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 STUDIES 
 
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 CRACKANTHORPE 

 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 Sentimental Studies 
 
 and 
 
 A Set of Village Tales
 
 popular 6s, 1Rov>els» 
 
 The Manxman. By Hall Caine. 
 
 The Bondman. By Hall Caine. 
 
 The Scapegoat. By Hall Caine. 
 
 The Ebb-Tide. By R. L. Stevenson and L. Osbourne. 
 
 The Heavenly Twins. By Sarah Grand. 
 
 Ideala : A Study from Life. By Sarah Grand. 
 
 Our Manifold Nature. By Sarah Grand. 
 
 The Story of a Modern Woman. By E. H. Dixon. 
 
 A Victim of Good Luck. By W. E. Norris. 
 
 The Countess Radna.. By W. E. Norris. 
 
 The Potter's Thumb. By Flora Annie Steel. 
 
 From the Five Rivers. By Flora Annie Steel. 
 
 Relics", Fragments of a Life. By Frances MacNab. 
 
 The Recipe for Diamonds. By C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne. 
 
 The Last Sentence. By Maxwell Gray. 
 
 The Tower of Taddeo. By Ouida. Illustrated. 
 
 The King of Schnorrers. By I. Zangwill. Illustrated. 
 
 Children of the Ghetto. By I. Zangwill. 
 
 The Premier and the Painter. By I. Zangwill and 
 
 Louis Cowen. 
 The Naulahka. By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott 
 
 Balestier. 
 The O'Connors of Ballinahinch. By Mrs. Hungerford. 
 
 Appassionata. By Elsa D'Esterre Keeling. 
 
 Avenged on Society. By H. F. Wood. 
 
 A Superfluous Woman. 
 
 Transition. By the Author of " A Superfluous Woman." 
 
 Elder Conklin. By Frank Harris. 
 
 A Comedy of Masks. By E. Dowson and A. Moore. 
 
 The Justification of Andrew Lebrun. By F. Barrett. 
 
 At the Gate of Samaria. By W. J. Locke, 
 
 A Daughter of this World. By F. Battershall. 
 
 A Pastoral Played Out. By M. L. Pendered. 
 
 A Drama in Dutch. By "Z. Z." 
 
 London : WM. HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford St., W.C.
 
 Sentimental Studies 
 
 and 
 
 A Set of Village Tales 
 
 By 
 
 Hubert Crackanthorpe 
 
 Author of "Wreckage" 
 
 London 
 William Heinemann 
 
 MDCCCXCV
 
 (2 4 SS 4- 
 
 [All rights reserved.]
 
 To Harry, 
 
 in remembrance of 
 
 much encouragement. 
 
 WITHDRAWN 
 
 *fc*>His
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 Page 
 A Commonplace Chapter— I .... 3 
 
 A Commonplace Chapter— II ... 64 
 
 Battledore and Shuttlecock 109 
 
 In Cumberland 170 
 
 Modern Melodrama 215 
 
 Yew-trees and Peacocks 227 
 
 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 Lisa-la-folle 239 
 
 The White Maize 244 
 
 Saint-Pd 247 
 
 Eticnne Maltou 252 
 
 The Little Priest 264 
 
 Gaston Lata tine's Child 270
 
 Sentimental 
 
 Studies
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER.— I 
 
 I 
 
 The two women stood by the door, face to face. 
 Impulsively the elder one lifted her arms, caught 
 the younger one to her, and kissed her. 
 
 "God bless you, my darling .... God bless 
 you ! " 
 
 The struggle to stifle the rising sobs made the 
 words come irregularly, in gasps. 
 
 " There, there, mother dear," murmured the girl 
 soothingly, while she smoothed the elder woman's 
 hair. " There, there. You mustn't cry." 
 
 " No, no ; it's over now," the other answered 
 hastily, lifting her face. 
 
 The girl brushed the tears from the wrinkled 
 cheeks, and held them an instant between her 
 hands, smiling encouragingly. 
 
 And the mother smiled back bravely. Once 
 more she drew the girl to her and kissed her 
 greedily. 
 
 " Good-night, Nell darling." 
 
 " Good-night, mother." 
 
 They looked into each other's eyes ; the girl still
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 smiling encouragingly ; the mother still gulping 
 with her grief. 
 
 Then the door shut gently. 
 
