 destroy us.' 
 
 She laid the 
 child on her lap 
 and looked grave. 
 ' I know it, Hubert : 
 but I must leave 
 it now to you men. 
 I am no tactician. 
 Don't take me for one of Napoleon's generals.' 
 
 'Still,' I said, * we have not only the Matabele to 
 reckon with, recollect. There is Sebastian as well. And 
 whether you know your Matabele or not, you at least know 
 your Sebastian.' 
 
 She shuddered. * I know him : yes, I know him. 
 
 But this case is so difficult. We have Sebastian ■ 
 
 complicated by a rabble of savages, whose habits and 
 manners I do not understand. It is that that makes the 
 difficulty.' 
 
 COULD I, BABY? 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAEEHi HEART 2:3 
 
 * But Sebastian himself?' I ur^ed. 'Take him first in 
 isolation.' 
 
 She paused for a full minute with her chin on her hand 
 and her elbow on the table. Her brow gathered. ' Sebas- 
 tian ? ' she repeated. ' Sebastian ? — ah, there I might guess 
 something. Well, of course, having once begun this attempt, 
 and being definitely committed, as it were, to a policy of 
 killing us, he will go through to the bitter end, no matter 
 how many other lives it may cost. That is Sebastian's 
 method.' 
 
 * You don't think, having once found out that I saw and 
 recognised him, he would consider the game lost and slink 
 away to the coast again ? ' 
 
 ' Sebastian ? Oh no : that is the absolute antipodes of 
 his type and temperament.' 
 
 * He will never give up because of a temporary check, 
 you think ? ' 
 
 * No, never. The man has a will of sheer steel — it may 
 break, but it will not bend. Besides, consider, he is too 
 deeply involved. You have seen him : you know : and he 
 knows you know. You may bring this thing home to him. 
 Then what is his plain policy ? Why, to egg on the natives 
 whose confidence he has somehow gained into making a 
 further attack and cutting off all Salisbury. If he had 
 succeeded in getting you and me massacred at Klaas's, as 
 he hoped, he would no doubt have slunk off to the coast at 
 once, leaving his black dupes to be shot down at leisure by 
 Rhodes's soldiers.' 
 
 ' I see : but having failed in that ? ' 
 
 ' Then he is bound to go through with it and kill us if 
 he can, even if he has to kill all Salisbury with us. That, I 
 feel sure, is Sebastian's plan : whether he can get the Mata- 
 bele to back him up in it or not is a different matter.' 
 
HILDA WADE 
 
 'But taking Sebastian himself alone ? ' 
 
 * Oh, Sebastian himself alone would naturally say, '* Never 
 mind Bulawayo ! Concentrate round Salisbury, and kill off 
 all there first : when that is done, then you can move on at 
 your ease and cut them to pieces in Charter and Bulawayo." 
 You see, he would have no interest in the movement, himself, 
 once he had fairly got rid of us here. The Matabele are 
 only the pieces in his game. It is vie he wants, not Salisbury. 
 He would clear out of Rhodesia as soon as he had carried 
 his point. But he would have to give some reasonable 
 ground to the Matabele for his first advice : and it seems 
 a reasonable ground to say, " Don't leave Salisbury in your 
 rear, so as to put yourselves between two fires. Capture the 
 outpost first : that down, march on undistracted to the 
 principal stronghold." ' 
 
 * Who's no tactician ? ' I murmured, half alor 
 
 She laughed. ' That's not tactics, Hubert : t's plain 
 common sense — and knowledge of Sebastian. Still, it 
 comes to nothing. The question is not, " What would 
 Sebastian wish ? " it is, " Could Sebastian persuade these 
 angry black men to accept his guidance ? " ' 
 
 * Sebastian ! ' I cried ; * Sebastian could persuade the 
 very devil ! I know the man's fiery enthusiasm, his con- 
 tagious eloquence. He thrilled me through, myself, with his 
 electric personality, so that it took me six years — and your 
 aid — to find him out at last. His very abstractness tells. 
 Why, even in this war, you may be sure, he will be making 
 notes all the time on the healing of wounds in tropical 
 climates, contrasting the African with the European con- 
 stitution.' 
 
 * Oh yes : of course. Whatever he does, he will never 
 forget the interests of science. He is true to his lady-love 
 to whomever else he plays false. That is his saving virtue.' 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 225 
 
 ' And he will talk down the Matabclc,' I went on, • even 
 if he doesn't know their language. But I suspect he docs, 
 for, you must remember, he was two years in South Africa 
 as a young man, on a scientific expedition, collecting speci- 
 mens. He can ride like a trooper : and he knows the 
 country. His masterful ways, his austere face, will cow the 
 natives. Then again, he has the air of a prophet, and 
 prophets always stir the negro. I can imagine with what 
 air he will bid them drive out the intrusive white men who 
 have usurped their land, and draw them flattering pictures 
 of a new Matabele empire about to arise under a new chief, 
 too strong for these gold-grubbing, diamond-hunting mobs 
 from over sea to meddle with.* 
 
 She reflected once more. * Do you mean to say any- 
 thing of our suspicions in Salisbury, Hubert ? ' she asked at 
 last. 
 
 ' It is useless,' I answered. ' The Salisbury folk believe 
 there is a white man at the bottom of this trouble already. 
 They will try to catch him : that's all that is necessary. 
 If we said it was Sebastian, people would only laugh at us. 
 They must understand Sebastian as you and I understand 
 him before they would think such a move credible. As a 
 rule in life, if you know anything which other people do not 
 know, better keep it to yourself: you will only get laughed 
 at as a fool for telling it.' 
 
 ' I think so too. That is why I never say what I sus- 
 pect or infer from my knowledge of types — except to a few 
 who can understand and appreciate. Hubert, if they all 
 arm for the defence of the town, you will stop here, I sup- 
 pose, to tend the wounded ? ' 
 
 Her lips trembled as she spoke, and she gazed at me 
 with a strange wistfulness. ' No, dearest,' I answered at 
 once,, taking her face in my hands. ' I shall fight with the 
 
 Q 
 
BH 
 
 226 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 rest. Salisbury has more need to-day of fighters than of 
 healers.* 
 
 * I thought you would,' she answered, slowly. ' And I 
 think you do right.' Her face was set white : she played 
 nervously with the baby. ' I would not urge you : but I am 
 glad you say so. I want you to stop : yet I could not love 
 you so much if I did not see you ready to play the man at 
 such a crisis.' 
 
 * I shall give in my name with the rest,' I answered. 
 
 ' Hubert, it is hard to spare you — hard to send you to 
 such danger. But for one other thing I am glad you are 
 going. . . . They must take Sebastian alive : they must 7iot 
 kill him.' 
 
 * They will shoot him red-handed if they catch him,' I 
 answered confidently. * A white man who sides with the 
 blacks in an insurrection ! ' 
 
 * Then you must see that they do not do it. They must 
 bring him in alive and try him legally. For me — ctnd there- 
 fore for you — that is of the first importance.' 
 
 'Why so, Hilda?' 
 
 * Hubert, you want to marry me.' I nodded vehemently. 
 ' Well, you know I can only marry you on one condition — 
 that I have succeeded first in clearing my father's memory. 
 Now, the only man living who can clear it is Sebastian. If 
 Sebastian were to be shot, it could never be cJleared — and then, 
 law of Medes and Persians, I could never marry you.' 
 
 ' But how can you expect Sebastian, of all men, to clear 
 it, Hilda?' I cried. * He is ready to kill us both, merely to 
 prevent your attempting a revision : is it likely you can force 
 him to confess his crime, still less induce him to admit it 
 voluntarily ? * 
 
 She put her hands into the hollow of her eyes and 
 pressed them hard with a strange, prophetic air she often 
 
 t 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 227 
 
 had about her when she gazed into the future. ' I know my 
 man,' she answered, slowly, without uncovering her eyes. 
 * I know how I can do il — if the chance ever comes to me. 
 But the chance must come first. It is hard to find. I lost 
 it once at Nathaniel's. I must not lose it again. If Sebas- 
 tian is killed skulking here in Rhodesia, my life's purpose 
 will have failed : I shall not have vindicated my father's 
 good name : and then, we can never marry.' 
 
 ' So I understand, Hilda, my orders are these : I am to 
 go out and fight for the women and children of Salisbury, 
 but I am to take care, if possible, that Sebastian shall be 
 made prisoner alive, and on no account to let him be killed 
 on the open ! ' 
 
 * I give you no orders, Hubert. I tell you how it seems 
 best to me. Bui. if Sebastian is shot dead — then you under- 
 stand it must be all over between us. I never can marry 
 you until or unless I have cleared my father.' 
 
 * Sebastian shall not be shot dead,* I cried, with my 
 youthful impetuosity. ' He shall be brought in alive, though 
 all Salisbury as one man try its best to lynch him.' 
 
 I went out to report myself as a volunteer for service. 
 Within the next few hours the whole town had been put in 
 a state of siege, and all available men armed to oppose the 
 insurgent Matabele. Hasty preparations were made for 
 defence. The ox-waggons of settlers were drawn up outside 
 in little circles here and there, so as to form laagers, which 
 acted practically as temporary forts for the protection of the 
 outskirts. In one of these I was posted. With our com- 
 pany were two American scouts, named Colebrook and 
 Doolittle, irregular fighters whose value in South African 
 campaigns had already been tested in the old Matabele war 
 against Lo-Bengula. Colebrook in particular was an odd- 
 looking creature — a tall, spare man, bodied like a weasel. 
 
228 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 He was red-haired, ferret-eyed, and an excellent scout, but 
 scrappier and more inarticulate in his manner of speech 
 than any human being I had ever encountered. His con- 
 versation was a series of rapid interjections, jerked out at 
 intervals, and made comprehensible by a running play of 
 gesture and attitude. 
 
 * Well, yes,' he said, when I tried to draw him out on the 
 
 I TRIED TO DRAW HIM OUT. 
 
 Matabele mode of fighting. * Not on the open. Never ! 
 Grass, if you like. Or bushes. The eyes of them ! The 
 eyes ! . . .' He leaned eagerly forward, as if looking for 
 something. * See here, Doctor : I'm telling you. Spots. 
 Gleaming. Among the grass. Long grass. And armed, 
 too. A pair of 'em each. One to throw ' — he raised his 
 hand as if lancing something — * the other for close fighting. 
 Assegais, you know. That's the name of it. Only the eyes. 
 Creeping, creeping, creeping. No noise. One raised. 
 Waggons drawn up in laager. Oxen outspanned in the 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 229 
 
 middle. Trekking all day. Tired out : dog-tired. Crawl, 
 crawl, crawl ! Hands and knees. Might be snakes. A 
 wriggle. Men sitting' about the camp-fire. Smoking. 
 Gleam of their eyes ! Under the waggons. Nearer, nearer, 
 nearer ! Then, the throwing ones in your midst. Shower 
 of 'em. Right and left. "Halloa! stand by, boys ! " Look 
 up : see 'em swarming, black like ants, over the waggons. 
 Inside the laager. Snatch up rifles! All up! Oxen 
 stampeding, men running, blacks sticking 'em like pigs in 
 the back with their assegais. Bad job, the whole thing. 
 Don't care for it, myself. Very tough 'uns to fight. If 
 they once break laager.' 
 
 * Then you should never let them get at close quarters,' 
 I suggested, catching the general drift of his inarticulate 
 swift pictures. 
 
 ' You're a square man, you are. Doctor ! There, you 
 touch the spot. Never let 'em get at close quarters. Sen- 
 tries ? — creep past 'em. Outposts? — crawl between. Had 
 Forbes and Wilson like that. Cut 'em off. Per-dition ! 
 . . . But Maxims will do it ! Maxims ! Never let 'em get 
 near. Sweep the ground all round. Durned hard, though, 
 to know just when they're coming. A night : two nights : 
 all clear : only waste ammunition. Third, they swarm like 
 bees : break laager : all over ! ' 
 
 This was not exactly an agreeable picture of what we 
 had to expect — the more so as our particular laager happened 
 to have no Maxims. However, we kept a sharp look-out 
 for those gleaming eyes in the long grass of which Colebrook 
 warned us : their flashing light was the one thing to be seen, 
 at night above all, when the black bodies could crawl un- 
 perceived through the tall dry herbage. On our first night 
 out we had no adventures. We watched by turns outside, 
 relieving sentry from time to time, while those of us who 
 
230 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 slept within the laager slept on the bare ground with our 
 
 WE WATCHED BY TURNS. 
 
 arms beside us. Nobody spoke much. The tension was too 
 great. Every moment we expected an attack of the enemy. 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFHi HEART 231 
 
 Next day news reached us by scouts from all the other 
 laagers. None of them had been attacked : but in all there 
 was a deep, half-instinctive belief that the Matabele in force 
 were drawing step by step closer and closer around us. 
 Lo-Bengula*s old impis or native regiments had gathered 
 together once more under their own indunas — men trained and 
 drilled in all the arts and ruses of savage warfare. On their 
 own ground, and among their native scrub, those rude 
 strategists are formidable. They know the country and 
 how to fight in it. We had nothing to oppose to them but 
 a handful of the new Matabeleland police, an old regular 
 soldier or two, and a raw crowd of volunteers, most of whom, 
 like myself, had never before really handled a rifle. 
 
 That afternoon, the Major in command decided to send 
 out the two American scouts to scour the grass and discover, 
 if possible, how near our lines the Matabele had penetrated. 
 I begged hard to be permitted to accompany them. I 
 wanted, if I could, to get evidence against Sebastian : or at 
 least to learn whether he was still directing and assisting the 
 enemy. At first, the scouts laughed at my request : but 
 when I told them privately that I believed I had a clue 
 against the white traitor who had caused the revolt, and 
 that I wished to identify him, they changed their tone and 
 began to think there might be something in it. 
 
 * Experience ? ' Colebrook asked, in his brief shorthand 
 of speech, running his ferret eyes over me. 
 
 * None,* I answered. * But a noiseless tread, and a 
 capacity for crawling through holes in hedges which may 
 perhaps be useful.' 
 
 He glanced inquiry at Doolittle, who was a shorter and 
 stouter man, with a knack of getting over obstacles by sheer 
 forcefulness. 
 
 ' Hands and knees !' he said, abruptly, in the imperative 
 
 
I I 
 
 232 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 mood, pointing to a clump of dry grass with thorny bushes 
 ringed about it. 
 
 I went down on my hands and knees and threaded my 
 way through the long grasses and matted boughs as noise- 
 lessly as I could. The two old hands watched me. When 
 I emerged severa' yards off, much to their surprise, Cole- 
 brook turned to Doolittle. * Might answer,' he said, curtly. 
 * Major says, choose your own men. Anyhow, if they catch 
 him, nobody's fault but his. Wants to go. Will do it.' 
 
 We set out through the long grass together, walking 
 erect at first, till we had got some distance from the laager, 
 and then creeping as the Matabele creep themselves, without 
 displacing the grass-flowers, for a mere wave on top would 
 have betrayed us at once to the quick eyes of those observant 
 savages. We crept on for a mile or so. At last Colebrook 
 turned to me, one finger on his lips. His ferret eyes 
 gleamed. We were approaching a wooded hill, all inter- 
 spersed with boulders. * Kaffirs here ! ' he whispered low, 
 as if he knew by instinct. Hozv he knew, I cannot tell ; he 
 seemed almost to scent them. 
 
 We stole on further, going more furtively than ever now. 
 I could notice by this time that there were waggons in front, 
 and could hear men speaking in them. I wanted to proceed, 
 but Colebrook held up one warning hand. * Won't do,* he 
 said, shortly, in a low tone. ' Only myself. Danger ahead ! 
 Stop here and wait for me.' 
 
 Doolittle and myself waited. Colebrook kept on 
 cautiously, squirming his long body in sinuous waves like a 
 lizard's through the grass, and was soon lost to us. No 
 snake could have been lither. We waited, with ears attent. 
 One minute, two minutes, many minutes passed. We could 
 catch the voices of Kaffirs in the bush all round. They 
 were speaking freely, but what they said I did not know, 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 u 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 233 
 
 (1) 
 
 as I had picked up only a very few words ot' the Matabele 
 language. 
 
 1'' ffriii •{<iJi/ 'jt^ if' ■ i 
 
 ill* 
 
 It seemed hours while we waited, still as mice in our 
 
234 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ambush, and alert. I began to think Colebrook must have 
 been lost or killed — so long was he gone — and that we 
 must return without him. At last — we leaned forward — a 
 muffled movement in the grass ahead ! A slight wave at 
 the base ! Then it divided below, bit by bit, while the tops 
 remained stationary. A weasel-like body slank noiselessly 
 through. Finger on lips once more, Colebrook glided 
 beside us. 
 
 We turned and crawled back, stifling our very pulses. 
 For many minutes none of us spoke. But we heard in our 
 rear a loud cry and a shaking of assegais: the Kaffirs behind 
 us were yelling frightfully. They must have suspected 
 something — seen some movement in the tufted heads of 
 grass, for they spread abroad, shouting. We halted, holding 
 our breath. After a time, however, the noise died down. 
 They were moving another way. Wc crept on again, 
 stealthily. 
 
 When at last, after many minutes, we found ourselves 
 beyond a sheltering belt of brushwood, we ventured to rise 
 and speak. ' Well ? ' I asked of Colebrook. ' Did you dis- 
 cover anything ? ' 
 
 He nodded assent. * Couldn't see him,' he said, shortly. 
 ' But he's there right enough. White man. Heard 'em talk 
 of him.' 
 
 * What did they say ? ' I asked, eagerly. 
 
 ' Said he had a white skin, but his heart was a Kaffir's. 
 Great induna : leader of many irnpis. Prophet, wise weather 
 doctor ! Friend of old Moselekatse's. Destroy the white 
 men from over the big water : restore the land to the 
 Matabele. Kill all in Salisbury : especially the white 
 women. Witches : all witches : they give charms to the 
 men : cook lions' hearts for them : make them brave with 
 love-drinks.' 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAEFH^ HEART 235 
 
 * They said that ! ' I exclaimed, taken aback. * Kill all 
 the white women ! ' 
 
 ' Yes. Kill all. White witches, every one. The young 
 ones worst. Word of the great induna.* 
 
 HE S THERE RIGHT ENOUGH. 
 
 ' And you could not see him ? ' 
 
 • Crept near waggons : close. Fellow himself inside. 
 Heard his voice : spoke English, with a little Matabele. 
 Kaffir boy who was servant at the mission interpreted.' 
 
236 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 • What sort of voice ? Like this ? ' And I imitated 
 Sebastian's cold, clear-cut tone as well as I was able. 
 
 ' The man ! That's him, Doctor. You've got him 
 down to the ground. The very voice. Heard him giving 
 orders.' 
 
 That settled the question. I was certain of it now. 
 Sebastian was with the insurgents. 
 
 We made our way back to our laager, flung ourselves 
 down, and slept a little on the ground before taking our turn 
 in the fatigues of the night watch. Our horses were loosely 
 tied, ready for any sudden alarm. About midnight, we three 
 were sitting with others about the fire, talking low to one 
 another. All at once Doolittle sprang up, alert and eager. 
 * Look out, boys ! * he cried, pointing his hands under the 
 waggons. * What's wriggling in the grass there ? ' 
 
 I looked, and saw nothing. Our sentries were posted 
 outside, about a hundred yards apart, walking up and down 
 till they met, and exchanging ' All's well ' aloud at each 
 meeting. 
 
 * They should have been stationary ! ' one of our scouts 
 exclaimed, looking out at them. * It's easier for the Mata- 
 bele to see them so, when they walk up and down, moving 
 against the sky. The Major ought to have posted them 
 where it wouldn't have been so simple for a Kaffir to see 
 them and creep in between them ! ' 
 
 ' Too late now, boys ! ' Colcbrook burst out, with a rare 
 effort of articulateness. ' Call back the sentries. Major ! 
 The blacks have broken line 1 Hold there ! They're in 
 upon us ! ' 
 
 Even as he spoke, I followed his eager pointing hand 
 with my eyes, and just descried among the grass two gleam- 
 ing objects, seen under the hollow of one of the waggons. 
 Two : then two : then two again : and behind, whole pairs of 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 237 
 
 them. They looked like twin stars : but they were eyes : 
 black eyes, reflecting the starlight and the red glare of the 
 camp-fire. They crept on tortuously in serpentine curves 
 through the long, dry grasses. I could feel rather than sec 
 that they were Matabele, crawling prone on their bellies, and 
 trailing their snake-like way between the dark jungle. Quick 
 as thought, I raised my rifle and blazed away at the foremost. 
 So did several others. But the Major shouted, angrily, 
 * Who fired ? Don't shoot, boys, till you hear the word of 
 command ! Back, sentries, to laager ! Not a shot till 
 they're safe inside ! You'll hit your own people ! ' 
 
 Almost before he said it, the sentries darted back. The 
 Matabele crouching on hands and knees in the long grass 
 had passed through them, unseen. A wild moment followed. 
 I can hardly describe it, the whole thing was so new to me, 
 and took place so quickly. Hordes of black human ants 
 seemed to surge up all at once over and under the waggons. 
 Assegais whizzed through the air or gleamed brandished 
 around one. Our men fell back to the centre of the laager 
 and formed themselves hastily under the Major's orders. 
 Then a pause : a deadly fire. Once, twice, thrice we vol- 
 leyed. The Matabele fell by dozens — but they came or. by 
 hundreds. As fast as we fired and mowed down one swarm, 
 fresh swarms seemed to spring from the earth and stream 
 over the waggons. Others appeared to grow up almost 
 beneath our feet as they wormed their way on their faces 
 along the ground between the wheels, squirmed into the 
 circle, and then rose suddenly erect and naked, in front of 
 us. Meanwhile, they yelled and shouted, clashing their spears 
 and shields : the oxen bellowed : the rifles volleyed. It was 
 a pandemonium of sound in an orgy of gloom. Darkness, 
 lurid flame, blood, wounds, death, horror. 
 
 Yet in the midst cf all this hubbub I could not help 
 
 
! 
 
 238 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 admiring the cool military calm and self-control of our 
 Major. His voice rose clear above the confused tumult. 
 
 A WILD MOMENT FOLLOWED. 
 
 ' Steady, boys, steady ! Don't fire at random. Pick each 
 your likeliest man, and aim at him deliberately. That's 
 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAEFIR HEART 239 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 right : easy — easy ! Shoot at leisure, and don't waste 
 ammunition ! ' 
 
 He stood as if he were on parade, in the midst of this 
 palpitating turmoil of savages. Some of us, encouraged by 
 his example, mounted the waggons, and shot from the tops 
 at our approaching assailants. 
 
 How long the hurly-burly went on I cannot say. We 
 fired, fired, fired, and Kaffirs fell like sheep : yet more 
 Kaffirs rose fresh from the long grass to replace them. They 
 swarmed with greater ease now over the covered waggons, 
 across the mangled and writhing bodies of their fellows : for 
 the dead outside made an inclined plane for the living to 
 mount by. But the enemy were getting less numerou", I 
 thought, and less anxious to fight. The steady fire told on 
 them. By and by, with a little halt, for the first time they 
 wavered. All our men now mounted the waggons, and 
 began to fire on them in regular volleys as they came up. 
 The evil effects of the surprise were gone by this time : we 
 were acting with coolness and obeying orders. But several 
 of our people dropped close beside me, pierced through 
 with assegais. 
 
 All at once, as if a panic had burst over them, the Mata- 
 bele with one mind stopped dead short in their advance and 
 ceased fighting. Till that moment, no number of deaths 
 seemed to make any difference to them. Men fell, disabled : 
 others sprang up from the ground by magic. But now, of a 
 sudden, their courage flagged — they faltered, gave way, 
 broke, and shambled in a body. At last, as one man, they 
 turned and fled. Many of them leapt up with a loud cry from 
 the long grass where they were skulking, flung away their 
 big shields with the white thongs interlaced, and ran for 
 dear life, black crouching figures, through the dense, dry 
 jungle. They held their assegais still, but did not dare to 
 
 1 ;■( 
 
240 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 use them. It was a flight, pell-mell — and the devil take the 
 hindmost. 
 