 Mechanically Ella knelt down by the bedside. 
 The words of her habitual evening prayer rose to 
 her lips : — 
 
 " ' Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also in 
 Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' " 
 
 When she had ceased she became aware that to- 
 night she could not pray. She was alone. And 
 she wondered not a little at this novel conscious- 
 ness of solitude. For she remembered that it was 
 for the last time. 
 
 All at once came a spasm of keen pain — to- 
 morrow it would be all gone .... mother .... 
 father .... the gables .... the chestnuts .... 
 the clematis climbing the porch .... the yellow- 
 legged writing-table in the study, and its litter of 
 old circulars, ends of string, sealing-wax and disused 
 pens .... all would be gone. She would be in 
 a strange room, in a strange house, which she did 
 not know. 
 
 And he would be with her. 
 
 Often, during the past fortnight, she had tried to 
 realize that the end of the old life was coming ; but 
 she had never known, as she knew to-night, that it 
 meant separation from all that had seemed before 
 an inseparable part of her existence. Every day 
 they would sit down to breakfast, to luncheon, to 
 dinner, without her ; they would live on, and she 
 would not be there.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 
 
 And, as she knelt, just for a moment, a rebellious 
 longing rushed through her — a passionate yearning 
 to say no — to remain, to be good and gentle and 
 loving to them always, always. 
 
 " My queen, my divinity, there will be nothing 
 in my life that is not yours ; there will be nothing 
 in your life that is not mine. Henceforth we shall 
 live, each for the other, till death do us part, and 
 the most glorious happiness that God has given 
 will be ours." 
 
 Those were his words. She remembered them, 
 every one. Her eyes glistened ; for the words sent 
 her blood tingling. 
 
 " You are the whole world to me ; there is only 
 you, darling. I cannot live without you. I love 
 you, I love you, I love you ! " 
 
 .... It was where the path in the wood ends — 
 leaves above, leaves around, nothing but leaves ; 
 not green, but black and white. Hillier's face, 
 clear cut in the white moonlight, his hands clasp- 
 ing her hands, his cheek pressing her cheek. 
 
 And it all seemed to her very wonderful and 
 very grand. 
 
 She undressed rapidly, as she was accustomed to 
 do ; blew out the candle, and got into bed. 
 
 The window was wide open, and the muslin 
 curtains swaying in the breeze bulged towards her, 
 weirdly. She could see the orchard trees bathed 
 in blackness, and above a square of sky, blue-grey, 
 quivering with stifled light, flecked with a disorder 
 of stars that seemed ready to rain upon the earth.
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 After a while, little by little, she distinguished the 
 forms of the trees. Slowly, monstrous, and sleek, 
 the yellow moon was rising. 
 
 She was no longer thinking of herself: she had 
 forgotten that to-morrow was her wedding day : for 
 a moment, quite impersonally, she watched the 
 moonlight stealing through the trees. 
 
 When recollection returned, it was wrapped, as 
 it were, in a veil of unreality. She had been 
 insisting to herself that it was for her a great 
 moment. Yet it had seemed, and to-night it 
 seemed more so than ever, that, somehow, she 
 was powerless to be present at this turning-point 
 in her life ; that as a spectator, on some great 
 height, she was looking down on all that was 
 happening to her. And the distance made things 
 blurred .... 
 
 It was quite dark when she awoke. She sup- 
 posed it was about two o'clock. Over there, in the 
 inn opposite, Hillier — was he thinking of her, or 
 was he asleep ? No, she was sure that he was 
 awake ; eager, excited, impatient, as she was, wait- 
 ing for the great, unknown happiness. The un- 
 known happiness, of the existence of which, during 
 the past few days, she found herself growing con- 
 scious — the unknown, which was to be mysterious 
 and wonderful. Her breath came quickly, in the 
 stillness of the dark she could hear it distinctly .... 
 
 To-morrow night he would be with her ; she 
 would sink to sleep, her head on his shoulder, his 
 arm protecting her, and, when morning came, he
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 
 
 would cover her face with kisses, and he would tell 
 her how he loved her .... 
 
 She imagined the first breakfast in the cottage 
 which Hillier's uncle had lent him (away in Surrey ; 
 it was a grey-coloured county in the school-room 
 map). There was a bow window, and the sunshine 
 streamed in, on to the white cloth. She sat at the 
 bottom of the table ; she poured out his coffee, and 
 she asked him how he liked it. Then they went 
 out together through the glass doors — for there 
 were glass doors in the bow window — and they 
 walked round the garden, and she picked some 
 flowers — dog-roses they were — and pinned them 
 in his button-hole, and by-and-bye they went out 
 into the pine-woods, where there was no sound, and 
 where they were alone, quite alone. 
 
 #. * ■* *• * 
 
 He would be very good to her — she knew that — 
 kind and unselfish, and loving. And she would 
 be unselfish too ; she would follow him in every- 
 thing ; he was so clever ; he meant some day to 
 become a great writer, of whose name all the world 
 knew. 
 
 How different he was from the rest of men ! She 
 recalled two others of her acquaintance, and the 
 consciousness of her pride filled her with joy. 
 
 Was God away in heaven, looking down on her, 
 she wondered ? And she fell to remembering how, 
 as a child, she used to lie staring straight up at the 
 sky, trying to catch a glimpse of God in His glory, 
 seated, surrounded by a shining multitude of
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 angels, somewhere amid the huge billows of white 
 clouds. 
 
 Other fragments of her childhood memories came 
 to her too, and some of them she turned over in her 
 mind again and again, beginning each time at the 
 same point, and ending each time where she had 
 ended before. . . . 
 
 The sound of the hall clock striking in the hall 
 woke her. How loud it seemed ! She felt wide 
 awake and curiously calm. . . .
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 
 
 II 
 
 He was, he told himself, supremely happy. 
 Several times before he had set up a woman's figure 
 on a pedestal, and, for a while, had deluded himself 
 into worshipping her. And when it had passed, 
 he had, to his own satisfaction, succeeded in 
 bedecking the memory of each incident with an 
 appropriate, sentimental halo. He had had too, of 
 course, erotic adventures, purely physical ; for he 
 had lived, during his early years, in the unwhole- 
 some atmosphere of an expensive public school, 
 and a precocious familiarity with the obscene had 
 left upon his imagination a secret taint, which at 
 moments had asserted itself irresistibly. Growing 
 into manhood he had sinned conventionally with the 
 rest ; but for such conduct he frequently professed 
 a sentimental disgust, which, in his case, was more 
 sincere than hypocritical. Yet, in a sense, he was 
 proud of himself ; of his ability ; of his personal 
 charm ; of his physical comeliness ; he looked 
 back with pride on many events of his life ; on his 
 struggle with poverty ; on his conquests of women. 
 The waiting for achievement in his work had never 
 caused him to experience doubt or discourage- 
 ment ; and, when other men paraded these before 
 him, he looked down on them with genuine
 
 io SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 contempt. His conceit had been sufficiently robust 
 to carry him through that time of struggle ; he 
 believed that he had always known that he would 
 not fail. He felt that he was self-satisfied, by reason 
 of a definite gauging of his own powers. Indeed, 
 there was but little perspective in his view of his life, 
 so much of the foreground did his own figure fill. 
 * ■* * * * 
 
 During the past two years an unformulated dis- 
 content had been growing within him. More and 
 more seldom did his thoughts revert to his past 
 sentimental experiences. Their attractiveness 
 seemed to have faded, like the colour of a much- 
 fingered embroidery. He found that he no longer 
 viewed his management of his own life with the 
 same satisfaction, but rather with a sort of 
 smouldering irritation. Something was wanting ; 
 something was unachieved. The restlessness 
 which this sense of void produced, resolved itself, 
 last year, into a concentrated impatience for escape 
 — immediate escape — from the groove in which his 
 life was running. So he travelled alone to Switzer- 
 land, and there, during long evenings in drowsy 
 Alpine villages, he started to dream of marriage 
 — an ideal marriage — a simultaneous satisfaction of 
 intellectual, emotional, and physical desires. 
 
 And, six months later, in that picturesque 
 Sussex village, he had stumbled across the realiza- 
 tion of his dreams. 
 
 The whole business was of a piece, he thought ; 
 picturesque, yet in no way cheap.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER u 
 
 And yet this moment of his marriage had 
 stirred his inmost fibres with an impetuous yearning 
 for regeneration. The manifestation of his love for 
 her had been full of a refinement of fine impulse, of 
 a tense and cultured aspiration. She, Ella, warm- 
 and simple-hearted, sweet- and gentle-minded, 
 during the fervour of their engagement trusted in 
 him as a man above all other men ; and his very self- 
 absorption made each fresh sign of this trust of 
 hers an acute suffering to him, till, racked by 
 remorse, he longed weakly to besmirch himself 
 altogether in her eyes. 
 