 Not until then had I leisure to think and to realise my 
 position. This was the first and only time I had ever seen 
 a battle. I am a bit of a coward, I believe — like most other 
 men — though I have courage enough to confess it : and I 
 expected to find myself terribly afraid when it came to 
 fighting. Instead of that, to my immense surprise, once the 
 Matabele had swarmed over the laager and were upon us in 
 their thousands, I had no time to be frightened. The 
 absolute necessity for keeping cool, for loading and reloading, 
 for aiming and firing, for beating them off at close quarters 
 — all this so occupied one's mind, and still more one's hands, 
 that one couldn't find room for any personal terrors. * They 
 are breaking over there ! ' ' They will overpower us yonder ! ' 
 * They are faltering now ! ' Those thoughts were so upper- 
 most in one's head, and one's arms were so alert, that only 
 after the enemy gave way and began to run at full pelt 
 could a man find breathing-space to think of his own safety. 
 Then the thought occurred to me, ' I have been through my 
 first fight, and come out of it alive : after all, I was a deal 
 less afraid than I expected ! ' 
 
 That took but a second, however. Next instant, 
 awaking to the altered circumstances, we were after them 
 at full speed, accompanying them on their way back to 
 their kraals in the uplands with a running fire as a farewell 
 attention. 
 
 As we broke laager in pursuit of them, by the uncertain 
 starlight we saw a sight which made us boil with indignation. 
 A mounted man turned and fled before them. He seemed 
 their leader, unseen till then. He was dressed like a 
 European — tall, thin, unbending, in a greyish white suit : 
 he rode a good horse, and sat it well : his air was command- 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFHi HEART 241 
 
 ing, even as he turned and fled in the general rout from that 
 lost battle. 
 
 I seized Colebrook's arm, almost speechless with anger. 
 ' The white man ! ' I cried. * The traitor ! ' 
 
 He did not answer a word, but with a set face of white 
 rage loosed his horse from where it was tethered among the 
 waggons. At the same moment I loosed mine. So did 
 Doolittle. Quick as thought, but silently, we led them out 
 all three where the laager was broken. I clutched my 
 mare's mane, and sprang to the stirrup to pursue our enemy. 
 My sorrel bounded off like a bird. The fugitive had a good 
 two minutes' start of us ; but our horses were fresh, while his 
 had probably been ridden all day. I patted my pony's neck: 
 she responded with a ringing neigh of joy. We tore after the 
 outlaw, all three of us abreast. I felt a sort of fierce delight in 
 the reaction after the fighting. Our ponies galloped wildly 
 over the plain : we burst out into the night, never heeding 
 the Matabele whom we passed on the open in panic-stricken 
 retreat : I noticed that many of them in their terror had 
 even fiung away their shields and their assegais. 
 
 It was a mad chase across the dark veldt — we three, 
 neck to neck, against that one desperate runaway. We 
 rode all we knew. I dug my heels into my sorrel's flanks, 
 and she responded bravely. The tables were turned now 
 on our traitor since the afternoon of the massacre. He was 
 the pursued and we were the pursuers. We felt we must 
 run him down and punish him for his treachery. 
 
 At a break-neck pace we stumbled over low bushes : we 
 grazed big boulders : we rolled down the sides of steep 
 ravines : but we kept him in sight all the time, dim and 
 black against the starry sky : slowly, slowly — yes, yes ! — 
 we gained upon him. My pony led now. The mysterious 
 white man rode and rode — head bent, neck forward — but 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 never looked behind him. Bit by bit we lessened the 
 
 < 
 
 Q 
 
 U 
 K 
 H 
 
 V. 
 
 t/) 
 O 
 
 u 
 < 
 
 < 
 
 K 
 
 y 
 
 Q 
 
 < 
 
 (/5 
 
 < 
 
 1- 
 
 distance between us. As we drew near him at last, Doo- 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFEIR HEART 243 
 
 ? 
 
 little called out to me in a warning voice, * Take care, 
 Doctor ! Have your revolvers ready ! He's driven to bay 
 now ! As we approach he'll fire at us ! ' 
 
 Then it came home to me in a flash. I felt the truth of 
 it. ' He dare not fire ! ' I cried. ' He dare not turn towards 
 us. He cannot show his face ! If he did we might recog- 
 nise him ! ' 
 
 On we rode, still gaining. ' Now, now,' I cried, ' we 
 shall catch him ! ' 
 
 Even as I leaned forward to seize his rein, the fugitive, 
 without checking his horse, without turning his head, drew 
 his revolver from his belt, and, raising his hand, fired behind 
 him at random. He fired towards us, on the chance. The 
 bullet whizzed past my ear, not hitting any one. We 
 scattered, right and left, still galloping free and strong. We 
 did not return his fire, as I had told the others of my desire 
 to take him alive. We might have shot his horse ; but the 
 risk of hitting the rider, coupled with the confidence we felt 
 of eventually hunting him to earth, restrained us. It was 
 the great mistake we made. 
 
 He had gained a little by his shots, but we soon caught 
 it up. Once more I said, ' We are on him ! ' 
 
 A minute later, we were pulled up short before an im- 
 penetrable thicket of prickly shrubs, through which I saw at 
 once it would have been quite impossible to urge our stagger- 
 ing horses. 
 
 The other man, of course, reached it before us, with his 
 mare's last breath. He must have been making for it, 
 indeed, of set purpose ; for the second he arrived at the edge 
 of the thicket he slipped off his tired pony, and seemed to dive 
 into the bush as a swimmer dives off a rock into the water. 
 
 * We have him now ! ' I cried, in a voice of triumph. 
 And Colebrook echoed, * We have him ! ' 
 
244 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 We sprang down quickly. * Take him aiive, if you can ! ' 
 I exclaimed, remembering Hilda's advice. * Let us find out 
 who he is, and have him properly tried and hanged at 
 Bulawayo ! Don't give him a soldier's death ! All he 
 deserves is a murderer's ! ' 
 
 * You stop here,' Colebrook said, briefly, flinging his 
 bridle to Doolittle to hold. * Doctor and I follow him. 
 Thick bush. Knows the ways of it. Revolvers ready ! ' 
 
 I handed my sorrel to Doolittle. He stopped behind, 
 holding the three foam-bespattered and panting horses, while 
 Colebrook and I dived after our fugitive into the matted 
 bushes. 
 
 The thicket, as I have said, was impenetrable above ; 
 but it was burrowed at its base by over-ground runs of some 
 wild animal — not, I think, a very large one ; they were just 
 like the runs which rabbits make among gorse and heather, 
 only on a bigger scale — bigger even than a fox's or badger's. 
 By crouching and bending our backs, we could crawl through 
 them with difficulty into the scrubby tangle. It was hard 
 work creeping. The runs divided soon. Colebrook felt 
 with his hands on the ground : * I can make out the 
 spc or ! ' he muttered, after a minute. * He has gone on this 
 way ! ' 
 
 We tracked him a little distance in, crawling at times, 
 and rising now and again where the runs opened out on to 
 the air for a moment. The spoor was doubtful, and the 
 tunnels tortuous. I felt the ground from time to time, but 
 could not be sure of the tracks with my fingers : I was not 
 a trained scout like Colebrook or Doolittle. We wriggled 
 deeper into the tangle. Something stirred once or twice. 
 It was not far from me. I was uncertain whether it was 
 him — Sebastian — or a Kaffir earth-hog, the animal whicji 
 seemed likeliest to have made the burrows. 
 
\ 
 
 THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART 245 
 
 Was he going to elude us even now ? Would he turn 
 upon us with a knife ? If so, could we hold him ? 
 
 At last, when we had pushed our way some distance in, 
 we heard a wild cry from outside. It was Doolittle's voice. 
 ' Quick ! quick ! Out again ! The man will escape ! He 
 has come back on his tracks and rounded ! ' 
 
 I saw our mistake at once. We had left our companion 
 out there alone, rendered helpless by the care of all three 
 horses. 
 
 Colebrook said never a word. He was a man of action. 
 He turned with instinctive haste, and followed our own spoor 
 back again with his hands and knees to the opening in the 
 thicket by which we had first entered. 
 
 Before we could reach it, however, two shots rang out 
 clear in the direction where we had left poor Doolittle and 
 the horses. Then a sharp cry broke the stillness — the cry of 
 a wounded man. We redoubled our pace. We knew we 
 were outwitted. 
 
 When we reached the open we saw at once by the 
 uncertain light what had happened. The fugitive was riding 
 away on my own little sorrel. Riding for dear life, not back 
 the way we came from Salisbury, but sideways across the 
 veldt towards Chimoio and the Portuguese seaports. The 
 other two horses, riderless and terrified, were scampering with 
 loose heels over the dark plain. Doolittle was not to be 
 seen : he lay, a black lump, among the black bushes about 
 him. 
 
 We looked around for him and found him. He was 
 severely, I may even say dangerously, wounded. The bullet 
 had lodged in his right side. We had to catch our two 
 horses, and ride them back with our wounded man, leading 
 the fugitive's mare in tow, all blown and breathless. I stuck 
 to the fugitive's mare : it was the one clue we had now 
 
»46 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 against him. But Sebastian, if it was Sebastian, had ridden 
 off scot-free. I understood his game at a glance. He had 
 got the better of us once more. He would make for the 
 coast by the nearest road, givv^; himself out as a settler 
 escaped from the massacre, and catch the next ship for 
 England or the Cape, now this coup had failed him. 
 
 p^ 
 
 THE FUGITIVE WAS RIDING AWAY. 
 
 Doolittle had not seen the traitor's face. The man rose 
 from the bush, he said, shot him, seized the pony, and rode 
 off in a second with ruthless haste. He was tall and thin, 
 but erect — that was all the wounded scout could tell us 
 about his assailant. And that was not enough to identify 
 Sebastian. 
 
THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFIIR HEART 247 
 
 All danger was over. We rode back to Salisbury. The 
 first words Hilda said when ^he saw me were, ' Well, he has 
 got away from you ! ' 
 
 ' Yes : how did you know ? ' 
 
 ' I read it in your step. But I guessed as much before. 
 He is so very keen : and you started too confident. 
 
IX 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 The Matabele revolt gave Hilda a prejudice against 
 Rhodesia. I will confess that I shared it. I may be hard 
 to please : but it somehow sets one against a country when 
 one comes home from a ride to find all the other occupants 
 of the house one lives in massacred. So Hilda decided to 
 leave South Africa. By an odd coincidence, I also decided 
 on the same day to change my residence. Hilda's move- 
 ments and mine, indeed, coincided curiously. The moment I 
 learned she was going anywhere I discovered in a flash that 
 I happened to be going there too. I commend this strange 
 case of parallel thought and action to the consideration of the 
 Society for Psychical Research. 
 
 So I sold my farm and had done with Rhodesia. A 
 country with a future is very well in its way : but I am quite 
 Ibsenish in my preference for a country with a past. Oddly 
 enough, I had no difficulty in getting lid of my white 
 elephant of a farm. People seemed to believe in Rhodesia 
 none the less firmly because of this slight disturbance. They 
 treated massacres as necessary incidents in the early history 
 of a colony with a future. And I do not deny that native 
 risings add picturesqueness. But I prefer to take them in a 
 literary form. 
 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 249 
 
 
 * You will go home, of course ? ' I said to Hilda, when we 
 came to talk it all over. , 
 
 She shook her head. * To England ? Oh no. I must 
 pursue my Plan. Sebastian will have gone home: he expects 
 me to follow.' 
 
 * And why don't you ? ' 
 
 * Because — he expects it. You see, he is a good judge 
 of character ; he will naturally infer from what he knows of 
 my temperament that after this experience I shall want to 
 get back to England and safety. So I should — if it were not 
 that I know he will expect it. As it is, I must go elsewhere : 
 I must draw him after me.' 
 
 ' Where ? ' 
 
 * Why do you ask, Hubert ? ' 
 
 * Because — I want to know where I am going myself. 
 Wherever you go, I have reason to believe, I shall find that 
 I happen to be going also.' 
 
 She rested her little chin on her hand and reflected a 
 minute. ' Does it occur to you,' she asked at last, * that 
 people have tongues ? If you go on following me like this, 
 they will really begin to talk about us.' 
 
 ' Now, upon my .word, Hilda,' I cried, ' that is the very 
 first time I have ever known you show a woman's want of 
 logic ! I do not propose to follow you : I propose to happen 
 to be travelling by the same steamer. I ask you to marry 
 me : you won't : you admit you are fond of me : yet you 
 tell me not to come with you. It is / who suggest a course 
 which would prevent people from chattering — by the simple 
 device of a wedding. It is you who refuse. And then you 
 turn upon me like this ! Admit that you are unreasonable.' 
 
 * My dear Hubert, have I ever denied that I was a 
 woman ? ' 
 
 * Besides,' I went on, ignoring her delicious smile, ' I don't 
 
250 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 intend io follow you. I expect, on the contrary, to find my- 
 self beside you. When I know where you are going, I shall 
 accidentally turn up on the same steamer. Accidents ivill 
 happen. Nobody can prevent coincidences from occurring. 
 You may marry me or you may not ; but if you don't marry 
 me, you can't expect to curtail my liberty of action, can you ? 
 You had better know the worst at once : if you won't take mc, 
 you must count upon finding me at your elbow all the world 
 over — till the moment comes when you choose to accept me.* 
 
 ' Dear Hubert, I am ruining your life ! ' 
 
 ' An excellent reason, then, for taking my advice and 
 marrying me instantly ! But you wander from the question. 
 Where are you going ? That is the issue now before the 
 house. You persist in evadinr' it' 
 
 Sh'^ smiled and came bac to earth. 'Oh, if you must 
 know, to India, by the east coast, changing steamers at 
 Aden.' 
 
 ' Extraordinary !' I cried. * Do you know, Hilda, as luck 
 will have it, / also shall be on my way to Bombay by the 
 very same steamer ! ' 
 
 ' But you don't know what steamer it is.* 
 
 * No matter. That only makes the coincidence all the 
 odder. Whatever the name of the ship may be, when you 
 get on board I have a presentiment that you will be sur- 
 prised to find me there.* 
 
 She looked up at me with a gathering film in her eyes. 
 ' Hubert, you are irrepressible ! ' 
 
 * I am, my dear child : so you may as well spare yourself 
 the needless trouble of trying to repress me.* 
 
 If you rub a piece of iron on a loadstone it becomes 
 magnetic. So, I think, I must have begun to acquire some 
 part of Hilda*s own prophetic strain ; for sure enough, a few 
 weeks later, we both of us found ourselves on the German 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCIA'SIVE 
 
 2;i 
 
 East African steamer Kaiser Willielni, on our way to Aden 
 — exactly as I had predicted. Which goes to prove that 
 there is really something after all in presentiments ! 
 
 * Since you persist in accompanying me/ Hilda said to 
 
 I HAVi: A PRESENTIMENT THAT YOU WILL BE SURPRISED TO FIND 
 
 MF. THERE. 
 
 me as we sat in our chairs on deck the first evening out, ' I 
 see what I must do. I must invent some plausible and 
 ostensible reason for our travelling together.' 
 
 ' We are not travelling together,' I answered. * We are 
 travelling by the same steamer ; that is all — exactly like 
 
252 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I decline to be dragged 
 I am going to invent an 
 
 the rest of our fellow-passengers, 
 into this imaginary partnership.' 
 
 ' Now do be serious, Hubert ! 
 object in life for us.' 
 
 * What object ? ' 
 
 * How can I tell yet ? I must wait and see what turns 
 up. When we tranship at Aden, and find out what people 
 are going on to Bombay with us, I shall probably discover 
 some nice married lady to whom I can attach myself.' 
 
 ' And am I to attach myself to her, too ? ' 
 
 * My dear boy, I never asked you to come. You came 
 unbidden. You must manage for yourself as best you may. 
 But I leave much to the chapter of accidents. We never 
 know what will turn up, till it turns up in the end. Every- 
 thing comes at last, you know, to him that waits.* 
 
 * And yet,' I put in, with a meditative air, * 1 have never 
 observed that waiters are so much better off than the rest of 
 the community. They seem to me ' 
 
 * Don't talk nonsense. It is you who are wandering from 
 the question now. Please return to it.' 
 
 I returned at once. ' So I am to depend on what turns 
 up?' 
 
 ' Yes. Leave that to me. When we see our fellow- 
 passengers on the Bombay steamer, I shall soon discover 
 some ostensible reason why we two should be travelling 
 through India with one of them.' 
 
 ' Well, you are a witch, Hilda,* I answered : * I found 
 that out long ago : but if you succeed between here and 
 Bombay in inventing a Mission, I shall begin to believe you 
 are even more of a witch than I ever thought you.' 
 
 At Aden we changed into a P. and O. steamer. Our 
 first evening out on our second cruise was a beautiful one : 
 the bland Indian Ocean wore its sweetest smile for us. We 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 ^53 
 
 sat on deck after dinner. A lady with a husband came up 
 from the cabin while we sat and f^azed at the placid sea. I 
 was smoking a quiet digestive cigar : Hilda was seated in 
 her deck chair next to me. 
 
 The lady with the husband looked about her for a vacant 
 space on which to place the chair a steward was carrying for 
 her. There was plenty of room on th»„ quarter-deck : I could 
 no: imagine why she gazed about her with such obtrusive 
 caution. She inspected the occupants of the various chairs 
 around with deliberate scrutiny through a long-handled tor- 
 toise-shell optical abomination. None of them seemed to 
 satisfy her. After a minute's mental effort, during which she 
 also muttered a few words very low to her husband, she 
 selected an empty spot midway between our group and the 
 most distant group on either side of us. In other words, 
 she sat as far away from everybody present as the necessarily 
 restricted area of the quarter-deck permitted. 
 
 Hilda glanced at me and smiled. I snatched a quick 
 look at the lady again. She was dressed with an amount of 
 care and a smartness of detail that seemed somewhat uncalled 
 for on t-^i'" Indian Ocean. A cruise on a P. and O. steamer 
 i'" noi a j^irden party. Her chair was most luxurious and 
 hid h^-" lame painted on it, back and front, in very large 
 th undue obtrusiveness. I read it from where I 
 l.'idy Meadowcroft.' 
 
 The owner of the chair was tolerably young, not bad 
 looking, and most expensively attired. Her face had a cer- 
 tain vacant, languid, half ennuyi air which I have learned to 
 associate with women of the fiouveau-riche type — women with 
 small brains and restless minds, habitually plunged in a 
 vortex of gaiety, and miserable when left for a passing 
 moment to tHeir own resources. 
 
 Hilda rose from her chair and walked quietly forward 
 
 letters. 
 
 c>a4.. 
 
254 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 towards the bow of the steamer. I rose, too, and accom- 
 panied her. ' Well ? * she said, with a faint touch of triumph 
 in her voice when we had got out of earshot. 
 
 * Well, what ? * I answered, unsuspecting. 
 
 * I told you everything turned up at the end ! 
 confidently. * Look at that lady's nose ! ' 
 
 * It does turn up at the end — certainly,' I 
 glancing back at her. * But I hardly see ' 
 
 * Hubert, you are gro ving dull ! You were not so at 
 Nathaniel's. ... It is the lady herself who has turned up, 
 not her nose — though I grant you that turns up too — the 
 
 she said, 
 answered, 
 
 lady I require for our tour in India : the not impossible 
 chaperon.' 
 
 ' Her nose tells you that ? ' 
 
 ' Her nose, in part : but her face as a whole, too, her 
 dress, her chair, her mental attitude to things in general.' 
 
 * My dear Hilda, you can't mean to tell me you have 
 divined her whole nature at a glance, by magic ? ' 
 
 * Not wholly at a glance. I saw her come on board, you 
 know — she transhipped from some other line at Aden as we 
 did : and I have been watching her ever since. Yes, I think 
 I have unravelled her.' 
 
 ' You have been astonishingly quick ! ' I cried. 
 
 ' Perhaps — but then, you see, there is so little to unravel! 
 Some books, we all know, you must " chew and digest " ; 
 they can only be read slowly : but some you can glance 
 at, skim, and skip ; the mere turning of the pages tells you 
 what little worth knowing there is in them.' 
 
 ' She doesn't look profound,' I admitted, casting an eye 
 at her meaningless small features as we paced up and down. 
 ' I incline to agree you might easily skim her.' 
 
 ' Skim her — and learn all. The table of contents is so 
 short. . . . You see, in the first place, she is extremely " ex- 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 255 
 
 elusive " : she prides herself on that — bases herself on her 
 " exclusiveness " : it, and her shoddy title, are probably all 
 she has to pride herself upon : and she works them both 
 hard. She is a sham great lady.' 
 
 As Hilda spoke, Lady Meadovvcroft raised a feebly 
 
 SHE doesn't look PROFOUND, I ADMITTED. 
 
 querulous voice. 'Steward! this won't do! I can smell 
 the engine here. Move my chair. I must go on further.' 
 
 * If you go on further that way, my lady,' the steward 
 answered, good-humouredly, but with a man-servant's defer- 
 ence for any sort of tiUc, ' you'll smell the galley, where 
 
256 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 they're cooking the dinner. I don't know which your lady- 
 ship would like best — the engine or the galley.' 
 
 The languid figure leaned back in the chair with an air 
 of resignation. * I'm sure I don't know why they cook the 
 dinners up so high,' she murmured, pettishly, to her husband. 
 * Why can't they stick the kitchens underground — in the 
 hold, I mean — instead of bothering us up here on deck with 
 them ? ' 
 
 The husband was a big, burly, rough-and ready York- 
 shireman — stout, somewhat pompous, about forty, with hair 
 wearing bald on the forehead : the personification of the 
 successful business man. * My dear Emmie,' he said, in a loud 
 voice, with a North Country accent, ' the cooks have got to 
 live. They've got to live like the rest of us. I can never 
 persuade you that the hands must always be humoured. If 
 you don't humour 'em, they won't work for you. It's a poor 
 tale when the hands won't work. Even with galleys on deck, 
 the life of a sea-cook is not generally thowt an enviable 
 position. Is not a happy one — not a happy one, as the 
 fellah says in the opera. You must humour your cooks. If 
 you stuck 'em in the hold you'd get no dinner at all — that's 
 the long and the short of it.' 
 
 The languid lady turned away with a sickly, disappointed 
 air. ' Then they ought to have a conscription or something,' 
 she said, pouting her lips. ' The Government ought to take 
 it in hand and manage it somehow. It's bad enough having 
 to go by these beastly steamers to India at all, without 
 
 having one's breath poisoned by ' the rest of the sentence 
 
 died away inaudibly in a general murmur of ineffective 
 grumbling. 
 
 ' Why do you think she is exclusive f ' I asked Hilda, as 
 we strolled on towards the stern, out of the spoilt child's 
 hearing. 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 557 
 
 ' Why, didn't you notice ? — she looked about her when 
 she came on deck to see whether there was anybody who was 
 anybody sitting there, whom she might put her chair near. 
 But the Governor of Madras hadn't come up from his cabin 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF THE COMMANDKK-IN-CIUEl.- DREW TilElK SKIRTS 
 
 AWAY AS SHE PASSED. 
 
 yet; and the wife of the Chief Commissioner of Oude had 
 three civilians hanging about her scat ; and the daughters of 
 the Commander-in-Chief drew their skirts away as she passed : 
 so she did the next best thing— sat as far apart as she could 
 from the common herd, meaning all the rest of us. If you 
 
 S 
 
 
256 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 can't mingle at once with the Best People, you can at least 
 assert your exclusiveness negatively, by declining to associate 
 with the mere multitude.' 
 
 ' Now, Hilda, that is the first time I have ever known 
 you show any feminine f i-nature ! ' 
 
 * Ill-nature ! Not at all. I am merely trying to arrive 
 at the lady's character for my own guidance. I rather like 
 her, poor little thing. Don't I tell you she will do ? So far 
 from objecting to her, I mean to go the round of India with 
 her.' 
 
 'You have decided quickly.' 
 
 * Well, you see, if you insist upon accompanying me, I 
 must have a chaperon : and Lady Meadowcroft will do as 
 well as anybody else. In fact, being be-ladied, she will do 
 a little better, from the point of view of Society, though tliat 
 is a detail. The great matter is to fix upon a possible 
 chaperon at once, and get her well in hand before we arrive 
 at Bombay.' 
 
 ' But she seems so complaining ! ' I interposed. * I'm 
 afraid, if you take her on, you'll get terribly bored with her.' 
 