 And this same morbid consciousness of the 
 ignoble within him, the cultivation of which 
 brought him a certain relief, since it seemed a final 
 remnant of distinction with which he could bedeck 
 the cloddish brutality of his past conduct, had 
 spurred him to a strenuous devotion to her. He 
 had effaced himself utterly : absorbed himself in 
 her ; grown aglow with an ecstasy of passionate, 
 reverential fervour. 
 
 For her personality appeared to him abundant 
 in possibilities ; and it was — though he never 
 acknowledged it to himself — on these possibilities, 
 rather than on the obvious facts of her nature, that 
 his imagination dwelt. That she might represent 
 to him something entirely different from what he 
 imagined her to represent, now, in this moment of 
 extreme emotional exaltation, would have appeared 
 to him quite preposterous. 
 
 Thus he adored her extravagantly, in unconscious
 
 12 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 insincerity ; caressing admiringly the extravagance 
 of his adoration ; or telling himself that he loved 
 her with all the forces of his manhood ; because 
 she was his, because he had found her, because 
 he knew the great love she was giving him in 
 return. 
 
 And he took to describing the relations of sex 
 as a great sacrament. 
 
 Physically, at the first glance, he was unlike 
 other men, though it was his habit sedulously to 
 avoid obvious eccentricity of appearance. He was 
 clean-shaven ; dark, silky hair ; clever, close-set eyes ; 
 a thin mouth, drawn a trifle as if by thought at the 
 corners ; a clean-cut, intellectual, slightly hatchet- 
 shaped profile ; and in his bearing, the unconscious, 
 distinguished ease of fine-breeding. The average 
 man of his age disliked him, generally with 
 impatience ; women, on the other hand, were 
 interested in his air of modern picturesqueness. 
 And some, divining beneath his boyish manner a 
 discreet, an intuitive experience of women, and 
 relying on his mobile, emotional nature — that had 
 been said of him, and he knew it — were led to treat 
 him almost as if he were of their own sex.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 13 
 
 III 
 
 " God is good, Nellie ! What a brick He's been ! " 
 
 " Hush ! you mustn't talk like that." 
 
 She smiled in quick response to the sudden 
 sound of his voice, and her face flushed a little 
 eagerly. It was a face unattractive according to 
 cheap, conventional standards of prettiness, an 
 unobtrusive face — simple, brown hair, insignificant 
 eyes, and pale lips — a face wearing an unconscious 
 girlishness, and yet a delicate suggestion of ma- 
 turity. " My wife is so deliciously English," Hillier 
 often said of her afterwards. 
 
 " Why not ? Before I never thought much about 
 Him. He was like the king of some far-off 
 country, about whom, now and then, one mechanic- 
 ally reads paragraphs in the papers. But now 
 He seems quite near, quite familiar — just like an 
 old pal." 
 
 " Hillier, don't ! It's blasphemy." 
 
 "But it's true. I understand Him quite well 
 now. I suppose it's because I'm happy — so 
 infinitely, splendidly, gloriously happy." 
 
 " Are you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and it's you — all you. You in that ador- 
 able blue dress, with that ivory skin, that warm, 
 sparkling hair."
 
 14 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Stop ! you dear " 
 
 "And it's everything else as well. The whole 
 world is changed. The sun is stretching out his 
 big, warm hands to me. Look ! the trees are like 
 demure school-girls in new, green frocks, and the 
 cool immensity of that sky. Nell, I understand 
 what it all means." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 " It means that you are adorable — more adorable 
 than any woman who has been, or is, or will be ; 
 that I am happier than any man has ever been 
 before on this earth ; that the sun knows it, the 
 little green trees know it." 
 
 " How wonderfully you talk, Hillier ! " 
 
 " Darling, come near to me. Give me your hand 
 — a warm, pulsing morsel of your dear self." 
 
 " Some one might see. Look ! there are people 
 in the road." 
 
 " Ha ! Dolts, in black coats and ugly, stiff 
 hats." 
 
 " They're going to church." 
 
 He snorted contempt. Then, presently : 
 
 " How everything in the air says that it's Sunday 
 — that all the world is at rest. It's sacrilege to 
 work on such a gorgeous day." 
 
 " But lots of people have to." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they do," he answered carelessly. 
 * * * * * 
 
 "Some day when I've become a great writer," 
 and he smiled at his own affectation of conceit, " I'll 
 write a book on the mystery of happiness ; where
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 15 
 
 all shall be happiness, profound happiness, like 
 mine, from the first page to the last. There is a 
 man who says that any one can be happy, if he 
 only will take enough trouble about it." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 "That's rot!" 
 
 * * * #■ * 
 
 " There are only five days more, and then you 
 will have to go back to work. You will be away 
 all day, and I shall only have you in the evenings, 
 when you're tired out." 
 
 " Work ! Turn myself once more into a pub- 
 lisher's drudge ! I want to live. How can a man 
 work when he's living, when he's feeling things, as 
 I am now ? What do they all come to — success, 
 and the petty ambitions to which one sacrifices 
 one's life ? Bah ! it's a wretched, treadmill sort of 
 existence." 
 
 " But you were quite content doing it once ? " 
 
 " Only a sort of thin, relative contentedness. 
 Because one didn't know any better. Not this 
 sort of ultimate happiness." And he reflected on 
 the felicity of the new-found expression. 
 
 A little later she began : 
 
 " Hillier, go on telling me what you think about 
 the world and things. It's all so strange — the way 
 you talk of it all, I mean — and I want to under- 
 stand what is it in me that makes you so happy ? 
 Tell me, that's what I want to understand." 
 
 " It's just yourself — your hair, your eyes, your 
 mouth, your arms, your hands, your feet. It's
 
 16 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 your sweetness, your gentleness, your ignorance, 
 your purity." 
 
 #.###■* 
 
 " Tell me," he said suddenly, " who made love to 
 you before I did ? " 
 
 " No one — except the little doctor, and he didn't 
 really." 
 
 " What ! that freckled little chap I saw at the 
 school-treat ? I should think not." 
 
 " But he was very nice and kind. He used to 
 walk miles and miles to get me flowers. And, 
 Hillier, I sometimes used to like him a great deal." 
 
 " Shut up. It's too monstrous. But you don't 
 mean it. Why, you and I were made for each 
 other : as you said the other day, you were just 
 waiting for me all those years down in that quiet, 
 old-fashioned vicarage." 
 
 "But, Hillier, why should you mind about the 
 doctor ? You've had flirtations too." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " I guessed it. How many ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I've never counted." 
 
 " But how many ? Three ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; more than that." 
 
 " Six ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " More than six ? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " Twelve ? " 
 
 " Yes ; about a dozen, I suppose." 
 
 " Hillier, is that true ? "
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 17 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " And didn't you care for any of them ? " 
 
 " No, not really." 
 
 " And they " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Didn't they care ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose some did. At least, they 
 pretended to." 
 
 " Oh ! Hillier, don't talk like that. It's not you ; 
 it's like some one else. It's horrible. And did 
 you tell them that you loved them ? " 
 
 "Yes, sometimes." 
 
 A pause. There was trouble on her face : on 
 his, nettled impatience. 
 
 " Hillier, did you only flirt with them ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Was there nothing — nothing more between 
 you ? 
 
 " Come, Ella," he answered with a forced laugh, 
 " you're cross-examining me like a regular lawyer." 
 
 " No, I must know — I ought to know ! " 
 
 "We'll talk about it some other time — not 
 now." 
 
 " No— now ! " 
 
 " Well, if you must know, there was." 
 
 " With all of them ? " 
 
 " With most of them." 
 
 * *■ *■ * -3f 
 
 "Well, what are you thinking about?" he began 
 again, with obvious uneasiness. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me before ? " 
 
 c
 
 1 8 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " How could I ? Besides, what does it matter 
 now ? " 
 
 " If I had been like that, what would you have 
 said when I told you' ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't have cared a jot. Do you suppose 
 I only love you for your virtues. I love you for 
 yourself. I want you just as you are." 
 
 " But if I'd been different ? " 
 
 " But you aren't. So there's an end of it." 
 
 " But, Hillier, just now you were angry when I 
 told you of the doctor." 
 
 " No, I wasn't. Only he's such a puny creature." 
 
 " And they — were they all so beautiful ? " 
 
 " Yes, every one," he replied, with brutal pride. 
 