 * If she takes me on, you mean. She's not a lady's-maid, 
 though I intend to go with her : and she may as well give 
 in first as last, for I'm going. Now, see how nice I am to 
 you, sir ! I've provided you, too, with a post in her suite, as 
 you ivill come with me. No, never mind asking me what it 
 is, just yet : all things come to him who waits ; and if you 
 will only accept the post of waiter, I mean all things to come 
 to you.* 
 
 ' All things, Hilda ? ' I asked, meaningly, with a little 
 tremor of delight. 
 
 She looked at me with a sudden passing tenderness in 
 her eyes. ' Yes, all things, Hubert. All I'lm^.^'. But we 
 mustn't talk of that — though I begin to .^a- my vvmv clearer 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 !59 
 
 now. You shall be rewarded for your constancy at last, dear 
 knight-errant. As to my chaperon, I'm not afraid of her 
 boring me : she bores herself, poor lady : one can see that, 
 just to look at her ; but she will be much less bored if she 
 has us two to travel with. What she needs is constant 
 companionship, bright talk, excitement. She has come away 
 from London, where she swims with the crowd ; she has no 
 resources of her own, no work, no head, no interests. 
 Accustomed to a whirl of foolish gaieties, she wearies her 
 small brain : thrown back upon herself, she bores herself at 
 once, because she has nothing interesting to tell herself. She 
 absolutely requires somebody else to interest her. She can't 
 even amuse herself with a book for three minutes together : 
 see, she has a yellow-backed French novel now, and she is 
 only able to read five lines at a time ; then she gets tired and 
 glances about her listlessly. What she wants is some one gay, 
 laid on, to divert her all the time from her own inanity.' 
 
 ' Hilda, how wonderfully quick you are at reading these 
 things ! I see you are right : but I could never have guessed 
 so much myself from such small premises.' 
 
 * Weil, what can you expect, my dear boy ? A girl like 
 this, brought up in a country rectory — a girl of no intellect, 
 busy at home with the fowls, and the pastry, and the mothers' 
 meetings — suddenly married offhand to a wealthy man, and 
 deprived of the occupations which were her salvation in life, 
 to be plunged into the whirl of a London season, and 
 stranded at its end for want of the diversions which, by dint 
 of use, have become necessaries of life to her ! ' 
 
 'Now, Hilda, you are practising upon my credulity. 
 You can't possibly tell from her look that she was brought 
 up in a country rectory.* 
 
 * Of course not. You forget. There, my memory comes 
 in. I simply remember it* 
 
26o 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 m 
 
 * You remember it ? How ? ' 
 
 * Why, just in the same way as I remembered your name 
 and your mother's when I was first introduced to you. I 
 saw a notice once in the births, deaths, and marriages — " At 
 St. Alphege's, Millington, by the Rev. Hugh Clitheroe, M.A., 
 father of the bride, Peter Gubbins, Esq., of The Laurels, 
 Middleston, to Emih'a Frances, third daughter of the Rev. 
 Hugh Clitheroe, rector of Millington." ' 
 
 ' Clitheroe — Gubbins : what on earth has that to do 
 with it "* That would be Mrs. Gubbins : this is Lady 
 Meadowcroft.' 
 
 ' The same article, as the shopmen say — only under a 
 different name. A year or two later, I read a notice in the 
 Times that " I, Ivorde Courcy Meadowcroft, of The Laurels, 
 Middleston, Mayor-elect of the Borough of Middleston, hereby 
 give notice, that I have this day discontinued the use of the 
 name Peter Gubbins, by which I was formerly known, and have 
 assumed in lieu thereof the style and title of Ivor de Courcy 
 Meadowcroft, by which I desire in future to be known." 
 
 ' A month or two later again I happened to light upon a 
 notice in the Telegraph that the Prince of Wales had opened a 
 new hospital for incurables at Middleston, and that the mayor, 
 Mr. Ivor Meadowcroft, had received an intimation of Her 
 Majesty's intention of conferring upon him the honour of 
 knighthood. Now, what do you make of it ? ' 
 
 * Putting two and two together,' I answered, with my eye 
 on our subject, * and taking into consideration the lady's face 
 and manner, I should incline to suspect that she was the 
 daughter of a poor parson, with the usual large family in 
 inverse proportion to his means : that she unexpectedly made 
 a good match with a very wealthy manufacturer who had 
 raised himself: and that she was puffed up accordingly with 
 a sense of s^lf-importance.' 
 
■ 9 
 
 THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 261 
 
 * Exactly. He is a millionaire or something very like it : 
 and being an ambitious girl, as she understands ambition, 
 she got him to stand for the mayoralty, I don't doubt, in the 
 year when the Prince of Wales was going to open the Royal 
 Incurables, on purpose to secure him the chance cf a knight- 
 
 I WON T BR I,ADY GUBBINS. 
 
 hood. Then she said, very reasonably, " I won't be Lady 
 Gubbins — Sir Peter Gubbins ! " There's an aristocratic name 
 for you ! — and, by a stroke of his pen, he straightway dis- 
 Gubbinised himself, and emerged as Sir Ivor de Courcy 
 Meadowcroft.* 
 
 ' Really, Hilda, you know everything about everybody ! 
 And what do you suppose they're going to India for?' 
 
 ' Now, you've asked mc a hard one. I haven't the 
 
 ^ 
 
262 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 
 faintest notion. . . . And yet ... let me think. . . . How 
 is this for a conjecture ? — Sir Ivor is interested in steel rails, 
 I believe, and in railway plant generally. I'm almost sure 
 I've seen his name in connection with steel rails in reports 
 of public meetings. There's a new Government railway now 
 being built on the Ncpaul frontier — one of these strategic 
 railways I think they call them — it's mentioned in the papers 
 we got at Aden. He might be going out for that. We can 
 watch his conversation, and see what part of India he talks 
 about.' 
 
 * They don't seem inclined to give us much chance of 
 talking,' I objected. 
 
 * No : they are very exclusive. But I'm very exclusive 
 too. And I mean to give them a touch of my exclusiveness. 
 I venture to predict that, before we reach Bombay, they'll 
 be going down on their knees and imploring us to travel 
 with them.' 
 
 At table, as it happened, from next morning's breakfast, 
 the Meadowcrofts sat next to us. Hilda was on one side of 
 me : Lady Meadowcroft on the other : and beyond her 
 again, bluff Yorkshire Sir Ivor, with his cold, hard, honest 
 blue North Country eyes, and his dignified, pompous English, 
 breaking down at times into a North Country colloquialism. 
 They talked chiefly to one another. Acting on Hilda's 
 instructions, I took care not to engage in conversation with 
 our ' exclusive ' neighbour, except so far as the absolute 
 necessities of the table compelled me. I ' troubled her for 
 the salt ' in the most frigid voice : ' May I pass you the 
 potato-salad ? ' became on my lips a barrier of separation. 
 Lady Meadowcroft marked and wondered. People of her 
 sort are so anxious to ingratiate themselves with 'all the 
 Best People ' that if they find you are wholly unconcerned 
 about the privilege of conversation with a ' titled person ' 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 263 
 
 they instantly judge you to be a ' 'stinguishcd character. 
 A j the days rolled on, Lady Mea^^r.wcroft's voice began 
 t) melt by degrees. Once, she asked me quite civilly to 
 send round the ice : she even saluted me on the third day 
 out with a polite ' Good morning, doctor.' 
 
 Still, I maintained (by Hilda's advice) my dignified 
 reserve, and took my seat severely with a cold ' Good 
 morning.' I behaved like a high-class consultant, who 
 expects to be made Physician in Ordinary to Her Majesty. 
 
 At lunch that day Hilda played her first card with 
 delicious unconsciousness — apparent unconsciousness : for, 
 when she chose, she was a consummate actress. She played 
 it at a moment when Lady Meadowcroft, who by this time 
 was burning with curiosity on our account, had paused from 
 her talk with her husband to listen to us. I happened to 
 say something about some Oriental curios belonging to an 
 aunt of mine in London. Hilda seized the opportunity. 
 
 * What did you say was her name ? ' she asked, blandly. 
 
 * Why, Lady Tepping,' I answered, in perfect innocence. 
 
 * She has a fancy for these things, you know. She brought 
 a lot of them home with her from Burma.' 
 
 As a matter of fact, as I have already explained, my 
 poor dear aunt is an extremely commonplace old Army 
 widow, whose husband happened to get knighted among the 
 New Year's honours for some brush with the natives on the 
 Shan frontier. But Lady Meadowcroft was at the stage where 
 a title is a title : and the discovery that I was the nephew 
 of a ' titled person ' evidently interested her. I could feel 
 rather than see that she glanced significantly aside at Sir 
 Ivor, and that Sir Ivor in return made a little movement of 
 his shoulders equivalent to * I told you so.' 
 
 Now, Hilda knew perfectly well that the aunt of whom 
 I spoke ivas Lady Tepping ; so I felt sure that she had 
 
264 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 played this card of malice prepense, to pique Lady 
 Meadowcroft. 
 
 But Lady Meadowcroft herself seized the occasion with 
 inartistic avidity. She had hardly addressed us as yet : at 
 the sound of the magic passport, she pricked up her ears, 
 and turned to me suddenly. ' Burma ? ' she said, as if to con- 
 ceal the tru , reason for her change of front. ' Burma ? I had 
 a cousin there once. He was in the Gloucestershire Regiment.' 
 
 * Indeed ? ' I answered. My tone was one of utter 
 unconcern in her cousin's history. ' Miss Wade, will you 
 take Bombay ducks with your curry ? ' In public, I thought 
 it wise under the circumstances to abstain from calling her 
 Hilda. It might lead to misconceptions : people might 
 suppose wc were more than fellow-travellers. 
 
 ' You have had relations in Burma ? ' Lady Meadowcroft 
 persisted. 
 
 I manifested a desire to discontinue the conversation. 
 ' Yes,' I answered, coldly, ' my uncle commanded there.' 
 
 ' Commanded there ! Really ! Ivor, do you hear ? 
 Dr. Cumberledge's uncle commanded in Burma.' A faint 
 intonation on the word covimanded drew unobtrusive atten- 
 tion to its social importance. ' May I ask what was his 
 name ? — my cousin was there, you sec.' An insipid smile. 
 ' We may have friends in common.' 
 
 ' He was a certain Sir Malcolm Tepping,' I blurted out, 
 staring hard at my plate. 
 
 ' Tepping ! I think I have heard Dick speak of him, Ivor.' 
 
 * Your cousin,' Sir Ivor answered, with emphatic dignity, 
 * is certain to have mixed with nobbut the highest officials 
 in Burma.' 
 
 * Yes, I'm sure Dick used to speak of a certain Sir 
 Malcolm. My cousin's name, Dr. Cumberledge, was Maltby 
 — Captain Richard Maltby.' 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUS. 'E 
 
 265 
 
 ' Indeed,' I answered, witl; an icy stare. ' I cannot 
 pretend to the pleasure of having met him.' 
 
 Be exclusive to the exclusive, and they burn to know 
 you. From that moment forth La ly Meadow croft pestered 
 
 MISS WAPK IS YOUR COUSIN, I SUPPOSE? 
 
 us with her endeavours to scrape acquaintance. Instead 
 of trying how far she could place her chair from us, she set 
 it down as near us as politeness permitted. She entered 
 into conversation whenever an opening afforded itself, and 
 we two stood off haughtily. She even ventured to question 
 
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 266 
 
 N/LBA WADE 
 
 me about our relation to one another : * Miss Wade is your 
 cousin, I suppose ? ' she suggested. 
 
 * Oh, dear, no,' I answered, with a glassy smile. * We 
 are not connected in any way.' 
 
 ' But, you are travelling together ! ' 
 
 * Merely as you and I are travelling together — fellow- 
 passengers on the same steamer.' 
 
 * Still, you have met before.' 
 
 'Yes, certainly. Miss Wade was a nurse at St. 
 Nathaniel's in London, where I was one of the house 
 doctors. When I came on board at Cape Town, after some 
 months in South Africa, I found she was going by the same 
 steamer to India.' Which was literally true ; to have 
 explained the rest would have been impossible, at least to 
 any one who did not know the whole of Hilda's history. 
 
 ' And what are you both going to do when you get to 
 India ? ' 
 
 * Really, Lady Meadowcroft,' I said severely, * I have not 
 asked Miss Wade what she is going to do. If you inquire 
 of her point-blank, as you have inquired of me, I daresay 
 she will tell you. For myself, I am just a globe-trotter, 
 amusing myself. I only want to have a look round at India.' 
 
 * Then you are not going out to take up an appoint- 
 ment ? ' 
 
 ' By George, Emmie,' the burly Yorkshireman put in, 
 with an air of annoyance, * you are cross-questioning Dr. 
 Cumberledge, nowt less than cross-questioning him ! ' 
 
 I waited a second. * No,' I answered, slowly. ' I have 
 not been practising of late. I am looking about me. I 
 travel for enjoyment.' 
 
 That made her think better of me. She was of the 
 kind, indeed, who think better of a man if they believe him 
 to be idle. 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 267 
 
 She dawdled about all day on deck chairs, herself, seldom 
 even reading : and she was eager now to drag Hilda into 
 conversation. But Hilda resisted : she had found a volume 
 in the library which immensely interested her. 
 
 * What are you reading, Miss Wade?' Lady Meadowcroft 
 cried at last, quite savagely : it made her angry to see any- 
 body else pleased and occupied when she herself was listless. 
 
 * A delightful book ! ' Hilda answered. * The Buddhist 
 Praying Wheels by William Simpson.' 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft took it from her and turned the pages 
 over with a languid air. * Looks awfully dull!' she observed, 
 with a faint smile, at last, returning it. 
 
 * It's charming,' Hilda retorted, glancing at one of the 
 illustrations. ' It explains so much. It shows one why one 
 turns round one's chair at cards for luck : and why, when a 
 church is consecrated, the bishop walks three times about it 
 sunwise.' 
 
 * Our Bishop is a dreadfully prosy old gentleman,' Lady 
 Meadowcroft answered, gliding off at a tangent on a person- 
 ality, as is the wont of her kind : 'he had, oh, such a dreadful 
 quarrel with my father over the rules of the St. Alphege 
 Schools at Millington.' 
 
 * Indeed,' Hilda answered, turning once more to her book. 
 Lady Meadowcroft looked annoyed. It would never have 
 occurred to her that within a few weeks she was to owe her 
 life to that very abstruse work, and what Hilda had read in it. 
 
 That afternoon, as \ye watched the flying fish from the 
 ship's side, Hilda said to me abruptly, * My chaperon is an 
 extremely nervous woman.* 
 
 ' Nervous about what ? ' 
 
 * About disease, chiefly. She has the temperament that 
 dreads infection — and therefore catches it.' 
 
 ' Why do you think so ? ' 
 
268 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 i 
 
 * Haven't you noticed that she often doubles her thumb 
 under her fingers — folds her fist across it — so — especially 
 when anybody talks about anything alarming ? If the con- 
 versation happens to turn on jungle fever, or any subject like 
 that, down goes her thumb instantly, and she clasps her fist 
 over it with a convulsive squeeze. At the same time, too, 
 her face twitches. I know what that trick means. She's 
 horribly afraid of tropical diseases, though she never says so.' 
 
 * And you attach importance to her fear ? ' 
 
 * Of course. I count upon it as probably our chief means 
 of catching and fixing her.' 
 
 ' As how ? ' 
 
 She shook her head and quizzed me. * Wait and see. 
 You are a doctor ; I, a trained nurse. Before twenty -four 
 hours, I foresee she will ask us. She is sure to ask us now 
 she has learned that you are Lady Tepping's nephew, and 
 that I am acquainted with several of the Best People.' 
 
 That evening, about ten o'clock. Sir Ivor strolled up to 
 me in the smoking-room with affected unconcern. He laid 
 his hand on my arm and drew me aside mysteriously. The 
 ship's doctor was there playing a quiet game of poker with a 
 few of the passengers. * I beg your pardon. Dr. Cumber- 
 ledge,' he began, in an undertone, * could you come outside 
 with me a minute ? Lady Meadowcroft has sent me up to 
 you with a message.' 
 
 I followed him on to the open deck. * It is quite 
 impossible, my dear sir,' I said, shaking my head austerely, 
 for I divined his errand. ' I can't go to see Lady Meadow- 
 croft. Medical etiquette, you know: the constant and 
 salutary rule of the profession ! ' 
 
 * Why not ? ' he asked, astonished. 
 
 * The ship carries a surgeon,' I replied, in my most precise 
 tone. * He is a duly qualified gentleman, very able at his 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 269 
 
 profession, and he ought to inspire your wife with confidence. 
 I regard this vessel as Dr. Boyell's practice, and all on board 
 it as virtually his patients.' 
 
 X FORESEE SHE WILL ASK US. 
 
 Sir Ivor's face fell. ' But Lady Meadowcroft is not at all 
 well,' he answered, looking piteous ; 'and — she can't endure 
 the ship's doctor. Such a common man, you know ! His 
 loud voice disturbs her. You must have noticed that my 
 wife is a lady of exceptionally delicate nervous o^'ganisation,' 
 
270 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 He hesitated, beamed on me, and played his trump card. 
 ' She dislikes being attended by owt but a gentleman^ 
 
 ' If a gentleman is also a medical man,* I answered, *his 
 sense of duty towards his brother practitioners would, of course, 
 prevent him from interfering in their proper sphere, or put- 
 ting upon them the unmerited slight of letting them see him 
 preferred before them.' 
 
 ' Then you positively refuse ? ' he asked, wistfully, draw- 
 ing back. I could see he stood in a certain dread of that 
 imperious little woman. 
 
 I conceded a point. * I will go down in twenty minutes,' 
 I admitted, looking grave ; ' not just now, lest I annoy my 
 colleague — and I will glance at Lady Meadowcroft in an 
 unprofessional way. If I think her case demands treatment 
 I will tell Dr. Boyell.* And I returned to the smoking-room 
 and took up a novel. 
 
 Twenty minutes later I knocked at the door of the lady's 
 private cabin, with my best bedside manner in full play. As 
 I suspected, she was nervous — nothing more — my mere smile 
 reassured her. I observed that she held her thumb fast, 
 doubled under in her fist, all the time I was questioning her, 
 as Hilda had said ; and I also noticed that the fingers closed 
 over it convulsively at first, but gradually relaxed as my voice 
 restored confidence. She thanked me profusely, and was 
 really grateful. 
 
 On deck next day she was very communicative. They 
 were going to make the regular tour first, she said, but were 
 to go on to the Tibetan frontier at the end, where Sir Ivor 
 had a contract to construct a railway, in a very wild 
 region. Tigers? Natives? Oh, she didn't mind either of t/iem: 
 but she was told that that district — what did they call it ? 
 the Terai, or something — was terribly unwholesome. Fever 
 was what-you-may-call-it there — yes, * endemic ' — that was 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 271 
 
 the word : ' oh, thank you, Dr. Cumbcrledge.' She hated the 
 very name of fever. * Now you. Miss Wade, I suppose,' with 
 an awestruck smile, * are not in the least afraid of it ? ' 
 
 Hilda looked up at her .calmly. ' Not in the least,' she 
 answered. ' I have nursed hundreds of cases.' 
 
 ' Oh, my, how dreadful ! And never caught it ? ' 
 
 ' Never. I am not afraid, you see.' 
 
 ' I wish / wasn't I Hundreds of cases ! It makes one 
 ill to think of it ! . . . And all successfully ? * 
 
 ' Almost all of them.' 
 
 * You don't tell your patients stories when they're ill about 
 your other cases who died, do you?' Lady Meadowcroft 
 went on with a quick little shudder. 
 
 Hilda's face by this time was genuinely sympathetic. 
 • Oh, never I ' she answered, with truth. ' That would be very 
 bad nursing! One's object in treating a case is to make 
 one's patient well ; so one naturally avoids any sort of 
 subject that might distress or alarm them.' 
 
 * You really mean it ? ' Her face was pleading. 
 
 ' Why, of course. I try to make my patients my friends : 
 I talk to them cheerfully : I amuse them and distract them : 
 I get them away, as far as I can, from themselves and their 
 symptoms.* 
 
 * Oh, what a lovely person to have about one when one's 
 ill ! ' the languid lady exclaimed, ecstatically. * I should 
 like to send for you if I wanted nursing ! But there — it's 
 always so„ of course, with a real lady ; common nurses 
 frighten one so. I wish I could always have a lady to nurse 
 me!' 
 
 * A person who sympathises — that is the really important 
 thing,' Hilda answered, in her quiet voice. * One must find 
 out first one's patient's temperament. You are nervous, I 
 can see.' She laid one hand on her new friend's arm : ' You 
 
72 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 need to be kept amused and engaged when you arc ill : what 
 you require most is — insight — and sympathy.' 
 
 The little fist doubled up again : the vacant face grew 
 positively sweet. * That's just it ! You have hit it ! How 
 clever you are ! I want all that. I suppose, Miss Wadc,^^« 
 never go out for private nursing ? ' 
 
 ' Never,' Hilda answered. ' You see, Lady Meadowcroft, 
 I don't nurse for a livelihood. I have means of my own : I 
 took up this work as an occupation and a sphere in life. I 
 haven't done anything yet but hospital nursing.' 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft drew a slight sigh. * What a pity ! ' 
 she murmured, slowly. * It does seem hard that your 
 sympathies should all be thrown away, so to speak, on a 
 horrid lot of wretched poor people, instead of being spent on 
 your own equals — who would so greatly appreciate them.* 
 
 ' I think I can venture to say the poor appreciate them, 
 too,' Hilda answered, bridling up a little — for there was 
 nothing she hated so much as class-prejudices. * Besides, 
 they need sympathy more : they have fewer comforts. I 
 should not care to give up attending my poor people for the 
 sake of the idle rich.' 
 
 The set phraseology of the country rectory recurred to 
 Lady Meadowcroft — * our poorer brethren,* and so forth. 
 * Oh, of course,* she answered, witli the mechanical acquies- 
 cence such women always give to moral platitudes. * One 
 must do one's best for the poor, I know — for conscience 
 sake and all that : it*s our duty, and we all try hard to do it. 
 But they're so terribly ungrateful ! Don't you think so ? 
 Do you know. Miss Wade, in my father's parish * 
 
 Hilda cut her short with a sunny smile — half contempt- 
 uous toleration, half genuine pity. * We are all ungrateful,' 
 she said, 'but the poor, I think, the least so. I'm sure the 
 gratitude I've often had from my poor women at St. 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 V3 
 
 Nathaniel's has made me sometimes feci really ashamed of 
 myself I had done so little — and they thanked me so 
 much for it.* 
 
 * Which only shows,' Lady Meadowcroft broke in, * that 
 one ought always to have a /ac/y to nurse one.' 
 
 ' ^a marche ! ' Hilda said to me, with a quiet smile, a few 
 minutes after, when her ladyship had disappeared in her fluffy 
 robe down the companion-ladder. 
 
 * Yes, ^a marche] I answered. ' In an hour or two you 
 will have succeeded in landing your chaperon. And what is 
 most amusing, landed her, too, Hilda, just by being yourself 
 — letting her sec frankly the actual truth of what you think 
 and feel about her and about every one ! ' 
 
 ' I could not do otherwise,* Hilda answered, growing 
 grave. * I must be myself, or die for it. My method of 
 angling consists in showing myself just as I am. You call 
 me an actress, but I am not really one : I am only a woman 
 who can use her personality for her own purposes. If 1 go 
 with Lady Meadowcroft, it will be a mutual advantage : I 
 shall really sympathise with her, for I can see the poor thing 
 is devoured with nervousness.' 
 
 * But do you think you will be able to stand her ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 * Oh, dear, yes. She's not a bad little thing, au fond, 
 when you get to know her. It is society that has spoilt her. 
 She would have made a nice, helpful, motherly body if she'd 
 married the curate.* 
 
 As we neared Bombay conversation grew gradually more 
 and more Indian ; it always does under similar circumstances. 
 A sea voyage is half retrospect, half prospect : it has no personal 
 identity. You leave Liverpool for New York at the English 
 standpoint, and are full of what you did in London or Man- 
 chester ; half-way over you begin to discuss American Custom- 
 
 T 
 
374 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 houses and New York liotels : by the time you reach Sandy 
 Hook, the talk is all of quick trains west and the shortest 
 route from Philadelphia to New Orleans. You grow by slow 
 stages into the new attitude : at Malta you are still regret- 
 ting Europe : after Aden, your mind dwells most on the hire 
 of punkah-wallahs and the proverbial toughness of the dak- 
 bungalow chicken. 
 
 * How's the plague at Bombay now ? ' an inquisitive 
 passenger inquired of the captain at dinner our last night out. 
 * Getting any better ? ' 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft's thumb dived between her fingers 
 again. ' What, is there plague in Bombay ? ' she asked, 
 innocently, in her nervous fashion. 
 
 ' Plague in Bombay I ' the captain burst out, his burly 
 voice resounding down the saloon. * Why, bless your soul, 
 ma'am, where else would you expect it? Plague in Bombay! 
 It's been there these five years. Better? Not quite. Going 
 ahead like mad. They're dying by thousands.' 
 
 * A microbe, I believe. Dr. Boyell,' the inquisitive pass- 
 enger observe! deferentially, with due respect for medical 
 science. 
 
 * Yes,' the ship's doctor answered, helping himself to an 
 olive. ' forty million microbes to each square inch of the 
 Bombay atmosphere.' 
 
 * And we are going to Bombay I ' Lady Meadowcroft 
 exclaimed, aghast. 
 
 * You must have known there was plague there, my 
 dear,' Sir Ivor put in, soothingly, with a deprecating glance. 
 ' It's been in all the papers. But only the natives get it.' 
 
 The thumb uncovered itself a little. * Oh, only the 
 natives ! ' Lady Meadowcroft echoed, relieved, as if a few 
 thousand Hindus more or less would hardly be missed among 
 the blessings of British rule in India. * You know, Ivor, I 
 
 t 
 
THE LAD ' WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 275 
 
 never read those dreadful things in the papers. / read the 
 Society news, and Our Social Diary, and columns that arc 
 headed ' Mainly About People.' I don't care for anything 
 but the Morning Post and the World and TriitJi. I hate 
 horrors. . . . But it's a blessing to think it's only the natives.' 
 
 * Plenty of Europeans, too, bless your heart,' the captain 
 thundered out, unfeelingly. ' Why, last time I was in port, a 
 nurse died at the hospital.* 
 
 ' Oh, only a nurse ' Lady Meadowcroft began, and 
 
 then coloured up deeply with a side glance at Hilda. 
 
 ' And lots beside nurses,' the captain continued, positively 
 delighted at the terror he was inspiring. ' Puckka English- 
 men and Englishwomen. Bad business, this plague, Dr. 
 Cumberledge I Catches particularly those who are most 
 afraid of it.' 
 
 'But it's only in Bombay?* Lady Meadowcroft cried, 
 clutching at the last straw. I could see she was registering 
 a mental determination to go straight up country the moment 
 she landed. 
 
 * Not a bit of it ! ' the captain answered, with provoking 
 cheerfulness. * Rampaging about like a roaring lion all over 
 India 1 * 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft's thumb must have suffered severely. 
 The nails dug into it as if it were some one else's. 
 
 Half an hour later, as we were on deck in the cool of the 
 evening, the thing was settled. ' My wife,* Sir Ivor said, 
 coming up to us with a serious face, ' has delivered her 
 ultimatum. Positively her ultimatum. I've had a mort o' 
 trouble with her, and now she's settled. Either^ she goes 
 back from Bombay by the return steamer ; or else — you 
 and Miss Wade must name your own terms to accompany 
 us on our tour in case of emergencies.' He glanced wistfully 
 at Hilda. * Do you think you can help us ? ' 
 
 #• 
 
376 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Hilda made no hypocritical pretence of hanging back. 
 Her nature was transparent. * If you wish it, yes/ she 
 answered, shaking hands upon the bargain. ' I only want 
 to go about and see India ; I can see it quite as well with 
 
 MY WIFE HAS DELIVERED HER ULTIMATUM. 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft as without her — and even better. It is 
 unpleasant for a woman to travel unattached. I require a 
 chaperon, and am glad to find one. I will join your party, 
 paying my own hotel and travelling expenses, and consider- 
 ing myself as engaged in case your wife should need my 
 
THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE 
 
 277 
 
 services. For that, you can pay mc, if you like, some 
 nominal retaining fee — five pounds or anything. The money 
 is immaterial to me : I like to be useful, and I sympathise 
 with nerves ; but it may make your wife feel she is really 
 
 LADY MEADOWCROFT RUSHED ON DECK. 
 
 keeping a hold over me if we put the arrangement on a 
 business basis. As a matter of fact, whatever sum she 
 chooses to pay, I shall hand it over at once to the Bombay 
 Plague Hos'^ital.' 
 
 Sir Ivor looked relieved. ' Thank you ever so much,' 
 
278 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 he said, wringing her hand warmly. * I thowt you were a 
 brick, and now I know it. My wife says your face insoires 
 confidence, and your voice sympathy. She must have you 
 with her. And you, Dr. Cumberledge ? ' 
 
 * I follow Miss Wade's lead,' I answered, in my most 
 solemn tone, with an impressive bow. * \ too am travelling 
 for instruction and amusement only : and if it would give 
 Lady Meadowcroft a greater sense of security to have a duly 
 qualified practitioner in her suite, I shall be glad on the 
 same terms to swell your party. I will pay my own way : 
 and I will allow you to name any nominal sum you please 
 for your claim on my medical attendance, if necessary. I 
 hope and believe, however, that our presence will so far 
 reassure our prospective patient as to make our post in both 
 cases a sinecure.' 
 
 Three minutes later Lady Meadowcroft rushed on deck 
 and flung her arms impulsively round Hilda. ' You dear, 
 good girl,' she cried ; ' how sweet and kind of you ! I really 
 couldn't have landed if you hadn't promised to come with us. 
 And Dr. Cumberledge, too ! So nice and friendly of you 
 both. But there, it is so much pleasanter to deal with 
 ladies and gentlemen ! ' 
 
 So Hilda won her point, and what was best, won it 
 fairly. 
 
 V 
 
X 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 We toured all round India with the Meadowcrofts : and 
 really the lady who was ' so very exclusive ' turned out not 
 a bad little thing when once one had succeeded in breaking 
 through the ring-fence with which she surrounded herself. 
 She had an endless, quenchless restlessness, it is true : her 
 eyes wandered aimlessly: she never was happy for tv/o 
 minutes together, unless she was surrounded by friends, and 
 was seeing something. What she saw did not interest her 
 much : certainly her tastes were on a level with those of a 
 very young child. An odd-looking house, a queerly-dressed 
 man, a tree cut into shape to look like a peacock, delighted 
 her far more truly than the most glorious view or the 
 quaintest old temple. Still, she must be seeing. She could 
 no more sit still than a fidgety child or a monkey at the 
 Zoo. To be up and doing was her nature — doing nothing, 
 to be sure ; but still, doing it strenuously. 
 
 So we went the regulation round of Delhi and Agra, the 
 Taj Mahal and the Ghats at Benares, at railroad speed, 
 fulfilling the whole duty of the modern globe-trotter. Lady 
 Meadowcroft looked at everything — for ten minutes at a 
 stretch ; then she wanted to be off, to visit the next thing 
 set down for her in her guide-book. As we left each town 
 
28o 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ! 
 
 she murmured mechanically, ' Well, we've seen that, thank 
 Heaven ! ' and straightway went on, with equal eagerness 
 and equal boredom, to see the one after it. 
 
 The only thing that did not bore her, indeed, was 
 
 Hilda's bright talk. 
 'Oh, Miss Wade,' 
 she would say, clasp- 
 ing her hands, and 
 looking up into 
 Hilda's eyes with 
 her own empty blue 
 ones, * you are so 
 funny! So original, 
 don't you know ! 
 You never talk or 
 think of anything 
 like other people. I 
 can't imagine how 
 such ideas come 
 up in your mind. 
 If / were to try all 
 day, I'm sure I 
 should never hit 
 iupon them !' Which 
 was so perfectly 
 true as to be a trifle 
 obvious. 
 
 Sir Ivor, not being interested in temples, but in steel 
 rails, had gone on at once to his concession, or contract, or 
 whatever else it was, on the north-east frontier, leaving his 
 wife to follow and rejoin him in the Himalayas as soon 
 as she had exhausted the sights of India. So, after a few 
 dusty weeks of wear and tear on the Indian railways, we met 
 
 you ARE so FUNNY I 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 281 
 
 him once more in the recesses of Nepaul, where he was busy 
 constructing a light local line for the reigning Maharajah. 
 
 If Lady Meadowcroft had been bored at Allahabad and 
 Ajmere, she was immensely more bored in a rough bungalow 
 among the trackless depths of the Himalayan valleys. To 
 anybody with eyes in his head, indeed, Toloo, where Sir 
 Ivor had pitched his headquarters, was lovely enough to 
 keep one interested for a twelvemonth. Snow-clad needles 
 of rock hemmed it in on either hand : great deodars rose 
 like huge tapers on the hillsides : the plants and flowers 
 were a joy to look at. But Lady Meadowcroft did not care 
 for flowers which one could not wear in one's hair : and 
 what was the good of dressing here, with no one but Ivor 
 and Dr. Cumberledge to see one ? She yawned till she was 
 tired : then she began to grow peevish. 
 
 * Why Ivor should want to build a railway at all in this 
 stupid, silly place,* she said, as we sat in the verandah in the 
 cool of evening, * I'm sure / can't imagine. We must go 
 somewhere. This is maddening, maddening ! Miss Wade 
 — Dr. Cumberledge — I count upon you to discover some- 
 thing for me to do. If I vegetate like this, seeing nothing 
 all day long but those eternal hills ' — she clenched her little 
 fist — * I shall go mad with ennui.' 
 
 Hilda had a happy thought. * I have a fancy to see 
 some of these Buddhist monasteries,' she said, smiling as one 
 smiles at a tiresome child whom one likes in spite of every- 
 thing. 'You remember, I was reading that book of Mr. 
 Simpson's on the steamer — coming out — a curious book 
 about the Buddhist Praying-Wheels : and it made me want 
 to see one of their temples immensely. What do you say 
 to camping out ? A few weeks in the hills ? It would be 
 an adventure, at any rate.' 
 
 * Camping out?' Lady Meadowcroft exclaimed, half roused 
 
:82 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 from her languor by the idea of a change. * Oh, do you 
 think that would be fun ? Should we sleep on the ground ? 
 But, wouldn't it be dreadfully, horribly uncomfortable ? * 
 
 * Not half so uncomfortable as you'll find yourself here at 
 Toloo in a few days, Emmie/ her husband put in, grimly. 'The 
 rains will soon be on, lass : and when the rains are on, by all 
 accounts, they're precious heavy hereabouts — rare fine rains, 
 so that a man's half-flooded out of his bed o' nights — which 
 won't suit jd7«, my lady.' 
 
 The poor little woman clasped her twitching hands in 
 feeble agony. ' Oh, Ivor, how dreadful ! Is it what they 
 call the mongoose, or monsoon, or something ? But if 
 they're so bad here, surely they'll be worse in the hills — and 
 camping out, too — won't they ? * 
 
 * Not if you go the right way to work. Ah'm told it 
 never rains t'other side o' the hills. The mountains stop the 
 clouds, and once you're over, you're safe enough. Only, you 
 must take care to keep well in the Maharajah's territory. 
 Cross the frontier t'other side into Tibet, an' they'll skin thee 
 alive as soon as look at thee. They don't like strangers in 
 Tibet: prejudiced against them, somehow: they pretty well 
 skinned that young chap Landor who tried to go there 
 a year ago.' 
 
 * But, Ivor, I don't want to be skinned alive ! I'm not an 
 eel, please ! ' 
 
 ' That's all right, lass. Leave that to me. I can get thee 
 a guide, a man that's very well acquainted with the mountains. 
 I was talking to a scientific explorer here t'other day, 
 and he knows of a good guide who can take you anywhere. 
 He'll get you the chance of seeing the inside of a Buddhist 
 monastery if you like. Miss Wade. He's hand in glove with 
 all the religion they've got in this part o' the country. They've 
 got noan much, but at what there is, he's a rare devout one.' 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 283 
 
 We discussed the matter fully for two or three days 
 before we made our minds up. Lady Meadowcroft was un- 
 decided between her hatred of dulness and her haunting fear 
 that scorpions and snakes would intrude upon our tents and 
 beds while we were camping. In the end, however, the 
 desire for change carried the day. She decided to dodge 
 the rainy season by getting behind the Himalayan passes, 
 in the dry region to the north of the great range, where rain 
 seldom falls, the country being watered only by the melting 
 of the snows on the high summits. 
 
 This decision delighted Hilda, who, since she came to 
 India, had fallen a prey to the fashionable vice of amateur 
 photography. She took to it enthusiastically. She had 
 bought herself a first-rate camera of the latest scientific 
 pattern at Bombay, and ever since had spent all her time and 
 spoiled her pretty hands in * developing.' She was also 
 seized with a craze for Buddhism. The objects that every- 
 where particularly attracted her were the old Buddhist 
 temples and tombs and sculptures with which India is 
 studded : of these she had taken some hundreds of views, all 
 printed by herself with the greatest care and precision. But 
 in India, after all, Buddhism is a dead creed ; its monuments 
 alone remain ; she was anxious to see the Buddhist religion 
 in its living state ; and that she could only do in these 
 rem.ote outlying Himalayan valleys. 
 
 Our outfit, therefore, included a dark tent for Hilda's 
 photographic apparatus ; a couple of roomy tents to live and 
 sleep in ; a small cooking stove : a cook to look after it ; 
 half-a-dozen bearers ; and the highly recommended guide 
 who knew his way about the country. In three days we 
 were ready, to Sir Ivor's great delight. He was fond of his 
 pretty wife, and proud of her, I believe ; but when once she 
 was away from the whirl and bustle of the London that she 
 
284 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 loved, it was a relief to him, I fancy, to pursue his work 
 alone, unhampered by her restless and querulous childish- 
 ness. 
 
 On the morning when we were to make our start, the 
 
 guide who was * well acquainted 
 with the mountains ' turned up — 
 as villainous-looking a person as I 
 have ever set eyes on. He was 
 sullen and furtive. I judged him 
 at sight to be half Hindu, half 
 Tibetan. He had a dark com- 
 plexion, between brown and tawny: 
 narrow slant eyes, very small and 
 beady-black, with a cunning leer 
 in their oblique corners ; a flat nose 
 much broadened at the wings ; a 
 cruel, thick, sensuous mouth, and 
 high cheek-bones ; the whole sur- 
 mounted by a comprehensive scowl, 
 and an abundant crop of lank black 
 hair, tied up in a knot at the nape 
 of the neck with a yellow ribbon. 
 His face was shifty : his short, 
 stout form looked well adapted to 
 mountain - climbing, and also to 
 wriggling. A deep scar on his 
 left cheek did not help to inspire con- 
 fidence. But he was polite and civil-spoken. Altogether a 
 clever, unscrupulous, wide-awake soul, who would serve you 
 well if he thought he could make by it, and would betray 
 you at a pinch to the highest bidder. 
 
 We set out, in merry mood, prepared to solve all the 
 abstruse problems of the Buddhist religion. Our spoilt child 
 
 THE GUIDE. 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 >85 
 
 stood the camping out better than I expected. She 'vas 
 fretful, of course, and worried about trifles : she missed her 
 maid and her accustomed comforts ; but she minded the 
 roughing it less, on the whole, than she had minded the 
 boredom of inaction in the bungalow ; and, being cast on 
 Hilda and myself for resources, she suddenly evolved an 
 unexpected taste for producing, developing, and printing 
 photographs. We took dozens, as we went along, of little 
 villages on our route, wood-built villages with quaint houses 
 and turrets ; and as Hilda had brought her collection of 
 prints with her, for comparison of the Indian and Nepaulese 
 monuments, we spent the evenings after our short dixy's 
 march each day in arranging and collating them. We had 
 planned to be away six weeks at least : in that time the 
 monsoon would have burst and passed : our guide thought 
 we might see all that was worth seeing of the Buddhist 
 monasteries, and Sir Ivor thought we should have fairly 
 escaped the dreaded wet season. 
 
 ' What do you make of our guide ? ' I asked of Hilda 
 on our fourth day out. I began somehow to distrust 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh, he seems all right,' Hilda answered, carelessly — and 
 her voice reassured me. * He's a rogue, of course : all guides 
 and interpreters, and dragomans and the like, in out-of-the- 
 way places, always are rogues : if they were honest men they 
 would share the ordinary prejudices of their countrymen, and 
 would have nothing to do with the hated stranger. But in 
 this case our friend Ram Das has no end to gain by getting 
 us into mischief: if he had, he wouldn't scruple for a second 
 to cut our throats : but then, there are too many of us. He 
 will probably try to cheat us by making preposterous charges 
 when he gets us back to Toloo : but that's Lady Meadow- 
 croft's business. I don't doubt Sir Ivor will be more than a 
 
286 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 match for him there : I'll back one shrewd Yorkshircman 
 against any three Tibetan half-castes, any day.' 
 
 • You're right that he would cut our throats if it served 
 his purpose/ I answered. * He's servile, and servility goes 
 hand in hand with treachery. The more I watch him, the 
 more I see " scoundrel " written in large type on every bend 
 of the fellow's oily shoulders.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; he's a bad lot, I know. The cook, who can 
 speak a little English and a little Tibetan, as well as Hin- 
 dustani, tells me Ram Das has the worst reputation of any 
 man in the mountains. But he says he's a very good guide 
 to the passes for all that, and if he's well paid will do what 
 he's paid for.' 
 
 Next day but one we approached at last, after several 
 short marches, the neighbourhood of what our guide assured 
 us was a Buddhist monastery. I was glad when he told ^s 
 of it, giving the place the name of a well-known Nepaulese 
 village ; for, to say the truth, I was beginning to get fright- 
 ened. Judging by the sun, for I had brought no compass, it 
 struck me that we seemed to have been marching almost due 
 north ever since we left Toloo : and I fancied such a line of 
 march must have brought us by this time suspiciously near 
 the Tibetan frontier. Now, I had no desire to be * skinned 
 alive,' as Sir Ivor put it : I did not wish to emulate St. 
 Bartholomew and others of the early Christian martyrs : so I 
 was pleased to learn that we were really drawing near to 
 Ku'ak, the first of the Nepaulese Buddhist monasteries to 
 which our well-informed guide, himself a Buddhist, had 
 promised to introduce us. 
 
 We were tramping up a beautiful high mountain valley, 
 closed round on every side by snowy peaks. A brawling 
 river ran over a rocky bed in cataracts down its midst : crags 
 rose abruptly a little in front of us. Half-way up the slope 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KMEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 287 
 
 to the left, on a ledge of rock, rose a long, low building with 
 curious, pyramid-like roofs, crowned at either end by a sort 
 of minaret, which resembled more than anything else a huge 
 earthenware oil-jar. This was the monastery or lamasery we 
 
 HIS SERVILITY HAD VANISHED. 
 
 had come so far to see. Honestly, at first sight, I did not 
 feel sure it was worth the trouble. 
 
 Our guide called a halt, and turned to us with a sudden 
 peremptory air. His servility had vanished. * You stoppee 
 here,' he said, slowly, in broken English, * while me-a go on 
 to see whether Lama-sahibs ready to take you. Must ask 
 leave from Lama-sahibs to visit village : if no ask leave ' — 
 
■ 
 
 288 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 he drew his hand across his throat with a significant gesture 
 — ' Lama-sahibs cuttcc head off Eulopean.' 
 
 * Goodness gracious/ Lady Meadowcroft cried, clinging 
 tight to Hilda. * Miss Wade, this is dreadful ! Where on 
 earth have you brought us to ? * 
 
 'Oh, that's all right,' Hilda iiiswered, trying to soothe 
 her, though she herself began to look a trifle anxious. 
 * That's only Ram Das's graphic way of putting things.' 
 
 We sat down on a bank of trailing club-moss by the 
 side of the rough track, for it was nothing more, and let our 
 guide go on to iicgotiate with the Lamas. ' Well, to-night, 
 anyhow,' I exclaimed, looking up, ' we shall sleep on our 
 own mattresses with a roof over our heads. These monks 
 will find us quarters. That's always something.' 
 
 We got out our basket and made tea. In all moments 
 of doubt, your Englishwoman makes tea : as Hilda said, she 
 will boil her Etna on Vesuvius. We waited and drank our 
 tea : we drank our tea and waited. A full hour passed away. 
 Rain Das never came back. I began to get frightened. 
 
 At last something stirred. A group of excited men in 
 yellow robes issued forth from the monastery, wound their 
 way down the hill, and approached us, shouting. They 
 gesticulated as they came. I could see they looked angry. 
 All at once Hilda clutched my arm : * Hubert,* she cried, in 
 an undertone, * we are betrayed ! betrayed ! I see it all 
 now. These are Tibetans, not Nepaulese.' She paused a 
 second, then went on : ' I see it all — all, ci!l. Our guide — 
 Ram Das — he had a reason after all for getting us into 
 mischief. Sebastian must have tracked us : he was bribed 
 by Sebastian ! It was he who recommended Ram Das to 
 Sir Ivor ! ' 
 
 ' Why do you think so ? * I asked, low. 
 
 * Because — look for yourself : these men who come are 
 
 > 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNIRY 289 
 
 dressed in yellow. That means Tibetans. Red is the 
 colour of the Lamas in Nepaul ; yellow in Tibet and all 
 other Buddhist countries. I read it in the book — The 
 
 WIC WERE FAIRLY TKAPrED. 
 
 Buddhist Praying-Wheel, you know. These are Tibetan 
 fanatics, and as Ram Das said, they will probably cut our 
 throats for us.' 
 
 I was thankful that Hilda's marvellous memory gave us 
 even that moment for preparation and facing the difficulty, 
 
 U 
 
SBBflK 
 
 290 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I saw in a flash that she was quite right : wc had been 
 inveigled across tlie frontier : these moutis were Tibetans — 
 Buddhist inquisitors — enemies. 'I'ibet is tlie most jealous 
 country on earth ; it allows no stranger to intrude upon its 
 borders. I had to meet the worst. I stood there, a single 
 white man, armed only with one revolver, answerable for the 
 lives of two English ladies, and accompanied by a cringing 
 out-caste Ghoorka cook and half-a-dozen doubtful Nepaulese 
 bearers. To fly was impossible. We were fairly trapped. 
 There was nothing for it but to wait and put a bold face on 
 our utter helplessness. 
 
 I turned to our spoilt child. ' Lady Meadowcroft,' I 
 said, very seriously, * this is danger, real danger. Now listen 
 to me. You must do as you are bid. No crying : no 
 cowardice. Your life and ours depend upon it. We must 
 none of us give way. Wc must pretend to be brave. Show 
 one sign of fear, and these people will probably cut our 
 throats on the spot here.' 
 
 To my immense surprise. Lady Meadowcroft rose to the 
 height of the situation. * Oh, as long as it isn't disease,' she 
 answered, resignedly, * I'm not much afraid of anything. I 
 should mind the plague a great deal more than I mind a set 
 of howling savages.' 
 
 By that time the men in yellow robes had almost come 
 up to us. It was clear they were boiling over with indigna- 
 tion ; but they still did everything decently and in order. 
 One, who was dressed in finer vestments than the rest — a 
 p tly person, with the fat, greasy cheeks and drooping flesh 
 of a celibate church dignitary, whom I therefore judged to 
 be the abbot, or chief Lama of the monastery — gave orders 
 to his subordinates in a language which we did not under- 
 stand. His men obeyed him. In a second they had closed 
 us round, as in a ring or cordon. 
 
THE CUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 291 
 
 TliLMi the chief L.inia stepped forward, with an authori- 
 tative air, like Pooh-Huh in the play, and said somcthin^^ in 
 the same tonj^ue to the cook, who spoke a little Tibetan. It 
 was obvious from his manner that Ram Das had told them 
 all about us ; for the Lama selected the cook as interpreter 
 at once, without taking any notice of myself, the ostensible 
 head of the petty expedition. 
 
 ' What does he say ? ' I asked, as soon as he had finished 
 speaking. 
 
 The cook, who had been salaaming all the time, at the 
 risk of a broken back, in his most utterly abject and grovel- 
 ling attitude, made answer tremulously in his broken English, 
 ' This is priest-sahib of the temple. He very angry, because 
 why? Eulopean-sahib and mem-sahibs come into Tibet- 
 land. No Eulopean, no Hindu, must come into Tibet-land. 
 IViest-sahib say, cut all Eulopean throats : let Nepaul man 
 go back like him come, to him own country.' 
 