 " Much more than me ? . . . . I suppose you 
 said to them all the fine phrases you have been 
 saying to me. . . . No wonder they come so 
 easily." But she had not the strength to sustain 
 the hard note of sarcasm. She turned her back 
 on him quickly and stared across the lawn. And 
 he, impulsively reminding himself of her purity, of 
 the fineness of his former attitude towards her, 
 upbraided himself helplessly, and, putting his arm 
 round her, soothed her with an outpouring of 
 intense tenderness.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 19 
 
 IV 
 
 She was awake. The fresh sunshine filled the 
 room. Some birds were twittering as they sported 
 in the creeper outside ; inside, the sound of his 
 breathing rose and fell in heavy regularity. 
 
 .... Six weeks this morning ! But it was 
 like years and years : at least the memories of the 
 old life were faint and blurred ; far, far back in 
 the past ; to recall them was almost an effort. 
 
 She shifted her position in the bed. The hair 
 was dishevelled ; the long, colourless cheeks lay 
 inert ; the mouth was half open. His handsome- 
 ness was gone ; at least so she fancied ; and the 
 empty expression on his face coarsened it, brutal- 
 ized it. He looked as she had never seen him look 
 before. She shrank from him, she knew not why. 
 She was his now ! How strange that was ! for all 
 at once it seemed to her that she knew nothing of 
 him, and the revelation of this ignorance scared 
 her. He was twenty-eight years old. He had 
 been a man for eight years. Eight years ! Twice 
 four years ! She tried to realize the stretch 
 of time that four years meant. And she knew 
 nothing — nothing, but what he had told her 
 yesterday. She tried to think — what did she 
 know ? He had lived in London many years . . , .
 
 2o SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 he had been very poor once .... then things 
 had changed .... and now he worked for a 
 great publishing firm .... his name appeared 
 sometimes in the London papers .... and he 
 had numbers of friends, celebrated people. 
 
 She found herself resenting her ignorance of 
 these eight years. Why had he married her ? 
 How came it that she, a simple clergyman's 
 daughter, should mean to him all those wonderful 
 things ? 
 
 At the corner of High Field Lane she had seen 
 him for the first time. He was sketching, with his 
 back turned towards her. She stopped to look at 
 his picture, and he turned round with a stare so 
 rude, it had seemed, that she hurried away. How 
 odd those beginnings appeared now ! 
 
 In those days, his tall, thin figure, his clear- 
 sounding voice, each detail of his person, dominated 
 the rest of the world, and his words fascinated her. 
 
 Was it changed now ? No, it was the same — only, 
 there was yesterday afternoon. But she did not 
 think of that now : she was just yearning for 
 home. The oppressiveness of her sense of isolation 
 increased. Even he was asleep, dreaming, perhaps, 
 his thoughts away from her, in places, with people, 
 that she did not know. For the second time since 
 the marriage the tears welled up. She strove to 
 convince herself that it was but childish folly, but 
 she could not keep them back. Then she let them 
 come. To cry was a sweet relief. 
 
 A little while and it passed, leaving her numb.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 21 
 
 And she fell to considering drowsily the long 
 years ahead — twenty, thirty — which must be passed 
 by his side. She wondered how it would be when 
 he was an old man and she an old woman. At 
 least she would know him better then. Perhaps 
 he would love her as he did now ; perhaps they 
 would be like old Doctor Manners and his wife, 
 white-haired, wrinkled, yet caressing as young 
 lovers. But she did not think it would be so — 
 something indefinable, instinctive, told her that it 
 would not be. 
 
 And then her thoughts went back to home. 
 They would be less poor now, and that cheered 
 her. Times had grown bad of late. The tenant 
 had left the glebe farm, and no other could be 
 found. She knew well to what straits the slender 
 income had been put. 
 
 Often she had longed to go out as a governess, 
 and in all probability she would have gone had she 
 but known how to set about it. But she had no 
 qualifications : she could not paint, or play the 
 piano, and she knew no French. This helplessness 
 of hers galled her ; there were times when she had 
 grudged the very food she ate. So, when he had 
 appeared, to single her out, to tell her that he 
 loved her, to ask her to be his wife, she had not 
 hesitated. To consult her own feelings, search- 
 ingly, never occurred to her. Afterwards she had 
 given herself no sort of merit for this : for when 
 he was with her she was quite happy ; and when 
 he was not there too. Only there had been
 
 22 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 moments when she dreaded the step — when she 
 shrank from the irrevocable, the unknown. 
 