 I looked as if the message were purely indifferent to me. 
 * Tell him,' I said, smiling — though at some little effort — 
 ' we were not trying to enter Tibet. Our rascally guide 
 misled us. We were going to Kulak, in the Maharajah's 
 territory. We will turn back quietly to the Maharajah's 
 land if the priest-sahib will allow us to camp out for the 
 night here.' 
 
 I glanced at Hilda and Lady Mcadowcroft. I must 
 say their bearing under these trying circumstances was 
 thoroughly worthy of two English ladies. They stood erect, 
 looking as though all Tibet might come, and they would 
 smile at it scornfully. 
 
 The cook interpreted my remarks as well as he was able 
 — his Tibetan being probably about equal in quality to his 
 English. But the chief Lama made a reply which I could 
 see for myself was by no means friendly. 
 
292 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * What is his answer ? ' I asked the cook, in my haughtiest 
 voice. I am haughty with difficulty. 
 
 Our interpreter salaamed once more, shaking in his 
 shoes, if he wore any. * Priest-sahib say, that all lies. That 
 all dam-lies. You is Eulopean missionary, very bad man : 
 you want to go to Lhasa. But no white sahib must go to 
 Lhasa. Holy city, Lhasa ; for Buddhists only. This is not 
 •the way to Kulak : this not Maharajah's land : this place 
 belong-a Dalai-Lama, head of all Lamas ; have house at 
 Lhasa. But priest -sahib know you Eulopean missionary, 
 want to go Lhasa, convert Buddhists, because . . . Ram 
 Das tell him so.' 
 
 * Ram Das ! ' I exclaimed, thoroughly angry by this time. 
 ' The rogue ! The scoundrel ! He has not only deserted 
 us, but betrayed us as well. He has told this lie on purpose 
 to set the Tibetans against us. We must face the worst 
 now. Our one chance is, to cajole these people.* 
 
 The fat priest spoke again. * What does he say this 
 time ? ' I asked. 
 
 * He say. Ram Das tell him all this because Ram Das 
 good man — very good man : Ram Das converted Buddhist. 
 You pay Ram Das to guidee you to Lhasa. But Ram Das 
 good man, not want to let Eulopean see holy city : bring 
 you here instead; then tell priest- sahib about it' And he 
 chuckled inwardly. 
 
 * What will they do to us ? ' Lady Meadowcroft asked, 
 her face very white, though her manner was more courageous 
 than I could easily have believed of her. 
 
 * I don't know,' I answered, biting my lip. * But we 
 must not give way. We must put a bold face upon it. 
 Their bark, after all, may be worse than their bite. We 
 may still persuade them to let us go back again.' 
 
 The men in yellow robes motioned us to move on towards 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 293 
 
 the village and monastery. We were their prisoners, and it 
 was useless to resist. So I ordered the bearers to take up 
 the tents and baggage. Lady Meadowcroft resigned herself 
 to the inevitable. We mounted the path in a long line, the 
 Lamas in yellow closely guarding our draggled little pro- 
 cession. I tried my best to preserve my composure, and 
 above all else not to look dejected. 
 
 As we approached the village, with its squalid and fetid 
 huts, we caught the sound of bells, innumerable bells, tinkling 
 at regular intervals. Many people trooped out from their 
 houses to look at us, all flat- faced, all with oblique eyes, all 
 stolidly, sullenly, stupidly passive. They seemed curious as 
 to our dress and appearance, but not apparently hostile. 
 We walked on to the low line of the monastery with its 
 pyramidal roof and its queer, flower-vase minarets. After a 
 moment's discussion they ushered us into the temple or 
 chapel, which was evidently also their communal council- 
 room and place of deliberation. We entered, trembling. 
 We had no great certainty that we would ever get out of it 
 alive again. 
 
 The temple was a large, oblong hall, with a great figure 
 of Buddha, cross-legged, imperturbable, enthroned in a niche 
 at its further end, like the apse or recess in a church in Italy. 
 Before it stood an altar. The Buddha sat and smiled on 
 us with his eternal smile : a complacent deity, carved out of 
 white stone, and gaudily painted ; a yellow robe, like the 
 Lamas', dangled across his shoulders. The air seemed close 
 with incense and also with bad ventilation. The centre of 
 the nave, if I may so call it, was occupied by a huge wooden 
 cylinder, a sort of overgrown drum, painted in bright colours, 
 with ornamental designs and Tibetan letters. It was much 
 taller than a man, some 9 ft. high I should say, and it revolved 
 above and below on an iron spindle. Looking closer, I saw 
 
294 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 it had a crank attached to it, with a string tied to the 
 crank : a solitary monk, absorbed in his devotions, was pull- 
 ing this string as we entered, and making the cylinder revolve 
 
 ABSORBED IN HIS DEVOTION'S. 
 
 with a jerk as he pulled it. At each revolution a bell 
 above rang once: the monk seemed as if his whole soul 
 was bound up in the huge revolving drum and the bell 
 worked by it. 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 295 
 
 We took this all in at a glance, somewhat vaguely at 
 first, for our lives were at stake, and we were scarcely in a 
 mood for ethnological observations. But the moment Hilda 
 saw the cylinder her eye lighted up. I could see at once 
 an idea had struck her. ' ' This is a praying-wheel ! ' she 
 cried in quite a delighted voice. ' I know where I am now, 
 Hubert — Lady Meadowcroft — I see a way out of this ! Do 
 exactly as you see me do, and all may yet go well. Don't 
 show surprise at anything. I think we can work upon these 
 people's religious feelings.' 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation she prostrated herself 
 thrice on the ground before the figure of Buddha, knocking 
 her head ostentatiously in the dust as she did so. We 
 followed suit instantly. Then Hilda rose and began walking 
 slowly round the big drum in the nave, saying aloud at e'ach 
 step, in a sort of monotonous chant, like a priest intoning, 
 the four mystic words, * Aum, mani, padme, hum,' * Aum, 
 mani, padme, hum,' many times over. We repeated the 
 sacred formula after her, as if we had always been brought 
 up to it. I noticed that Hilda walked the way of the sun : 
 it is an important point in all these mysterious, half-magical 
 ceremonies. 
 
 At last, after about ten or twelve such rounds, she 
 paused, with an absorbed air of devotion, and knocked her 
 head three times on the ground once more, doing poojah, 
 before the ever-smiling Buddha. 
 
 By this time, however, the lessons of St. Alphege's rectory 
 began to recur to Lady Meadowcroft's mind. 'Oh, Miss 
 Wade,' she murmured, in an awe-struck voice, * ougJu we to 
 do like this ? Isn't it clear idolatry ? ' 
 
 Hilda's common sense waved her aside at once. * Idolatry 
 or not, it is the only way to save our lives,' she answered, in 
 her firmest voice. 
 
296 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * But — ought we to save our lives ? Oughtn't we to be 
 . . . well, Christian martyrs ? * 
 
 Hilda was patience itself. * I think not, dear/ she replied, 
 gently but decisively. * You are not called upon to be a 
 martyr. The danger of idolatry is scarcely so great among 
 Europeans of our time that we need feel it a duty to protest 
 with our lives against it. I have better uses to which to 
 put my life myself. I don't mind being a martyr — where 
 a sufficient cause demands it. But T don't think such a 
 sacrifice is required of us now in a Tibetan m.onastery. Life 
 was not given us to waste on gratuitous martyrdoms.' 
 
 * But . . . really . . . I'm afraid . . .' 
 
 * Don't be afraid of anything, dear, or you will risk all. 
 Follow my lead : / will answer for your conduct. Surely, 
 if Naaman, in the midst of idolaters, was permitted to bow 
 down in the house of Rimmon, to save his place at court, you 
 may blamelessly bow down to save your life in a Buddhist 
 temple. Now, no more casuistry, but do as I tell you ! 
 " Aum, mani, padme, hum," again ! Once more round the 
 drum there ! ' 
 
 We followed her a second time. Lady Meadowcroft giving 
 in after a feeble protest. The priests in yellow looked on, 
 profoundly impressed by our circumnavigation. It was ^lear 
 they began to reconsider the question of our nefarious designs 
 on their holy city. 
 
 After we had finished our second tour round the drum, 
 with the utmost solemnity, one of the monks approached 
 Hilda, whom he seemed to take now for an important 
 priestess. He said something to her in Tibetan, which, of 
 course, we did not understand ; but as he pointed at the 
 same time to the brother on the floor who was turning the 
 wheel, Hilda nodded acquiescence. ' If you wish it,' she 
 said in English — and he appeared to comprehend. 'lie 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 
 297 
 
 wants to know whether I would like to take a turn at the 
 cylinder.' 
 
 She knelt down in front of it, before the little stool 
 where the brother in yellow had been kneeling till that 
 moment, and took the string in her hand, as if she were well 
 accustomed to it. I could see that the abbot gave the 
 
 SHE TOOK THE STRING IN HER HAND. 
 
 cylinder a surreptitious push with his left hand, before she 
 began, so as to make it revolve in the opposite direction 
 from that in which the monk had just been moving it : this 
 was obviously to try her. But Hilda let the string drop, 
 with a little cry of horror : that was the wrong way round— 
 the unlucky, uncanonical direction : the evil way, widder- 
 shins, the opposite of sunwise. With an awed air she 
 stopped short, repeated once more the four mystic words, or 
 
298 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 mantra^ and bowed thrice with well-assumed reverence to 
 the Buddha. Then she scL the cylinder turning of her own 
 accord, with her right hand, in the propitious direction, and 
 sent it round seven times with the utmost gravity. 
 
 At this point, encouraged by Hilda's example, I too 
 became possessed of a brilliant inspiration. I opened my 
 purse and took out of it four brand-new silver rupees of the 
 Indian coinage. They were very handsome and shiny coins, 
 each impressed with an excellent design of the head of the 
 Queen as Empress of India. Holding them up before me, I 
 approached the Buddha, and laid the four in a row sub- 
 missively at his feet, uttering at the same time an appropriate 
 formula. But as I did not know the proper mantra for use 
 upon such an occasion, I supplied one from memory, saying, 
 in a hushed voice, * Hokey — pokey — winky — wum,' as I 
 laid each one down before the benignly-smiling statue. I 
 have no doubt from their faces the priests imagined I was 
 uttering a most powerful spell or prayer in my own lan- 
 guage. 
 
 As soon as I retreated, with my face towards the image, 
 the chief Lama glided up and examined the coins carefully. 
 It was clear he had never seen anything of the sort before, 
 for he gazed at them for some minutes, and then showed 
 them round to his monks with an air of deep reverence. I 
 do not doubt he took the image of her gracious Majesty for 
 a very mighty and potent goddess. As soon as all had 
 inspected them, with many cries of admiration, he opened a 
 little secret drawer or relic-holder in the pedestal of the 
 statue, and deposited them in it with a muttered prayer, as 
 precious offerings from a European Buddhist. 
 
 By this time we could easily see we were beginning to 
 produce a most favourable impression. Hilda's study of 
 Buddhism had stood us in good stead. The chief Lama or 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 299 
 
 too 
 
 abbot motioned to us to be seated, in a much politer mood : 
 after which, he and his principal monks held a long and 
 animated discussion together. I gathered from their looks 
 and gestures that the head Lama inclined to regard us as 
 orthodox Buddhists, but that some of his followers had 
 grave doubts of their cvvn as to the depth and reality of our 
 religious convictions. 
 
 While they debated and hesitated, Hilda had another 
 splendid idea. She undid her portfolio, and took out of it 
 the photographs of ancient Buddhist topes and temples 
 which she had taken in InJia. These she produced 
 triumphantly. At once the priests and monks crowded 
 round us to look at them. In a moment, when they 
 recognised the meaning of the pictures, their excitement 
 grew quite intense. The photographs were passed round 
 from hand to hand amid loud exclamations of joy and 
 surprise : one brother would point out with astonishment to 
 another some familiar symbol or some ancient text ; two or 
 three of them even in their devout enthusiasm fell down on 
 their knees and kissed the pictures. 
 
 We had played a trump card. The monks could see 
 for themselves by this time that we were deeply interested 
 in Buddhism. Now, minds of that calibre never understand 
 a disinterested interest ; the moment they saw we were 
 collectors of Buddhist pictures, they jumped at the conclusion 
 that we must also, of course, be devout believers. So far did 
 they carry their sense of fraternity, indeed, that they insisted 
 upon embracing us. That was a hard trial to Lady 
 Meadowcroft, for the brethren were not conspicuous for 
 personal cleanliness : she suspected germs, and she dreaded 
 typhoid far more than she dreaded the Tibetan cut- 
 throat. 
 
 The brethren asked, through the medium of our inter- 
 
300 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 pretcr, the cook, where these pictures had been made. We 
 explained as well as we could by means of the same mouth- 
 piece, a very earthen vessel, that they came from ancient 
 Buddhist buildings in India. This delighted them still more, 
 though I know not in what form our Ghoorka retainer may 
 have conveyed the information : at any rate, they insisted 
 on embracing us again : after which the chief Lama said 
 something very solemnly to our amateur interpreter. 
 
 The cook interpreted. ' Priest-sahib say, he too got 
 very sacred thing, come from India. Sacred Buddhist 
 poojah-thing. Go to show it to you.' 
 
 We waited, breathless. The chief Lama approached the 
 altar before the recess, in front of the great cross-legged, 
 vapidly-smiling Buddha. He bowed himself to the ground 
 three times over, as well as his portly frame would permit 
 him, knocking his forehead against the floor, just as Hilda 
 had done : then he proceeded, almost awe-struck, to take 
 from the altar an obiect wrapped round with gold brocade, 
 and very carefully guarded. Two acolytes accompanied 
 him. In the most reverent way, he slowly unwound the 
 folds of gold cloth, and released from its hiding-place the 
 highly sacred deposit. He held it up before our eyes with 
 an air of triumph. It was an English bottle 1 
 
 The label on it shone with gold and bright colours. I 
 could see it was figured. The figure represented a cat, 
 squatting on its haunches. The sacred inscription ran, in 
 our own tongue, * Old Tom Gin, Unsweetened.' 
 
 The monks bowed their heads in profound silence as the 
 sacred thing was produced. I caught Hilda's eye. * For 
 Heaven's sake,* I murmured low, * don't either of you laugh. 
 If you do, it's all up with us.' 
 
 They kept their countenances with admirable decorum. 
 
 Another idea struck mc. ' Tell them,' I said to the 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 301 
 
 cook, ' that we too have a similar and very powerful god, 
 but much more lively.' He interpreted my words to 
 them. 
 
 Then I opened our stores, and drew out with a flourish 
 — our last remaining bottle -of Simla soda-water. 
 
 Very solemnly and seriously I unwired the cork, as it 
 performing an almost sacrosanct ceremony. The monks 
 crowded round with the deepest curiosity. I held the cork 
 down for a second with my thumb, while I uttered once 
 more in my most awesome tone the mystic words, ' Hokey — 
 pokey — winky — wum ! * then I let it fly suddenly. The 
 soda-water was well up. The cork bounded to the ceiling : 
 the contents of the bottle spurted out over the place in the 
 most impressive fashion. 
 
 For a minute the Lamas drew back, alarmed. The 
 thing seemed almost devilish. Then slowly, reassured by 
 our composure, they crept back and looked. With a glance 
 "f inquiry at the abbot, I took out my pocket corkscrew, 
 and drew the cork of the gin-bottle, which had never 
 been opened. I signed for a cup. They brought me one, 
 reverently. I poured out a little gin, to which I added 
 some soda-water, and drank first of it myself, to show 
 them it was not poison. After that, I handed it to the 
 chief Lama, who sipped at it, sipped again, and emptied 
 the cup at the third trial. Evidently the sacred drink 
 was very much to his taste, for he smacked his lips 
 after it, and turned with exclamations of surprised delight 
 to his inquisitive companions. 
 
 The rest of the soda-water, duly mixed with gin, soon 
 went the round of the expectant monks. It was greatly 
 approved of. Unhappily, there was not quite enough soda- 
 water to supply a drink for all of them : but those who 
 tasted it were deeply impressed. I could see that they took 
 
302 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 the bite of the carbonic-acid gas for evidence of a most 
 powerful and present deity. 
 
 That settled our position. We were instantly regarded 
 not only as Buddhists, but as mighty magicians from a far 
 country. The monks made haste to show us rooms destined 
 
 THE SACKliD DRINK WAS VKKY MUCH lO HIS TASTli. 
 
 for our use in the monastery. They were not unbearably 
 filthy, and we had our own bedding. We had to spend the 
 night there, that was certain : we had at least escaped the 
 worst and most pressing danger. 
 
 I may add that I believe our cook to have been a most 
 arrant liar — which was a lucky circumstance. Once the 
 wretched creature saw the tide turn, I have reason to infer 
 that he supported our cause by telling the chief Lama the 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 303 
 
 ft 
 
 i?» 
 
 7 
 
 most incredible stories about our lioliiiess and power. Al 
 any rate, it is certain that we were re^anled willi the utmost 
 respect, and treated thenceforth vvitli the affectionate ciefer- 
 encc due to Jicknowlcd^cd and certified saintliood. 
 
 It be^an to strike us now, however, that we had ahnost 
 overshot the mark in this matter of sanctity. We had made 
 ourselves quite too holy. The monks, who were eat^er at 
 first to cut our throats, thought so much of us now that we 
 grew a little anxious as to whether they would not wish to 
 keep such devout souls in their midst for ever. As a matter 
 of fact, we spent a whole week against our wills in the 
 monastery, being very well fed and treated meanwhile, yet 
 virtually captives. It was the camera that did it. The 
 Lamas had never seen any photographs before : they asked 
 how these miraculous pictures were produced : and Hilda, 
 to keep up the good impression, showed them how she 
 operated. When a full-length portrait of the chief Lama in 
 his sacrificial robc.^i was actually printed off and exhibited 
 before their eyes, their delight knew no bounds. The picture 
 was handed about among the astonished brethren, and 
 received with loud shouts of joy and wonder. Nothing 
 would satisfy them then but that wc must photograph every 
 individual monk in the place. Even the Buddha himself, 
 cross-legged and imperturbable, had to sit for his portrait. 
 As he was used to sitting — never, indeed, having done any- 
 thing else — he came out admirably. 
 
 Day after day passed : suns rose and suns set : and it 
 was clear that the monks did not mean to let us leave their 
 precincts in a hurry. Lady Meadowcroft, having recovered 
 by this time from her first fright, began to grow bored. The 
 Buddhists* ritual ceased to interest her. To vary the mono- 
 tony, I hit upon an expedient for killing time till our too 
 pressing hosts saw fit to let us depart. They were fond of 
 
304 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 religious processions of the most protracted sort — dances 
 before the altar with animal masks or heads, and other weird 
 ceremonial orgies. Hilda, who had read herself up in 
 Buddhist ideas, assured me that all these things were done 
 in order to heap i^j Karma. 
 
 * What is Karma ? ' I asked, listlessly. 
 
 ' Karma is good works or merit. The more praying- 
 wheels you turn, the more bells you ring, the greater the 
 merit. One of the monks is always at work turning the big 
 wheel that moves the bell, so as to heap up merit night and 
 day for the monastery.' 
 
 This set ine thinking. I soon discovered that no matter 
 how the wheel is turned, the Karma or merit is equal. It 
 is the turning it that counts, not the personal exertion. 
 There were wheels and bells in convenient situations all over 
 the village, and whoever passed one gave it a twist as he 
 went by, thus piling up Karma for all the inhabitants. 
 Reflecting upon these facts, I was seized with an idea. I 
 got Hilda to take instantaneous photographs of all the 
 monks during a sacred procession, at rapid intervals : in 
 that sunny climate we had no difficulty at all in printing 
 off from the plates as soon as developed. Then I took a 
 small wheel, about the size of an oyster-barrel — the monks 
 had dozens of them — and pasted the photographs inside in 
 successive order, like what is called a zoetrope, or wheel of 
 life. By cutting holes in the side, and arranging a mirror 
 from Lady Meadowcroft's dressin.., -bag, I completed my 
 machine, so that, when it was turned round rapidly, one 
 saw the procession actually taking place as if the figures 
 were moving. The thing, in short, made a living picture 
 like a cinematograph. A mountain stream ran past the 
 monastery and supplied it with water. I had a second 
 inspiration. I was always mechanical. I fixed a water- 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 305 
 
 wheel in the stream, where it made a petty cataract, and 
 connected it by means of a small crank with the barrel of 
 photographs. My zoetrope thus worked off itself, and piled 
 I ,"» Karma for all the village whether any one happened to 
 be looking at it or not. . 
 
 The monks, who were really excellent fellows when not 
 engaged in cutting throats in the interest of the faith, regarded 
 this device as a great and glorious religious invention. 
 They went down on their knees to it and were profoundly 
 respectful. They also bowed to me so deeply, when I first 
 exhibited it, that I began to be puffed up with spiritual 
 pride. Lady Meadowcroft recalled me to my better self by 
 murmuring, with a sigh, * I suppose we really can't draw 
 a line now ; but it does seem to me like encouraging idolatry!' 
 
 ' Purely mechanical encouragement,' I answered, gazing 
 at my handicraft with an inventor's pardonable pride. ' You 
 see, it is the turning itself that does good, not any prayers 
 attached to it. I divert the idolatry from human worshippers 
 to an unconscious stream — which must surely be meritorious.' 
 Then I thought of the mystic sentence, ' Aum, mani, padme, 
 hum.' ' What a pity it is,' I cried, ' I couldn't make them 
 a phonograph to repeat their mantra ! If I could, they 
 might fulfil all their religious duties together by machinery ! ' 
 
 Hilda reflected a second. ' There is a great future,' she 
 said at last, ' for the man who first introduces smoke-jacks 
 into Tibet ! Every household will buy one, as an automatic 
 means of acquiring Karma.' 
 
 ' Don't publish that idea in England ! ' I exclaimed, 
 hastily — ' if ever we get there. As sure as you do, some- 
 body will see in it an opening for British trade, and we shall 
 spend twenty millions on conquering Tibet, in the interests 
 of civilisation and a smoke-jack syndicate.' 
 
 How long we might have stopped at the monastery I 
 
 X 
 
3o6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 cannot say, had it not been for the intervention of an un- 
 expected episode which occurred just a week after our first 
 arrival. We were comfortable enough in a rough way, with 
 our Ghoorka cook to prepare our food for us, and our bearers 
 to wait : but to the end I never felt quite sure of our hosts, 
 who after all were entertaining us under false pretences. 
 We had told them, truly enough, that Buddhist missionaries 
 had now penetrated to England : and though they had not 
 the slightest conception where England might be, and knew 
 not the name of Madame Blavatsky, this news interested 
 them. Regarding us as promising neophytes, they were 
 anxious now that we should go on to Lhasa, in order to 
 receive full instructions in the faith from the chief fountain- 
 head, the Grand Lama in person. To this we demurred : 
 Mr. Landor's experiences did not encourage us to follow his 
 lead : the monks for their part could not understand our 
 reluctance. They thought that every well-intentioned con- 
 vert must wish to make the pilgrimage to Lhasa, the Mecca 
 of their creed : our hesitation threw some doubt on the 
 reality of our conversion. A proselyte above all men should 
 never be lukewarm. They expected us to embrace the 
 opportunity with fervour. We might be massacred on the 
 way, to be sure ; but what did that matter ? We should' be 
 dying for the faith, and ought to be charmed at so splendid 
 a prospect. 
 
 On the day-week after our arrival the chief Lama came 
 to me at nightfall. His face was serious. He spoke to me 
 through our accredited interpreter, the cook. ' Priest-sahib 
 say, /ery impoilant ; the sahib and mem-sahibs must go 
 away from here before sun get ^jp to-morrow morning.' 
 
 * Why so ? ' I asked, as astonished as I was pleased. 
 
 ' Priest-sahib say, he like you very much : oh, very, very 
 much : no want to see village people kill you.' 
 
 \ 
 
THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY 
 
 307 
 
 ' Kill us ! But I thought they believed we were saints ! ' 
 * Priest say, that just it : too much saint altogether. 
 People hereabout all telling that the sahib and the mem- 
 sahibs very great saints : much holy, like Buddha. Make 
 
 iV::X?,tA •. ■,• 
 
 SAHIB AND MEM-SAHIBS MUST GO AWAY. 
 
 picture ; work miracles. People think, if them kill you, and 
 have your tomb here, very holy place : very great Karma : 
 very good for trade : plenty Tibetan man hear you holy 
 men, come here on pilgrimage. Pilgrimage make fair, make 
 
■ •r»i«y*ic»*«*' 
 
 308 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 market, very good for village. So people want to kill you, 
 build shrine over your body.' 
 
 This was a view of the advantages of sanctity which had 
 never before struck me. Now, I had not been eager even 
 for the distinction of being a Christian martyr : as to being 
 a Buddhist martyr, that was quite out of the question. 
 
 * Then what does the Lama advise us to do ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Priest-sahib say he love you : no want to see village 
 people kill you. He give you guide — very good guide — 
 know mountains well : take you back straight to Maharajah's 
 country.' 
 
 * Not Ram Das ? * I asked, suspiciously. 
 
 * No, not Ram Das. Very good man : Tibetan.' 
 
 I saw at once this was a genuine crisis. All was hastily 
 arranged : I went in and told Hilda and Lady Meadowcroft. 
 Our spoilt child cried a little, of course, at the idea of being 
 enshrined, but on the whole behaved admirably. At early 
 dawn next morning, before the village was awake, we crept 
 with stealthy steps out of the monastery, whose inmates 
 were friendly. Our new guide accompanied us. We avoided 
 the village, on whose outskirts the lamasery lay, and made 
 straight for the valley. By six o'clock we were well out of 
 sight of the clustered houses and the pyramidal spires. But 
 I did not breathe freely till late in the afternoon, when we 
 found ourselves once more under British protection in the 
 first hamlet of the Maharajah's territory. 
 
 As for that scoundrel, Ram Das, we heard nothing more 
 of him. He disappeared into space from the moment he 
 deserted us at the door of the trap into which he had led us. 
 The chief Lama told me he had gone back at once by 
 another route to his own country. 
 
XI 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD 
 
 PERFECTLY 
 
 After our fortunate escape from the clutches of our too- 
 admiring Tibetan hosts, we wound our way slowly back 
 through the Maharajah's territory towards Sir Ivor's head- 
 quarters. On the third day out from the lamasery we 
 camped in a romantic Himalayan valley — a narrow, green 
 glen, with a brawling stream running in white cataracts and 
 rapids down its midst. We were able to breathe freely now : 
 we could enjoy the great tapering deodars that rose in ranks 
 on the hillsides, the snow-clad needles of ramping rock that 
 bounded the view to north and south, the feathery bamboo- 
 jungle that fringed and half-obscured the mountain torrent, 
 whose cool music — alas, fallaciously cool — was borne to us 
 through the dense screen of waving foliage. Lady Meadow- 
 croft was so delighted at having got clear away from those 
 murderous and saintly Tibetans that for a while she almost 
 forgot to grumble. She even condescended to admire the 
 deep-cleft ravine in which we bivouacked for the night, and 
 to admit that the orchids which hung from the tall trees were 
 as fine as any at her florist's in Piccadilly. * Though how 
 they can have got them out here already, in this outlandish 
 place — the most fashionable kinds — when we in England 
 
mvt^ir^^^^^* 
 
 310 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 have to grow them with such care 1*11 expensive hot-houses/ 
 she said, * really passes my comprehension.' 
 
 She seemed to think that orchids originated in Covent 
 Garden. 
 
 Early next morning I was engaged with one of my 
 native men in lighting the fire to boil our kettle — for in spite 
 of all misfortunes we still made tea with creditable punctu- 
 ality — when a tall and good-looking Nepaulese approached 
 us from the hills, with cat-like tread, and stood before me in 
 an attitude of profound supplication. He was a well-dressed 
 young man, like a superior native servant : his face was 
 broad and flat, but kindly and good - humoured. He 
 salaamed many times, but still said nothing. 
 
 * Ask him what he wants,' I cried, turning to our fair- 
 weather friend, the cook. 
 
 The deferential Nepaulese did not wait to be asked. 
 * Salaam, sahib,' he said, bowing again very low till his fore- 
 head almost touched the ground. *You are Eulopean 
 doctor, sahib ? ' 
 
 * I am,' I answered, taken aback at being thus recognised 
 in the forests of Nepaul. * But how in wonder did you come 
 to know it ? ' 
 
 * You camp near here when you pass dis way before, and 
 you doctor little native girl, who got sore eyes. All de 
 country here tell you is very great physician. So I come 
 and to see if you will turn aside to my village to help us.' 
 
 * Where did you learn English ? ' I exclaimed, more and 
 more astonished. 
 
 * I is servant one time at British Lesident's at de Maha- 
 rajah's city. Pick up English dere. Also pick up plenty 
 lupee. Velly good business at British Lesident's. Now 
 gone back home to my own village, letired gentleman.' And 
 he drew himself up with conscious dignity. 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 311 
 
 I surveyed the retired gentleman from head to foot. He 
 had an air of distinction, which not even his bare toes could 
 altogether mar. He was evidently a perron of local import- 
 ance. * And what did you want me to visit your village for?' 
 I inquired, dubiously. 
 
 ' White traveller sahib ill dere, sir. Velly ill : got plague. 
 Great first-class sahib, all same like Governor. Ill fit to die : 
 send me out all times to try find Eulopean doctor.' 
 
 * Plague ? * I repeated, startled. He nodded. 
 
 * Yes, plague : all same like dem hab him so bad down 
 Bombay way.' 
 
 * Do you know his name ? ' I asked ; for though one does 
 not like to desert a fellow-creature in distress, I did not care 
 to turn aside from my road on such an errand, with Hilda 
 and Lady Meadowcroft, unless for some amply sufficient 
 reason. 
 
 The retired gentleman shook his head in the most 
 emphatic fashion. * How me know ? ' he answe 2d, opening 
 the palms of his hands as if to show he had iiothing con- 
 cealed in them. * Forget Eulopean name all times so easily. 
 And traveller sahib name very hard to lemember. Not got 
 English name. Him Eulopean foleigncr.' 
 
 ' A European foreigner ! ' I repeated. ' And you say he 
 is seriously ill ? Plague is no trifle. Well, wait a minute : 
 I'll see what the ladies say about it. How far off is your 
 village ? ' 
 
 He pointed with his hand, somewhat vaguely, to the 
 hillside. ' Two hours' walk,' he answered, with the moun- 
 taineer's habit of reckoning distance by time, which extends, 
 under the like circumstances, the whole world over. 
 
 I went back to the tents, and consulted Hilda and Lady 
 Meadowcroft. Our spoilt child pouted, and was u^.erly 
 averse to any detour of any sort. * Let's get back straight to 
 
312 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 Ivor,' she said, petulantly. ' I've had enough of camping out. 
 It's all very well in its way for a week: but when they begin 
 to talk about cutting your throat and all that, it ceases to be 
 a joke and becomes a wee bit uncomfortable. I want my 
 feather bed. I object to their villages.' 
 
 ' But consider, dear,' Hilda said, gently. * This traveller 
 is ill, all alone in a strange land. How can Hubert desert 
 him ? It is a doctor's duty to do what he can to alleviate 
 pain and to cure the sick. What would we have thought 
 ourselves, when we were at the lamasery, if a body of 
 European travellers had known we were there, imprisoned 
 and in danger of our lives, and had passed by on the other 
 side without attempting to rescue us ? ' 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft knit her forehead. * That was Us,' 
 she said, with an impatient nod, after a pause — ' and this is 
 another person. You can't turn aside for everybody who's 
 ill in all Nepaul. And plague, too ! — so horrid ! Besides, 
 how do we know this isn't another plant of these hateful 
 people to lead us into danger ? ' 
 
 * Lady Meadowcroft is quite right,' I said, hastily. ' I 
 never thought about that. There may be no plague, no 
 patient at all. I will go up with this man alone, Hilda, and 
 find out the truth. It will only take me five hours at most. 
 By noon I shall be back with you.' 
 
 * What ? And leave us here unprotected among the wild 
 beasts and the savages ? * Lady Meadowcroft cried, horri- 
 fied. ' In the midst of the forest ! Dr. Cumberledge, how 
 can you ? ' 
 
 * You are not unprotected,' I answered, soothing her. 
 * You have Hilda with you. She is worth ten men. And 
 besides, our Nepaulese are fairly trustworthy.' 
 
 Hilda bore me out in my resolve. She was too much of 
 a nurse, and had imbibed too much of the true medical senti- 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 313 
 
 ment, to let mc desert a man in peril of his life among 
 tropical jungle. So, in spite of Lady Meadovvcroft, I was 
 soon winding my way up a steep mountain track, overgrown 
 with creeping Indian weeds, on my road to the still prob- 
 lematical village graced by the residence of the retired 
 gentleman. 
 
 After two hours' hard climbing we reached it at last. 
 The retired gentleman led the way to a house in a street of 
 the little wooden hamlet. The door was low : I had to 
 stoop to enter it. I saw in a moment this was indeed no 
 trick. On a native bed, in a corner of the one room, a man 
 lay desperately ill : a European, with white hair and with a 
 skin well bronzed by exposure to the tropics. Ominous dark 
 spots beneath the epidermis showed the nature of the disease. 
 He tossed restlessly as he lay, but did not raise his fevered 
 head or look at my conductor. * Well, any news of Ram 
 Das ? ' he asiced at last, in a parched and feeble voice. 
 Parched and feeble as it was, I recognised it instantly. The 
 man on the bed was Sebastian — no other ! 
 
 ' No, no news of Lam Das,* the retired gentleman replied, 
 with an unexpected display of womanly tenderness. * Lam 
 Das clean gone : not come any more. But I bling you back 
 Eulopean doctor, sahib.' 
 
 Sebastian did not look up from his bed even then. I 
 could see he was more anxious about a message from his 
 scout than about his own condition. * The rascal ! ' he 
 moaned, with his eyes closed tight. * The rascal ! he has 
 betrayed me.' And he tossed uneasily. 
 
 I looked at him and said nothing. Then I seated my- 
 self on a low stool by the bedside and took his hand in mine 
 to feci his pulse. The wrist was thin and wasted. The face, 
 too, I noticed, had fallen away greatly. It was clear that 
 the malignant fever which accompanies the disease had 
 
au 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 wreaked its worst on him. So weak and ill was he, indeed, 
 that he let me hold his hand, with my fingers on his pulse, 
 for half a minute or more without ever opening his eyes or 
 displaying the slightest curiosity at my presence. One 
 might have thought that European doctors abounded in 
 
 CUMBERLEDGE ! COMIC BACK TO LIFE, THEN ! 
 
 Nepaul, and that I had been attending him for a week, with 
 * the mixture as before ' at every visit. 
 
 * Your pulse is weak and very rapid,' I said, slowly, in a 
 professional tone. ' You seem to me to have fallen into a 
 perilous condition.' 
 
 At the sound of my voice he gave a sudden start. Yet 
 even so, for a second, he did not open his eyes. The 
 revelation of my presence seemed to come upon him as 
 in a dream. * Like Cumberledge's,' he muttered to him- 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 315 
 
 self, gasping. * Exactly like Cumberledge's. . . . But 
 Cumberlcdge is dead ... I must be delirious. ... If I 
 didn't know to the contrary, 1 could have sworn it was 
 Cumberledge's ! ' 
 
 I spoke again, bending over him. * How long have the 
 glandular swellings been present, Professor ? ' I asked, with 
 quiet deliberativeness. 
 
 This time he opened his eyes sharply, and looked up in 
 my face. He swallowed a great gulp of surprise. His 
 breath came and went. He raised himself on his elbows 
 and stared at me with a fixed stare. ' Cumberledge ! ' he 
 cried : * Cumberledge ! Come back to life, then ! They told 
 me you were dead ! And here you are, Cumberledge ! ' 
 
 ' Who told you I was dead ? ' I asked, stern'y- 
 
 He stared at me, still in a dazed way. He was more 
 than half comatose. * Your guide. Ram Das,' he answered 
 at last, half incoherently. ' He came back by himself. 
 Came back, without you. He swore to me he had seen all 
 your throats cut in Tibet. He alone had escaped. The 
 Buddhists had massacred you.' 
 
 ' He told you a lie,* I said, shortly. 
 
 ' I thought so. I thought so. And I sent him back for 
 confirmatory evidence. But the rogue has never brought it.' 
 He let his head drop on his rude pillow heavily. ' Never, 
 never brought it ! ' 
 
 I gazed at him, full of horror : the man was too ill 
 to hear me, too ill to reason, too ill to recognise the 
 meaning of his own words, almost. Otherwise, perhaps, 
 he would hardly have expressed himself quite so frankly. 
 Though to be sure he had said nothing to criminate 
 himself in any way : his action might have been due to 
 anxiety for our safety. 
 
 I fixed my glance on him long and dubiously. What 
 
 J 
 
3i6 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ought I to do next ? As for Sebastian, he hiy vvitli his eyes 
 closed, half oblivious of my presence. The fever had gripped 
 him hard. He shivered, and looked helpless as a child. In 
 such circumstances, the instincts of my profession rose 
 imperative within me. I could not nurse a case properly in 
 this wretched hut. The one thing to be done was to carry 
 the patient down to our camp in the valley. There, at least, 
 we had air and pure running water. 
 
 I asked a few questions from the retired gentleman as to 
 the possibility of obtaining sufficient bearers in the village. 
 As I supposed, any number were forthcoming immediately. 
 Your Nepaulese is by nature a beast of burden : he can carry 
 anything up and down the mountains, and spends his life in 
 the act of carrying. 
 
 I pulled out my pencil, tore a leaf from my note-book, 
 and scribbled a hasty note to Hilda : * The invalid is — whom 
 do you think ? — Sebastian I He is dangerously ill with some 
 malignant fever : I am bringing him down into camp to 
 nurse : get everything ready for him.' Then I handed it 
 over to a messenger, found for me by the retired gentleman, 
 to carry to Hilda. My host himself I could not spare, as he 
 was my only interpreter. 
 
 In a couple of hours we had improvised a rough, woven 
 grass hammock as an ambulance couch, had engaged our 
 bearers, and had got Sebastian under way for the camp by 
 the river. 
 
 When I arrived at our tents I found Hilda had prepared 
 everything for our patient with her usual cleverness. Not 
 only had she got a bed ready for Sebastian, who was now 
 almost insensible, but she had even cooked some arrowroot 
 from our stores beforehand, so that he might have a little 
 food, with a dash of brandy in it, to recover him after the 
 fatigue of the journey down the mountain. 
 
 By 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 317 
 
 had laid him out on a mattress in a cool tent, with the frcsii 
 air blowing about him, and had made him cat the meal 
 prepared for him, 'c really began to look comparatively- 
 comfortable. 
 
 Lady Meadowcroft was now our chief trouble : we did 
 not dare to tell her it was really plague ; but she had got 
 near enough back to civilisation to have recovered her 
 faculty for profuse grumbling ; and the idea of the delay that 
 Sebastian would cause us drove her wild with annoyance. 
 * Only two days off from Ivor,* she cried, ' and that comfortable 
 bungalow ! And now to think we must stop here in the 
 woods a week or ten days for this horrid old Professor ! 
 Why can't he get worse at once and die like a gentleman ? 
 But, there I with you to nurse him, Hilda, he'll never get 
 worse : he couldn't die if he tried : he'll linger on and on for 
 weeks and weeks through a beastly convalescence ! ' 
 
 ' Hubert,* Hilda said to me, when we were alone once 
 more, ' we mustn't keep her here. She will be a hindrance, 
 not a help. One way or another, we must manage to get 
 rid of her.' 
 
 ' How can we ? * I asked. ' We can't turn her loose 
 upon the mountain roads with a Nepaulese escort. She isn't 
 fit for it. She would be frantic with terror.' 
 
 * I've thought of that, and I see only one thing possible. 
 I must go on with her myself as fast as we can push to Sir 
 Ivor's place, and then return to help you nurse the Professor.' 
 
 I saw she was right : it was the sole plan open to us. 
 And I had no fear of letting Hilda go off alone with Lady 
 Meadowcroft and the bearers. She was a host in herself, 
 and could manage a party of native servants at least as well 
 as I could. 
 
 So Hilda went, and came back again : meanwhile, I took 
 charge of the nursing of Sebastian. Fortunately, I had 
 
3'8 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 brought with me a good stock of junglc-mcdicincs in my 
 little travelling case, including plenty of quinine, and under 
 my careful treatment the Professor passed the crisis and 
 
 WE MUST MANAGE TO GET RID OF HER. 
 
 began to mend slowly. The first question he asked mc 
 when he felt himself able to talk once more was, * Nurse 
 Wade — what has become of her ? ' — for he had not yet seen 
 her. I feared the shock for him. 
 
THE Ol'FlCER WHO i:M)EI<STOOI) I'EKEEC'JEV 319 
 
 ' She is here with me/ I answered, in a very measured 
 voice. ' She is waiting to be allowed to come and help me 
 in taking care of you.' 
 
 He shuddered and turned away. His face buried itself 
 in the pillow. I could ' sec some twinge of remorse had 
 seized upon him. At last he spoke. * Cumberlcdge,' he 
 said, in a very low and almost frightened tone, * don't let her 
 come near me ! I can't bear it : I can't bear it.' 
 
 Ill as he was, I did not mean to let him think I was 
 ignorant of his motive. ' You can't bear a woman, whose 
 life you have attempted,' I said, in my coldest and most 
 deliberate way, * to have a hand in nursing you. You can't 
 bear to let her heap coals of fire on your head. In that, 
 you arc right. But, remember, you have attempted my life 
 too ; you have twice done your best to get me murdered.' 
 
 He did not pretend to deny it. He was too weak for' 
 subterfuges. He only wiithed as he lay. 'You are a man,' 
 he said, shortly, ' and she is a woman. That is all the differ- 
 ence.' Then he paused for a minute or two. ' Don't let 
 her come near me,' he moaned once more, in a piteous voice : 
 * don't let her come near me ! ' 
 
 ' I will not,' I answered. * She shall not come near you. 
 I spare you that. But you will have to eat the food she 
 prepares : and you know she will not poison you. You will 
 have to be tended by the servants she chooses : and you know 
 they will not murder you. She can heap coals of fire on 
 your head without coming into y ur tent. Consider that 
 you sought to take her life — and she seeks to save yours ! 
 She is as anxious to keep you alive as you are anxious to 
 kill her.' 
 
 He lay as in a reverie. His long, white hair made his 
 clear-cut, thin face look more unearthly than ever, with the 
 hectic flush of fever upon it. At last he turned to me. 
 
320 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * We each work for our own ends,' he said, in a weary way. 
 ' We pursue our own objects. It suits me to get rid of her : 
 it suits her to keep vie alive. I am no gjod to her dead ; 
 Hving, she expects to wring a confession out of me. But 
 she shall not have it. Tenacity of purpose is the one thing 
 I admire in life. She has the tenacity of purpose — and so 
 have I. Cumberledge, don't you see it is a mere duel of 
 endurance between us ? ' 
 
 ' And may the just side win,' I answered, solemnly. 
 
 It was several days later before he spoke to me of it 
 again. Hilda had brought some food to the door of the 
 tent and passed it in to me for our patient. * How is he 
 now ? ' she whispered. 
 
 Sebastian overheard her voice, and, cowering within 
 himself, still managed to answer : * Better, getting better. 
 I shall soon be well now. You have carried your point. 
 You have cured your enemy.' 
 
 * Thank God for that ! ' Hilda said, and glided away 
 silently. 
 
 Sebastian ate his cup of arrowroot in silence; then he 
 looked at me with wistful, musing eyes. * Cumberledge,' 
 he murmured at last, * after all, I can't help admiring that 
 woman. She is the only person who has ever checkmated 
 me. She checkmates me every time. Steadfastness is 
 what I love. Her steadfastness of purpose and her deter- 
 mination move me.' 
 
 ' I wish they would move you to tell the truth,' I 
 answered. 
 
 He mused again. * To tell the truth ! ' he muttered, 
 moving his head up and down. * I have lived for science : 
 shall I wreck all now ? There are truths which it is better 
 to hide than to proclaim. Uncomfortable truths — truths 
 that never should have been — truths which help to make 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 321 
 
 greater truths incredible. But all the same, I cannot help 
 admiring that woman. She has Yorke-Bannerman's in- 
 tellect, with a great deal more than Yorke-Bannerman's 
 force of will. Such firmness ! such energy ! such resolute 
 patience! She is a wonderful creature. I can't helo 
 admiring her ! 
 
 I said no more to him just then. I thought it better to 
 let nascent remorse and nascent admiration work out their 
 own natural effects unimpeded. For I could see our 
 enemy was beginning to feel some sting of remorse. Some 
 men are below it : Sebastian thought himself above it • I 
 felt sure he was mistaken. 
 
 Yet even in the midst of these personal preoccupations 
 I saw that our great teacher was still, as ever, the pure 
 man of science. He noted every symptom and everv 
 change of the disease with professional accuracy. He 
 observed his own case, whenever his mind was clear enough, 
 as impartially as he would have observed any outside 
 patient's. 'This is a rare chance, Cumberledge,' he 
 vvhispered to me once, in an interval of delirium. ' So few 
 Eurc ;<:; -is nave ever had the complaint, and probably none 
 who were competent to describe the specific subjective and 
 psychological symptoms. The delusions one gets, as one 
 sinks into the coma, for example, are of quite a peculiar 
 type— delusions of wealth and of absolute power most 
 exhilarating and magnificent. I think myself a millionaire 
 or a Prime Minister. Be sure you make a note of that— in 
 case I die. If I recover, of course, I can write an exhaustive 
 monograph, on the whole hl^^tory of the disease in the 
 British Medical Journal. But if I die, the task of chronicling 
 these interesting observations will devolve upon you. A 
 most exceptional chance! You are much to be con- 
 gratulated.' 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' You must not die, Professor,' I cried, thinking more, I 
 will confess, of Hilda Wade than of himself: 'you must live 
 ... to report this case for science.* I used what I thought 
 the strongest lever I knew for him. 
 
 He closed his eyes dreamily. * For science ! Yes, for 
 science ! There you strike the right chord ! What have 
 I not dared and done for science? But, in case I die, 
 Cumberledge, be sure you collect the notes I took as I was 
 sickening — they are most important for the history and 
 etiology of the disease. I made them hourly. And don't 
 forget the main points to be observed as I am dying. You 
 know what they are : this is a rare, rare chance ! I con- 
 gratulate you on being the man who has the first opportunity 
 ever afforded us of questioning an intelligent European case, 
 a case where the patient is fully capable of describing with 
 accuracy his symptoms and his sensations in medical 
 phraseology.* 
 
 He did not die, however. In about another week he 
 was well enough to move. We carried him down to 
 Mozufferpoor, the first large town in the plains thereabouts, 
 and handed him over for the stage of convalescence to the 
 care of the able and efficient station doctor, to whom my 
 thanks are due for much courteous assistance. 
 
 ' And now, what do you mean to do ? * I asked Hilda, 
 when our patient was placed in other hands, and all was 
 over. 
 
 She answered me without one second's hesitation : * Go 
 straight to Bombay, and wait there till Sebastian takes a 
 passage for England.* 
 
 * He will go home, you think, as soon as he is well 
 enough ? ' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly. He has now nothing more to stop in 
 India for.' 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTL V 
 
 323 
 
 ' Why not as much as ever ? ' 
 
 She looked at me curiously. ' It is so hard to explain,' 
 she replied, after a moment's pause, during which she had 
 been drumming her little forefinger on the table. ' I feel it 
 rather than reason it. But don't you see that a certain 
 change has lately come over Sebastian's attitude ? He no 
 longer desires to follow me : he wants to avoid me. That 
 is why I wish more than ever to dog his steps. I feel the 
 beginning of the end has come. I am gaining my point. 
 Sebastian is wavering.' 
 
 * Then, when he engages a berth, you propose to go by 
 the same steamer ? ' 
 
 • Yes. It makes all the difference. When he tries to 
 follow me, he is dangerous : when he tries to avoid me, it 
 becomes my work in life to follow him. I must keep him 
 in sight every minute now. I must quicken his conscience. 
 I must make him fee^ his own desperate wickedness. He is 
 afraid to face me: that means remorse. The more I 
 compel him to face me, the more the remorse is sure to 
 deepen.' 
 
 I saw she was right. We took the train to Bombay. 
 I found rooms at the hospitable club, by a member's invita- 
 tion, while Hilda went to stop with some friends of Lady 
 Meadowcroft's on the Malabar Hill. We waited for 
 Sebastian to come down from the interior and take his 
 passage. Hilda felt sure he would come, with her intuitive 
 certainty. 
 
 A steamer, two steamers, three steamers, sailed, and still no 
 Sebastian. I began to think he must have made up his mind 
 to go back some other way. But Hilda was confident, so I 
 waited patiently. At last one morning I dropped in, as I 
 had often done before, at the office of one of the chief steam- 
 ship companies. It was the very morning when a packet 
 
324 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 was to sail. * Can I see the list of passengers on the 
 Vindhya ? ' I asked of the clerk, a sandy-haired Englishman, 
 tall, thin, and sallow. 
 
 The clerk produced it. 
 
 I scanned it in haste. To my surprise and delight, a 
 pencilled entry half-way down the list gave the name, * Pro- 
 fessor Sebastian.' 
 
 * Oh, Sebastian is going by this steamer ? ' I murmured, 
 looking up. 
 
 The sandy-haired clerk hummed and hesitated. * Well, 
 I be!''eve he's going, sir,' he answered at last ; * but it's a bit 
 uncertain. He's a fidgety man, the Professor. He came 
 down here this morning and asked to see the list, the same 
 as you have done: then he engaged a berth provisionally — 
 " mind, provisionally," he said — that's why his name is only 
 put in on the list in pencil. I take it he's waiting to know 
 whether a party of friends he wishes to meet are going also.' 
 
 * Or wishes to avoid,' I thought to myself, inwardly ; but 
 I did not say so. I asked instead, ' Is he coming again ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I think so: at 5.30.' 
 
 * And she sails at seven ? ' 
 
 ' At seven, punctually. Passengers must be aboard by 
 half-past six at latest.' 
 
 * Very good,' I answered, making my mind up promptly. 
 ' I only called to know the Professor's movements. Don't 
 mention to him that I came. I may look in again myself 
 an hour or two later.' 
 
 'You don't want a passage, sir? You may be the 
 friend he's expecting.' 
 
 ' No, I don't want a passage — not at present certainly.' 
 Then T ventured on a bold stroke. ' Look here,' I said, 
 leaning across towards him, and assuming a confidential tone, 
 * I am a private detective ' — which was perfectly true in 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 325 
 
 essence — ' and I'm dogging the Professor, who, for all hi^ 
 eminence, is gravely suspected of a great crime. If you 
 will help me, I will make it worth your while. Let us 
 
 LEV US UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 understand one another. I offer you a five-pound note to 
 say nothing of all this to him.' 
 
 The sallow clerk's fishy eye glistened. 'You can depend 
 upon me,' he answered, with an acquiescent nod. I judged 
 that he did not often get the chance of earning some eighty 
 rupees so easily. 
 
326 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 I scribbled a hasty note and sent it round to Hilda : 
 * Pack your boxes at once, and hold yourself in readiness 
 to embark on the Vindhya at six o'clock precisely.* Then I 
 put my own things straight, and waited at the club till a 
 quarter to six. At that time I strolled unconcernedly into 
 the office : a cab outside held Hilda and our luggage. I 
 had arranged it all meanwhile by letter. 
 
 * Professor Sebastian been here again ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Yes, sir ; he's been here ; and he looked over the list 
 again ; and he's taken his passage. But he muttered some- 
 thing about eavesdroppers, and said that if he wasn't satisfied 
 when he got on board, he would return at once and ask for 
 a cabin in exchange by the next steamer.' 
 
 ' That will do,' I answered, slipping the promised five- 
 pound note into the clerk's open palm, which closed over it 
 convulsively. ' Talked about eavesdroppers, did he ? Then 
 he knows he's being shadowed. It may console you to 
 learn that you are instrumental in furthering the aims of 
 justice and unmasking a cruel and wicked conspiracy. Now, 
 the next thing is this : I want two berths at once by this 
 very steamer : one for myself — name of Cumberledge ; one 
 for a lady — name of Wade : and look sharp about it.' 
 
 The sandy-haired man did look sharp ; and within three 
 minutes we were driving off with our tickets to Prince's 
 Dock landing-stage. 
 
 We slipped on board unobtrusively, and instantly took 
 refuge in our respective state-rooms, till the steamer was 
 well under way, and fairly out of sight of Kolaba Island. 
 Only after all chance of Sebastian's avoiding us was gone for 
 ever did we venture up on deck, on purpose to confront 
 him. 
 
 It was one of those delicious balmy evenings which one 
 gets only at sea and in the warmer latitudes. The sky 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTW 327 
 
 was alive with myriads of twinkling and palpitating stars. 
 which seemed to come and go, like sparks on a fire-back, as 
 one gazed upward into the vast depths and tried to place 
 them. They played hide-and-seek with one another and 
 with the innumerable meteors which shot recklessly every 
 now and again across the field of the firmament, leaving 
 momentary furrows of light behind them. Beneath, the sea 
 sparkled almost like the sky, for every turn of the screw 
 churned up the scintillating phosphorescence in the water, 
 so that countless little jets of living fire seemed to flash and 
 die away at the summit of every wavelet. A tall, spare 
 man in a picturesque cloak, and with long, lank, white hair, 
 leant over the taffrail, gazing at the numberless flashing 
 lights of the surface. As he gazed, he talked on in his clear, 
 rapt voice to a stranger by his side. The voice and the ring 
 of enthusiasm were unmistakable. *0h no,' he was saying, 
 as we stole up behind him, ' that hypothesis, I venture to 
 assert, is no longer tenable by the light of recent researches. 
 Death and decay have nothing to do directly with the 
 phosphorescence of the sea, though they have a little in- 
 directly. The light is due in the main to numerous minute 
 living organisms, most of them bacilli, on which I once 
 made several close observations and crucial experiments. 
 They possess organs which may be regarded as miniature 
 bull's-eye lanterns : and these organs ' 
 
 ' What a lovely evening, Hubert ! ' Hilda said to me, in 
 an apparently unconcerned voice, as the Professor reached 
 this point in his exposition. 
 
 Sebastian's voice quavered and stammered for a moment. 
 He tried just at first to continue and complete his sentence : 
 ' And these organs,' he went on, aimlessly, ' these bull's-eyes 
 that I spoke about, arc so arranged — so arranged — I was 
 speaking on the subject of crustaceans, I think — crustaceans 
 
328 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 so arranged ' then he broke down utterly and turned 
 
 VOU SNEAK ! IIE CRIKD, I'ASSHINATELY. 
 
 sharply round to me. He did not look at Hilda I think 
 
 he did not dare ; but he faced me with his head down and 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 37.9 
 
 his long, thin neck protruded, eyeing mc from under those 
 overhanging, pent-house brows of his. ' You sneak !' he cried, 
 passionately. 'You sneak ! You have dogged me by false 
 pretences. You have lied to bring this about ! You have 
 come aboard under a false name— you and your accomplice!' 
 I faced him in turn, erect and unflinching. ♦ Professor 
 Sebastian,' I answered, in my coldest and calmest tone, * you 
 say what is not true. If you consult the list of passengers 
 by the Vindhya, now posted near the companion-ladder, you 
 will find the names of Hilda Wade and Hubert Cumberl'edge 
 duly entered. We took our passage after you inspected 
 the list at the office to see whether our names were there 
 — in order to avoid us. But you cannot avoid us. We 
 do not mean that you shall avoid us. We will dog you 
 now through life— not by lies or subterfuges, as you say, 
 but openly and honestly. It is you who need to slink and 
 cower, not we. The prosecutor need not descend to the 
 sordid shifts of the criminal.' 
 
 The other passenger had sMled away quietly the moment 
 he saw our conversation was likely to be private; and I 
 spoke in a low voice, though cleariy and impressively, 
 because I did not wish for a scene : I was only endeavouring 
 to keep alive the slow, smouldering fire of remorse in the 
 man's bosom. And I saw I had touched him on a spot 
 that hurt. Sebastian drew himself up and answered 
 nothmg. For a minute or two he stood erect, with folded 
 arms, gazing moodily before him. Then he said, as if to 
 himself, ' I owe the man my life. He nursed me through 
 the plague. If it had not been for that— if he had not 
 tended me so carefully in that valley in Nepaul— I would 
 throw him overboard now— catch him in my arms and 
 throw him overboard! I would — and be han^red for 
 
330 
 
 JIILDA IVADE 
 
 lie walked past us as if he saw us not, silent, erect, 
 moody. Hilda stepped aside and let him pass. He never 
 even looked at her. I knew why : he dared not. Every 
 day now, remorse for the evil part he had played in her 
 life, respect for the woman who had unmasked and outwitted 
 him, made it more and more impossible for Sebastian to 
 face her. During the whole of that voyage, though he 
 dined in the same saloon and paced the same deck, he never 
 spoke to her, he never so much as looked at her. Once 
 or twice their eyes met by accident, and Hilda stared him 
 down : Sebastian's eyelids dropped, and he stole away 
 uneasily. In public, we gave no overt sign of our differences: 
 but it was understood on board that relations were strained : 
 that Professor Sebastian and Dr. Cumberledge had been 
 working at the same hospital in London together ; and that 
 owing to some disagreement between them Dr. Cumberledge 
 had resigned — which made it most awkward for them to be 
 travelling together by the same steamer. 
 
 We passed through the Suez Canal and down the 
 Mediterranean. All the time, Sebastian never again spoke 
 to us. The passengers, indeed, held aloof from the solitary, 
 gloomy old man, v/ho strode along the quarter-deck with 
 his long, slow stride, absorbed in his own thoughts, and 
 intent only on avoiding Hilda and myself. His mood was 
 unsociable. As for Hilda, her helpful, winning ways made 
 her a favourite with all the women, as her pretty face did 
 with all the men. For the first time in his life, Sebastian 
 seemed to be aware that he was shunned. He retired more 
 and more within himself for company : his keen eye began 
 to lose in some degree its extraordinary fire, his expression 
 to forget its magnetic attractiveness. Indeed, it was only 
 young men of scientific tastes that Sebastian could ever 
 attract: among them, his eager zeal, his single -minded 
 

 THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 331 
 
 devotion to the cause of science, awoke always a responsive 
 chord which vibrated powerfully. 
 
 Day after day passed, and we steamed through the 
 
 HIS MOOD WAS UNSOCIABLE. 
 
 Straits and neared the Channel. Our thoughts began to 
 assume a home complexion. Everybody was full of schemes 
 as to what he would do when he reached England. Old 
 Bradshaws were overhauled and trains looked out, on the 
 
332 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 supposition that wc would get in by such an hour on 
 Tuesday. We were steaming along the French coast, off 
 the western promontory of Brittany. The evening was 
 fine, and though, of course, less warm than we had all 
 experienced of late, yet pleasant and summer-like. We 
 watched the distant cliffs of the Finistere mainland and 
 the numerous little islands that lie off the shore, all basking 
 in the unreal glow of a deep red sunset. The first officer 
 was in charge, a very cock-sure and careless young man, 
 handsome and dark -haired: the sort of young man who 
 thought more of creating an impression upon the minds of 
 the lady passengers than of the duties of his position. 
 
 * Aren't you going down to your berth ? ' I asked of 
 Hilda, about half-past ten that night ; * the air is so much 
 colder here than you have, been feeling it of late, and I'm 
 afraid of your chilling yourself.' 
 
 She looked up at me with a smile, and drew her little 
 fluffy, white woollen wrap closer about her shoulders. ' Am 
 I so very valuable to you, then ? ' she asked — for I suppose 
 my glance had been a trifle too tender ^or a mere acquaint- 
 ance's. ' No, thank you, Hubert ; I don't think I'll go 
 down, and, if }'on're wise, you woi.'l go down either. I 
 distrust this first officer. He's a careless navigator, and 
 to-night his head's too full of Lliat pretty Mrs. Ogilvy. 
 He has been flirting with her desperately ever since we 
 left Bombay, and to-morrow he knows he will lose her for 
 ever. His mind isn't occupied with the navigation at all ; 
 what he is thinking of is how soon his watch will be over, 
 so that he may come down off the bridge on to the quarter- 
 deck to talk to her. Don't you see she's lurking over 
 yondfr, looking up at the stars and waiting for him by the 
 compass? Poor child, she has a bad husband, Rnd now 
 she has let herself get too much entangled with this empty 
 
 i 
 
THE orriCER WHO VSDERSTOOn rEREECri.Y 333 
 
 young fellow : I shall be glad for her sake to see her safely 
 landed and out of the man's clutches.' 
 
 As she spoke, the first officer glanced down towards 
 Mrs. Ogilvy, and held out his chronometer with an 
 
 FLIRTING WITH HER DESI'ERAIELY. 
 
 encouraging smile which seemed to say, ' Only an hour and 
 a half more now ! At twelve, I shall be with you I ' 
 
 * Perhaps you're right, Hilda,' I answered, taking a seat 
 beside her and throwing away my cigar. ' This is one of 
 the worst bits on the French coast that we're approaching. 
 We're not far off Ushant. I wish the captain were on the 
 bridge instead of this helter-skelter, self- conceited young 
 
334 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 fellow. He's too cock-sure. He knows so much about 
 seamanship that he could take a ship through any rocks 
 on his course, blindfold — in his own opinion. I always 
 doubt a man who is so much at home in his subject that 
 he never has to think about it. Most things in this world 
 are done by thinking.' 
 
 ' We can't see the Ushant light,' Hilda remarked, looking 
 ahead. 
 
 * No : there's a little haze about on the horizon, I fancy. 
 See, the stars are fading away. It begins to feel damp. 
 Sea mist in the Channel.' 
 
 Hilda sat uneasily in her deck-chair. * That's bad,' she 
 answered ; ' for the first officer is taking no more heed of 
 Ushant than of his latter end. He has forgotten the 
 existence of the Breton coast. His head is just stuffed with 
 Mrs. Ogilvy's eyelashes. Very pretty, long eyelashes, too : 
 I don't deny it : but they won't help him to get through the 
 i.arrow channel. They say it'^j dangerous.' 
 
 ' Dangerous 1 ' I answered. ' Not a bit of it — with 
 reasonable care. Nothing at sea is dangerous — except the 
 inexplicable recklessness of navigators. There's always 
 plenty of sea-room — if they care to take it. Collisions and 
 icebergs, to be sure, are dangers that can't be avoided at 
 times, especially if there's fog about : but I've been enough 
 at sea in my time to know this much at least — that no 
 coast in the world is dangerous except by dint of reckless 
 corner-cutting. Captains of great ships behave exactly like 
 two hansom-drivers in the streets of London : they think 
 they can just shave past without grazing ; and they do shave 
 past nine times out of ten. The tenth time, they run on the 
 rocks, through sheer recklessness, and lose their vessel : and 
 then, the newspapers always ask the same solemn question 
 — in childish good faith — how did so experienced and able 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTL V 335 
 
 a navigator come to make such a mistake in his reckoning ? 
 He made fio mistake : he simply tried to cut it fine, and cut 
 it too fine for once, with the result that he usually loses his 
 own life and his passengers'. That's all. We who have 
 been at sea understand that perfectly.' 
 
 Just at that moment another passenger strolled up and 
 joined us — a Bengal Civil servant. He drew his chair over 
 by Hilda's, and began discussing Mrs. Ogilvy's eyes and the 
 first officer's flirtations. Hilda hated gossip, and took refuge 
 in generalities. In three minutes the talk had wandered off 
 to Ibsen's influence on the English drama, and we had 
 forgotten the very existence of the Isle of Ushant. 
 
 * The English public will never understand Ibsen,' the 
 new-comer said, reflectively, with the omniscient air of the 
 Indian civilian. * He is too purely Scandinavian. He 
 represents that part of the Continental mind which is farthest 
 removed from the English temperament. To him, respecta- 
 bility — our god — is not only no fetish, it is the unspeakable 
 thing, the Moabitish abomination. He will not bow down 
 to the golden image which our British Nebuchadnezzar, King 
 Demos, has made, and which he asks us to worship. And 
 the British Nebuchadnezzar will never get beyond the 
 worship of his Vishnu, respectability, the deity of the pure 
 and blameless ratepayer. So Ibsen must always remain a 
 sealed book to the vast majority of the English people.* 
 
 ' That is true,' Hilda answered : *as to his direct influence ; 
 but don't you think, indirectly, he is leavening England ? 
 A man so wholly out of tune with the prevailing note of 
 English life could only affect it, of course, by means of 
 disciples and popularisers — often even popularisers who but 
 dimly and distantly apprehend his meaning. He must be 
 interpreted to the English by English intermediaries, half 
 Philistine themselves, who speak his language ill, and who 
 
336 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 miss the greater part of his message. Yet only by such half- 
 hints Why, what was that ? I think I saw something ! ' 
 
 Even as she uttered the words, a terrible jar ran fiercely 
 through the ship from stem to stern. A jar that made one 
 clench one's teeth, and hold one's jaws tight. The jar of 
 a prow that shattered against a rock. I took it all in at a 
 glance. We had* forgotten Ushant, but Ushant had not 
 forgotten us : it had revenged itself upon us by revealing its 
 existence. 
 
 In a moment all was turmoil and confusion on deck. 
 I cannot describe the scene that followed. Sailors rushed to 
 and fro, unfastening ropes and lowering boats, with admirable 
 discipline. Women shrieked and cried aloud in helpless 
 terror. The voice of the first officer could be heard above 
 the din, endeavouring to atone by courage and coolness 
 in the actual disaster for his recklessness in causing it. 
 Passengers rushed on deck half clad, and waited for their 
 turn to take places in the boats. It was a time of terror, 
 turmoil, and hubbub. But, in the midst of it all, Hilda 
 turned to me with infinite calm in her voice. * Where is 
 Sebastian ? ' she asked, in a perfectly collected tone. * What- 
 ever happens, we must not lose sight of him.' 
 
 * I am here,' another voice, equally calm, responded 
 beside her. ' You are a brave woman. Whether I sink or 
 swim, I admire your courage, your steadfastness of purpose.' 
 It was the only time he had addressed a word to her during 
 the entire voyage. 
 
 They put the women and children into the first boats 
 lowered. Mothers and little ones went first : single women 
 and widows after. * Now, Miss Wade,' the first officer said, 
 taking her gently by the shoulders when her turn arrived. 
 * Make haste : don't keep us waiting ! ' 
 
 But Hilda held back. * No, no,' she said, firmly. I 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 337 
 
 won't go yet. I am waiting for the men's boat : I must not 
 leave Professor Sebastian.' 
 
 I AM HERE. 
 
 The first officer shrugged his shoulders. There was no 
 time for protest. ' Next, then,' he said, quickly. ' Miss 
 Martin — Miss Weatherly ! ' 
 
 Sebastian took her hand and tried to force her in. 
 
338 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' You vmst go,' he said, in a low, persuasive tone. * You 
 must not wait for me ! ' 
 
 He hated to see her, I knew : but I imagined in his 
 voice — for I noted it even then — there rang some undertone 
 of genuine desire to save her. 
 
 Hilda loosened his grasp resolutely. ' No, no,* she 
 answered, * I carmot fly. I shall never leave you.' 
 
 * Not even if I promise * 
 
 She shook her head and closed her lips hard. * Cer- 
 tainly not,' she said again, after a pause. * I cannot trust 
 you. Besides, I must stop by your side and do my best 
 to save you. Your life is all in all to me : I dare not 
 risk it* 
 
 His gaze was now pure admiration. ' As you will,' he 
 answered. * For he that loseth his life shall gain it' 
 
 * If ever we land alive,' Hilda answered, glowing red in 
 spite of the danger, ' I shall remind you of that word : I 
 shall call upon you to fulfil it.' 
 
 The boat was lowered, and still Hilda stood by my side. 
 One second later, another shock shook us. The Vindhya 
 parted amidships, and we found ourselves struggling and 
 choking in the cold sea water. 
 
 It was a miracle that every soul of us was not drowned 
 that moment, as many of us were. The swirling eddy which 
 followed as tae Vindhya sank swamped two of the boats, 
 and carried down not a few of those who were standing on 
 the deck with us. The last I saw of the first officer was 
 a writhing form whirled about in the water ; before he sank, 
 he shouted aloud, with a seaman's frank courage, * Say it was 
 all my fault : I accept the responsibility. I ran her too 
 close. I am the only one to blame for it.' Then he 
 disappeared in the whirlpool caused by the sinking ship, and 
 we were left still struggling. 
 
THE OFFICER WHO UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY 339 
 
 One of the life-rafts, hastily rigged by the sailors, floated 
 our way. Hilda struck out a stroke or two and caught it. 
 She dragged herself on to it, and beckoned me to follow. 
 I could see she was grasping something tightly in her hand. 
 I struck out in turn- and reached the raft, which was com- 
 posed of two seats, fastened together in haste at the first 
 
 WE LAID HIM OUT ON THE RAFT. 
 
 note of danger. I hauled myself up by Hilda's side. 'Help 
 me to pull him aboard ! ' she cried, in an agonised voice. * I 
 am afraid he has lost consciousness ! ' Then I looked at the 
 object she was clutching in her hands. It was Sebastian's 
 white head, apparently quite lifeless. 
 
 I pulled him up with her and laid him out on the raft. 
 A very faint breeze from the south-west had sprung up : 
 
340 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 that and a strong seaward current that sets round the rocks 
 were carrying us straight out from the Breton coast and all 
 chance of rescue, towards the open Channel. 
 
 But Hilda thought nothing of such physical danger. 
 * We have saved him, Hubert ! ' she cried, clasping her 
 hands. ' We have saved him ! But do you think he is 
 alive ? For unless he is, my chance, our chance, is gone for 
 ever ! ' 
 
 I bent over and felt his pulse. As far as I could make 
 out, it still beat feebly. 
 
 I 
 
XII 
 
 THE EPISODE OF THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 I WILL not trouble you with details of those three terrible 
 days and nights when we drifted helplessly about at the 
 mercy of the currents on our improvised life-raft up and down 
 the English Channel. The first night was the worst : slowly 
 after that we grew used to the danger, the cold, the hunger, 
 and the thirst ; our senses were numbed : we passed whole 
 hours together in a sort of torpor, just vaguely wondering 
 whether a ship would come in sight to save us, obeying 
 the merciful law that those who are utterly exhausted are 
 mcapable of acute fear, and acquiescing in the probability of 
 our own extinction. But however slender the chance— and 
 as the hours stole on it seemed slender enough — Hilda still 
 kept her hopes fixed mainly on Sebastian. No daughter could 
 have watched the father she loved more eagerly and closely 
 than Hilda watched her life-long enemy— the man who had 
 wrought such evil upon her and hers. To save our own 
 lives without him would be useless. At all hazards, she 
 must keep him alive, on the bare chance of a rescue. If 
 he died, ther^ died with him the last hope of justice and 
 redress. 
 
 As for Sebastian, after the first half-hour, during which 
 he lay white and unconscious, he opened his eyes faintly, 
 
342 
 
 HILDA IVADE 
 
 as we could see by the moonlight, and gazed around him 
 with a strange, puzzled stare of inquiry. Then his senses 
 returned to him by degrees. * What ! you, Cumberledge ? ' 
 he murmured, measuring me with his eye : ' and you, Nurse 
 
 r-hC rS.'u.«r-W->. i. 
 
 HILDA WATCHED HER LIFE-LONG ENEMY. 
 
 Wade? Well, I thought you would manage it. There 
 was a tone almost of amusement in his voice, a half-ironical 
 tone which had been familiar to us in the old hospitel days. 
 He raised himself on one arm and gazed at the water all 
 round. Then he was silent for some minutes. At last he 
 spoke again. * Do you know what I ought to do if I were 
 consistent ? ' he asked, with a tinge of pathos in his words. 
 
THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 343 
 
 ' Jump off this raft, and deprive you of your last chance of 
 triumph — the triumph which you have worked for so hard. 
 You want to save my Hfc for your own ends, not for mine. 
 Why should I help you to my own undoing ? ' 
 
 Hilda's voice was tenderer and softer than usual as she 
 answered, ' No, not for my own ends alone, and not for your 
 undoing, but to give you one last chance of unburdening 
 your conscience. Some men are too small to be capable 
 of remorse : their little souls have no room for such a feeling. 
 You are great enough to feel, it and to try to crush it down. 
 But you cannot crush it down : It crops up in spite of you. 
 You have tried to bury it in your soul, and you have failed. 
 It is your remorse that has driven you to make so many 
 attempts against the only living souls who knew and under- 
 stood. If ever we get safely to land once more — and God 
 knows it is not likely — I give you still the chance of repair- 
 ing the mischief you have done, and of clearing my father's 
 memory from the cruel stain which you and only you can 
 wipe away.* 
 
 Sebastian lay long, silent once more, gazing up at her 
 fixedly, with the foggy, white moonlight shining upon his 
 bright, inscrutable eyes. * You are a brave woman, Maisie 
 Yorke-Banncrman,' he said, at last, slowly : * a very brave 
 woman. I will try to live — I too — for a purpose of my 
 own. I say it again : he that loseth his life shall gain it.' 
 
 Incredible as it may sound, in half an hour more he 
 was lying fast asleep on that wave -tossed raft, and Hilda 
 and I were watching him tenderly. And it seemed to us 
 as we watched him that a change had come over those stern 
 and impassive features. They had softened and melted 
 until his face was that of a gentler and better type. It was 
 as if some inward change of soul was moulding the fierce 
 old Professor into a nobler and more venerable man. Day 
 
344 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 after day vvc drifted on, without food or water. Tiie agony 
 was terrible : I will not attempt to describe it, Or to do so 
 is to bring it back too clearly to my memory. Hilda and 
 I, being younger and stronger, bore up against it well ; but 
 Sebastian, old and worn, and still weak from the plague, 
 grew daily weaker. His pulse just beat, and sometimes I 
 could hardly feel it thrill under my finger. He became 
 delirious, and murmured much about Yorke-Bannerman's 
 daughter. Sometimes he forgot all, and spoke to me in 
 the friendly terms of our old acquaintance at Nathaniel's, 
 giving me directions and advice about imaginary operations. 
 Hour after hour we watched for a sail, and no sail appeared. 
 One could hardly believe vvc could toss about so long in 
 the main highway of traffic without seeing a ship or spying 
 more than the smoke-trail of some passing steamer. 
 
 As far as I could judge, during 'lose days and nights, 
 the wind veered from south- we* c to south-east, and carried 
 us steadily and surely towards the open Atlantic. On the 
 third evening out, about five o'clock, I saw a dark object 
 on the horizon. Was it moving towards us ? We strained 
 our eyes in breathless suspense. A minute passed, and then 
 another. Yes, there could be no doubt. It grew larger 
 and larger : it was a ship — a steamer. We made all the 
 signs of distress we could manage. I stood up and waved 
 Hilda's white shawl frantically in the air. There was half 
 an hour of suspense, and our hearts sank as we thought 
 that they were about to pass us. Then the steamer hove 
 to a little and seemed to notice us. Next instant we 
 dropped upon our knees, for we saw they were lowering a 
 boat. They were coming to our aid. They would be in 
 time to save us. 
 
 Hilda watched our rescuers with parted lips and agonised 
 eyes. Then she felt Sebastian's pulse. ' Thank Heaven,' 
 
THE ni'.An MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 345 
 
 she cried, * he still lives! They will be here before he is 
 quite past confession.' 
 
 Sebastian opened his eyes dreamily. ' A bo.il?' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes, a boat ! ' 
 
 r 
 
 I STOOD UP AND WAVED HILDA'S WHITE SI1AWI-. 
 
 * Then you have gained your point, child. I am able to 
 collect myself. Give me a few hours more life, and what I 
 can do to make amends to you shall be done.' 
 
 I don't know why, but it seemed lonc:^cr between the time 
 when the boat was lowered and the moment when it reached 
 us than it had seemed during the three clays and nights we 
 lay tossing about helplessly on the open Atlantic. There 
 
346 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 were times when we could hardly believe that it was really 
 moving. At last, however, it reached us, and we saw the 
 kindly faces and outstretched hands of our rescuers. Hilda 
 clung to Sebastian with a wild clasp as the men reached out 
 for her. 
 
 ' No, take ///;;/ first ! ' she cried, when the sailors, after the 
 custom of men, tried to help her into the gig before attempt- 
 ing to save us : * his life is worth more to me than my own. 
 Take him — and for God's sake lift him gently, for he is 
 nearly gone ! ' 
 
 They took him aboard, and laid him down in the stern. 
 Then, and then only, Hilda stepped into the boat, and I 
 staggered after her. The officer in charge, a kind young 
 Irishman, had had the foresight to bring brandy and a little 
 beef essence. We ate and drank what we dared as they 
 rowed us back to the steamer. Sebastian lay back, with his 
 white eyelashes closed over the lids, and the livid hue of 
 death upon his emaciated cheeks ; but he drank a teaspoon- 
 ful or two of brandy, and swallowed the beef essence with 
 which Hilda fed him. 
 
 ' Your father is the most exhausted of the party,* the 
 officer said, in a low undertone. ' Poor fellow, he is too old 
 for such adventures. He seems to have hardly a spark of 
 life left in him.' 
 
 Hilda shuddered with evident horror. * He is not my 
 father — thank Heaven ! ' she cried, leaning over him and 
 supporting his drooping head, in spite of her own fatigue and 
 the cold that chilled our very bones. * But I think he will 
 live. I mean him to live. He is my best friend now — and 
 my bitterest enemy ! * 
 
 The officer looked at her in surprise, and then touched 
 his forehead, inquiringly, with a quick glance at me. He 
 evidently thought cold and hunger had affected her reason. 
 
THE HEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 347 
 
 
 I shook my head. * It is a peculiar case,' i u his[)erccl. 
 * What the lady says is right. Everything depends for us 
 upon our keeping him alive till wc reach Englantl.' 
 
 They rowed us to the steamer, and we were handed 
 tenderly up the side. There, the ship's surgeon and every- 
 body else on board did their best to restore us after our 
 terrible experience. The ship was the Doti^ of the Royal 
 Mail Steamship Company's West Indian line ; and nothing 
 could exceed the kindness with which we were treated by 
 every somI on board, from the captain to the stewardess and 
 the junior cabin-boy. Sebastian's great name carried weight 
 even here. As soon as it was generally understood on board 
 that we had brought with us the famous physiologist and 
 pathologist, the man whose name was famous throughout 
 Europe, we might have asked for anything that the ship 
 contained without fear of a refusal. But, indeed, Hilda's 
 sweet face was enough in itself to win the interest and 
 sympathy of all who saw it. 
 
 By eleven next morning we were off Plymouth Sound : 
 and by mid-day we had landed at the Mill Bay Docks, and 
 were on our way to a comfortable hotel in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 Hilda wa'^ i o ;ood a nurse to bother Sebastian at once 
 about his 'mpv-'=!d promise. She had him put to bed, and 
 kept him titir'" cn.<jfully. 
 
 *^V*iHl <7o y u think of his condition?' she asked me, 
 after the second day was over. I could see by her own 
 grave face that she had already formed her own conclusions. 
 
 ' He cannot recover,' I answered. * His constitution, 
 shattered by the plague and by his incessant exertions, has 
 received too severe a shock in this shipwreck. He is doomed.' 
 
 * So I think. The change is but temporary. He will 
 not last out three days more, I fancy.' 
 
348 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' He has rallied wonderfully to-day,' 1 said ; * but 'tis a 
 passing rally ; a flicker : no more. If you wish to do any- 
 thing, now is the moment. If you delay, you will be too late.' 
 
 * I will go in and see him,' Hilda answered. * I have 
 said nothing more to him, but I think he is moved : I think 
 
 I ALMOST BKLIEVE HE IS AT LAST REMORSEFUL. 
 
 he means to keep his promise. He has shown a strange 
 tenderness to me these last few days. I almost believe he is 
 at last remorseful, and leady to undo the evil which he has 
 done.' 
 
 She stole softly into the sick-room: I followed her on 
 tip-toe, and stood near the door behind the screen which shut 
 off the draught from the patient. Sebastian stretched his 
 
THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 349 
 
 /e 
 ik 
 
 is 
 
 LS 
 
 n 
 It 
 
 is 
 
 arms out to her. * Ah, Maisic, my child,' he cried, addressing 
 her by the name she had borne in her childhood, * don't leave 
 me any more. Stay with me always, Maisic ! I can't get 
 on without you.' 
 
 * But you hated once to see me ! ' 
 
 ' Because I have so wronged you.' 
 
 * And now ? Will you do nothing to repair the wrong ? * 
 ' My child, I can never undo that wrong. It is irrepar- 
 able, for the past can never be recalled ; but I will try my 
 best to minimise it. Call Cumberledge in. I am quite 
 sensible now, quite conscious. You will be my witness, 
 Cumberledge, that my pulse is normal and that my brain is 
 clear. I will confess it all. Maisie, your constancy and 
 your firmness have conquered me. And your devotion to 
 your father. If only I had had a daughter like you, my 
 girl, one whom I could have loved and trusted, I might have 
 been a better man : I might even have done better work for 
 science — though on that side at least I have little with which 
 to reproach myself.' 
 
 Hilda bent over him. * Hubert and I arc here,' she said, 
 slowly, in a strangely calm voice : ' but that is not enough. 
 I want a public, an attested, confession. It must be given 
 before witnesses, and signed and sworn to. Somebody 
 might throw doubt upon my word and Hubert's.' 
 
 Sebastian shrank back. 'Given before witnesses, and 
 signed and sworn to ! Maisie, is this humiliation necessary : 
 do you exact it ? ' 
 
 Hilda was inexorable. ' You know yourself how you are 
 situated. You have only a day or two to live,' she said, in 
 an impressive voice. 'You must do it at once, or never. 
 You have postponed it all your life. Now, at this last 
 moment, you must m.ake up for it. Will you die with an 
 act of injustice unconfessed on your conscience ? ' 
 
3SO 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 He paused and struggled. ' I could — if it were not for 
 you,' he answered. 
 
 * Then do it for me,' Hilda cried. ' Do it for me ! I 
 ask it of you, not as a favour, but as a right. I demand it ! ' 
 She stood, white, stern, inexorable, by his couch, and laid her 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 He paused once more ; then he murmured feebly, in a 
 querulous tone, ' What witnesses ? Whom do you wish to 
 be present ? ' 
 
 Hilda spoke clearly and distinctly. She had thought it 
 all out with herself beforehand. ' Such witnesses as will 
 carry absolute conviction to the mind of all the world : irre- 
 proachable, disinterested witnesses : official witnesses. In 
 the first place, a commissioner of oaths. Then a Plymouth 
 doctor, to show that you are in a fit state of mind to make 
 a confession. Next, Mr. Horace Mayfield, who defended 
 my father. Lastly, Dr. Blake Crawfurd, who watched the 
 case on your behalf at the trial.' 
 
 * But, Hilda,' I interposed, ' we may possibly find that 
 they cannot come away from London just now. They are busy 
 men, and likely to be engaged.' 
 
 * They will come if I pay their fees. I do not mind how 
 much this costs me. What is money compared to this one 
 great object of my life ? ' 
 
 ' And then — the delay ! Suppose that v/e are too late ? ' 
 
 * He will live some days yet. I can telegraph up at 
 once. I want no hole-and-corner confession, which may 
 afterwards be useless, but an open avowal before the most 
 approved witnesses. If he will make it, well and good : if 
 not, my life-work will have failed ; but I had rather it failed 
 than draw back one inch from the course which I have laid 
 down for myself.' 
 
 I looked at t'-e worn face of Sebastian. He nodded 
 
THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 351 
 
 5t 
 
 his head slowly. * She has conquered,' he answered, turning 
 upon the pillow. ' Let her have her own way. I hid it 
 for years, for science sake. That was my motive, Cumber- 
 ledge, and I am too near death to lie. Science has now 
 nothing more to gain or lose by me. I have served her 
 well, but I am worn out in her service. Maisie may do as 
 she will. I accept her ultimatum.' 
 
 We telegraphed up, at once. Fortunately, both men 
 were disengaged, and both keenly interested in the case. 
 By that evening Horace Mayfield was talking it all over 
 with me. in the hotel at Southampton. ' Well, Hubert, my 
 boy,' he said, * a woman, we know, can do a great deal * ; 
 he smiled his familiar smile, like a genial fat toad ; ' but 
 if your Yorke-Bannerman succeeds in getting a confession 
 out of Sebastian, she'll extort my admiration.' He paused 
 a moment, then he added, as an afterthought, * I say that 
 she'll extort my admiration : but, mind you, I don't know 
 that I shall feel inclined to believe it. The facts have always 
 appeared to me — strictly between ourselves, you know — 
 to admit of only the one explanation.' 
 
 * Wait and see,' I answered. * You think it more likely 
 that Miss Wade will have persuaded Sebastian to confess 
 to things that never happened, than that he will convince 
 you of Yorke-Bannerman's innocence ? ' 
 
 The great Q.C. fingered his cigarette-holder affectionately. 
 * You hit it first time,' he answered. * That is precisely my 
 attitude. The evidence against our poor friend was so 
 peculiarly black. It would take a great deal to make me 
 disbelieve it.' 
 
 ' But surely a confession ! ' 
 
 * Ah, well, let me hear the confession, and then I shall 
 be better able to judge.' 
 
 Even as he spoke Hilda had entered the room 
 
35^ 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 * There will be no difficulty about that, Mr. May field 
 
 HK WAS AN INNOCENT MAN, SAID SUE, ANGRILY. 
 
 You shall hear it, and I trust thai it will make you repent 
 for taking so black a view of the case of your own client.' 
 
 • Without prejudice, Miss Bannerman, without prejudice,' 
 said the lawyer, with some confusion. ' Our conversation 
 
 If 
 
IHE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 -* r -* 
 
 j5j 
 
 I 
 
 }pcnt 
 
 idicc,' 
 ;ation 
 
 is entirely between ourselves, and to the world 1 have always 
 upheld that your father was an innocent man.' 
 
 But such distinctions are too subtle for a lovinc: woman. 
 
 ' I^e luas an innocent man,' said she, angrily. ' It was 
 your business not only to believe it, but to prove it. You 
 have neither believed it nor proved it ; but if you will come 
 upstairs with me, I will show you that I have done both.' 
 
 Mayfield glanced at me and shrugged his fat shoulders. 
 Hilda had led the way, and we both followed her. In the 
 room of the sick man our other witnesses were waiting : a tall, 
 dark, austere man, who was introduced to me as Dr. Blake 
 Crawfurd, whose name I had heard as having watched the 
 case for Sebastian at the time of the investigation. There 
 were present also a commissioner of oaths, and Dr. Mayby, 
 a small local practitioner, whose attitude towards the great 
 scientist upon the couch was almost absurdly reverential. 
 The three men were grouped at the foot of the bed, and 
 Mayfield and I joined them. Hilda stood beside the dying 
 man, and rearranged the pillow against which he was propped. 
 Then she held some brandy to his lips. ' Now 1 ' said she. 
 
 The stimulant brought a shade of colour into his ghastly 
 cheeks, and the old q:iick, intelligent gleam came back into 
 his deep-sunk eye^. 
 
 ' A remarkable woman, gentlemen,' said he, ' a very 
 noteworthy woman. I had prided myself that my will- 
 power was the most powerful in the country — I had never 
 met any to match it — but I do not mind admitting that, 
 for firmness and tenacity, this lady is my equal. She was 
 anxious that I should adopt one course of action. I was 
 determined to adopt another. Your presence here is a 
 proof that she has prevailed.' 
 
 He paused for breath, and she gave him another small 
 sip of the brandy. 
 
 2 A 
 
:°. ■ »>«.-w'.-:^ .„n. ' <i i« I. 
 
 354 
 
 'HILDA WADE 
 
 * I execute her will ungrudgingly and with the conviction 
 
 
 (/■. 
 H 
 
 o 
 
 < 
 O 
 
 ui 
 
 that it is the riGf^ht and proper course for me to t^ke,' he 
 
THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 355 
 
 continued. ' You will forgive mc some of the ill which I 
 have done you, Maisic, when I tell you that I really died 
 this morning — all unknown to Cumberledge and you — and 
 that nothing but iiy will-force has sufficed to keep spirit 
 and body together intil I should carry out your will in the 
 manner which you suggested. I shall be glad when I have 
 finished, for the effort is a painful one, and I long for the 
 peace of dissolution. It is now a quarter to seven. I have 
 every hope that I may be able to leave before eight.' 
 
 It was strange to hear the perfect coolness with which 
 he discussed h*"'^* own approaching dissolution. Calm, pale, 
 and impassive, his manner was that of a professor addressing 
 his class. I had seen him speak so to a ring of dressers 
 in the old days at Nathaniel's. 
 
 ' The circumstances which led up to the death of Admiral 
 Scott Prideaux, and the suspicions which caused the arrest 
 of Doctor Yorke-Bannerman, have never yet been fully 
 explained, although they were by no means so profound 
 that they might not have been unravelled at the time had 
 a man of intellect concentrated his attention upon them. 
 The police, however, were incompetent and the legal advisers 
 of Dr. Bannerman hardly less so, and a woman only has 
 had the wit to see that a gross injustice has been done. 
 The true facts I will now lay before you.' 
 
 Mayfield's broad face had reddened with indignation, 
 but now his curiosity drove out every other emotion, and he 
 leaned forward with the rest of us to hear the old man's 
 story. 
 
 ' In the first place, I must tell you that both Dr. 
 Bannerman and myself were engaged at the time in an 
 investigation upon the nature and properties of the vegetable 
 alkaloids, and especially of aconitine. We hoped for the 
 very greatest results from this drug, and we were both 
 
35^' 
 
 HILDA W'ADK 
 
 ii 
 
 equally enthusiastic in our research. Especially, wc had 
 reason to believe thjit it mi<(ht have a most successful action 
 in the case of a certain rare but deadly disease, into the 
 nature of which I need not enter. Reasonini:^ by analogy, 
 we vvcie convinced that we had a certain cure for this 
 particular ailment. 
 
 ' Our investigation, however, was somewhat hampered 
 by the fact that the condition in question is rare out of 
 tropical countries, and that in our hospital wards we had 
 not, at that time, any example of it. So serious was this 
 obstacle that it seemed that we must leave other men more 
 favourably situated to reap the benefit of our work and 
 enjoy the credit of our discovery, but a curious chance gave 
 us exactly what we were in search of, at the instant when 
 we were about to despair. It was Yorke-Bannerman who 
 came to mc in my laboratory one day to tell me that he 
 had in his private practice the very condition of which we 
 were in search. 
 
 *"Thc patient," said he, "is my uncle, Admiral Scott 
 Prideaux." 
 
 ' " Your uncle ! " I cried, in amazement. " But how 
 came he to develop sucli a condition ? " 
 
 *" His last commission in the Navy was spent up'^n the 
 Malabar Coast, where the disease is endemic. There can 
 be no doubt that it has been latent in his system ever since, 
 and that the irritability of temper and indecision of character, 
 of which his family have so often had to complain, were 
 really among the symptoms of his complaint." 
 
 ' I examined the Admiral in consultation with my 
 colleague, and I confirmed his diagnosis. But, to my 
 surprise, Yorke-Bannerman showed the most invincible and 
 reprehensible objection to experiment upon his relative. In 
 vain I assured him that he must place his duty to science 
 
THE DEAD MAN WHO SPOKE 
 
 357 
 
 cc 
 
 high above all other considerations. It was only after great 
 pressure that I could persuade him to add ar irfinitesimal 
 portion of pjonitine to his prescriptions. The Jrug was a 
 deadly one> he said, and the toxic dose was still to be 
 determined. He could not push it in the case of a relative 
 who trusted himself to his care. I tried to shake him in 
 what I regarded as his absurd squeamishness — but in vain. 
 
 'But I had another resource. Bannerman's prescriptions 
 were made up by a fellow named Barclay, who had been 
 dispenser at Nathaniel's and afterwards set up as a chemist 
 in Sackville Street. This man was absolutely in my power. 
 I had discovered him at Nathaniel's in dishonest practices, 
 and I held evidence which would have sent him to gaol. I 
 held this over him now, and I made him, unknown to 
 Bannerman, increase the doses of aconitine in the medicine 
 until they were sufficient for my experimental purposes. I 
 will not enter into figures, but suffice it that Bannerman 
 was giving more than ten times what he imagined. 
 
 ' You know the sequel. I was called in, and suddenly 
 found that I had Bannerman in my power. There had 
 been a very keen rivalry between us in science. He was 
 the only man in England whose career might impinge upon 
 mire. I had this supreme chance of putting him out of my 
 way. He could not deny that he had been giving his uncle 
 aconitine. I could prove that his uncle had died of aconi- 
 tine. He could not himself account for the facts — he was 
 absolutely in my power. I did not wish him to be 
 condemned, Maisie. I only hoped that he would leave the 
 court discredited and ruined. I give you my word that my 
 evidence would have saved him from the scaffold.' 
 
 Hilda was listening, with a set, white face. 
 
 * IVocced ! ' said she, and held out the brandy once more. 
 
 ' I did not give the Admiral any more aconitine after I 
 
358 
 
 HILDA WADE 
 
 liad taken over the case. But what was aheady in his 
 system was enouc^h. It was evident that we had seriously 
 under-estimated the lethal dose. As to your father, Maisie, 
 you have done me an injustice. You have always thought 
 that I killed him.' 
 
 ' Proceed ! ' said she. 
 
 * I speak now .rom the brink of the {^rave, and I tell 
 you that I did not. His heart was always weak, and it 
 broke down under the strain. Indirectly I was the cause — 
 I do not seek to excuse anything ; but it was the sorrow 
 and the shame that killed him. As to Barclay, the chemist, 
 that is aiiother matter. I will not deny that I was con- 
 cerned in that mysterious disappearance, which was a seven 
 days' wonder in the Press. I could not permit my scientific 
 calm to be interrupted by the blackmailing visits of so 
 insignificant a person. And then after many years you 
 came, Maisie. You also got between me and that work 
 which was life to me. You also showed that you would 
 rake up this old matter and bring dishonour upon a name 
 
 which has stood for something in science. You also 
 
 but you will forgive me. I have held on to life for your 
 sake as an atonement for my sins. Now, I go ! Cumber- 
 ledge — your note-book. Subjective sensations, swimming 
 in the head, light flashes before the eyes, soothing torpor, 
 some touch of coldness, constriction of the temples, humming 
 in the ears, a sense of sinking — sinking — sinking ! ' 
 
 It was an hour later, and Hilda and I were alone in 
 the chamber of death. As Sebastian lay there, a marble 
 figure, with his keen eyes closed and his pinched, thin face 
 whiter and serener than ever, I could not help gazing at 
 him with some pangs of recollection. I could not avoid 
 recalling the time when his very name was to me a word of 
 power, and when the thought of him roused on my cheek a 
 
THE DEAD A/AA IVHO SPOKE 
 
 35 
 
 red flush of enthusiasin. As I looked I irii'.rmurcd two lines 
 from Browning'.s ' Grammarian's Funeral ' : — 
 
 This is our Master, famous, cahu uul dead, 
 Borne on our shoulders. 
 
 NO IMPKDIMKNT. SHE ANSWEKKD. 
 
 Hilda Wade, standing beside me, with an awestruck air, 
 added a stanza from the same great poem : — 
 
 Lofty designs must close in like effects : 
 
 Loftily lying, 
 Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects, 
 
 Living and dying. 
 
 I gazed at her with admiration. ' And it is you, Hilda, 
 who pay him this generous tribute ! ' I cried. ' You^ of all 
 women ! ' 
 
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 HILDA WADE 
 
 ' Yes, it is i,' she answered. ' He was a great man, 
 after all, Hubert. Not good, but great. And greatness by 
 itself extorts our unwilling homage.' 
 
 ' Hilda,' I cried, ' you are a great woman. And a good 
 woman, too. It makes me proud to think you will soon be 
 my wife. For there is now no longer any just cause or 
 impediment.' 
 
 Beside the dead master, she laid her hand solemnly and 
 calmly in mine. ' No impediment,' she answered. ' I have 
 vindicated and cleared my father's memory. And now, I 
 can live. " Actual life comes next." We have much to 
 do, Hubert.' 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed hy R. & K. Clark, Limited, EdUihurgh.