 One day he went to London and brought back 
 with him three black leather cases full of jewels. 
 A ring, a brooch, and a bracelet. And, somehow, 
 these jewels made her even less at her ease with 
 him than ever. She couldn't help wondering what 
 they must have cost, and it seemed to her wrong 
 to spend so much on things about which she did 
 not care. She felt, too, with a sort of shame, that 
 she could not help showing him that she did not 
 thank him for them genuinely. But, she noticed, he 
 did not care ; he was so pleased with them himself. 
 
 When the wedding-day had come, she had not 
 realized it at all ; it had all been queer and unreal, 
 like a dream. The service so solemn and beautiful 
 she had thought it, when she read it over to her- 
 self; but, in the church, she never listened. Her 
 eyes were fixed on the sapphires in the bracelet he 
 had given her ; she was wondering how much they 
 had cost. 
 
 This house, too, to which he had brought her, 
 the unfamiliar furniture, and the strange faces of 
 the servants, had only added to her sense of 
 isolation. Yet, after all, it was better now. 
 * * -x- ■* ■* 
 
 He had slipped his arms round her. He had 
 seen that her cheeks were wet with tears. 
 
 " Nell ! " 
 
 At the sound of his voice, clear and strong, she 
 impulsively nestled her head on his shoulder.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 23 
 
 " Come, little one, what is it ? Out with the 
 secret grief." 
 
 " I was thinking of home. You are so good to 
 me, Hillier. You won't mind, will you ? " And 
 the yearning to pour out what was in her heart 
 gave her courage. " I've never been away from 
 them before — and — and it seems so strange." 
 
 She paused : he was stroking her wrist ; the 
 soothing was delicious. 
 
 " They are so poor. Father hasn't had any rent 
 from the glebe farm for two years .... And 
 you've made me so rich .... It doesn't seem 
 fair." 
 
 " Darling one, what isn't fair is that I haven't a 
 thousand tines more to give you." 
 
 "But whit have I done that I should have so 
 much ? " 
 
 " Nothing of course, except existed." 
 
 She smiled absently. 
 
 " Hillier, I do wish I could do something to help 
 them." 
 
 " Send then a hundred pounds," he answered. 
 
 " A hundied pounds ! You will give me a 
 hundred poinds to send to them ? " 
 
 She covered his face with kisses ; his eyes, his 
 cheeks, his rrouth. 
 
 He submited with an affectation of resistance. 
 
 " I wonderif there is another man on earth like 
 you, Hillier," she murmured.
 
 24 
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 V 
 
 The hundred pounds were duly dispatched — 
 ten clean, crackling bank-notes in a registered 
 envelope. And, when it was all finished, they 
 went out into the garden, hand in hand. 
 
 He could ill afford the money ; but that fact 
 spurred him the more to send it ; and in an hour 
 or two his interest in the matter had faded : he 
 referred to it but once with a carelessness that was 
 not assumed. But on her, the incident made an 
 impression of no slight depth : late a: night, and 
 early in the morning, the remembrance of it was 
 with her : such generosity seemed wonderful. 
 Traces of its influence were discernble in each 
 small phase of her attitude towards him : she 
 reproached herself for not having dole justice in 
 her own mind to his generosity before : yet she 
 set to work eagerly to discover ways of pleasing 
 him : she reproduced a little of his extravagance 
 of language, and stimulated with lare tact his 
 exuberant expression of opinion, even when the 
 topic was unfamiliar and uncongenial to her. 
 
 From her up-bringing — from the methodical 
 monotony of her home life — she had learned the 
 habit of mental precision. She had begun, by a 
 sort of classification of his sayings, to endeavour to
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 2$ 
 
 arrive at the nature of his thoughts, to discover 
 what was his faith in religion, in Christ, and she 
 waited always for the day when he should talk to 
 her on these matters. 
 
 The passionateness of his love communicated 
 itself irresistibly to her. This had troubled her, 
 she did not know whether it was right or wrong. 
 She had sought vainly, in the teaching of her life, 
 for guidance. But such was the ignorance in 
 which her girlhood had been spent that she found 
 nothing. 
 
 Now, however, all these misgivings were merged 
 in her aspiration to be worthy of him, to please 
 him absolutely. 
 
 And thus his satisfaction in her, and in himself 
 for having found her, grew in completeness, as the 
 days of the honeymoon drew to their close.
 
 26 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 VI 
 
 She sat in the garden alone. The hum of in- 
 sects, and a faint scent of sweet hay was in the 
 air ; the trees, robed in the sombre green of mid- 
 summer, stood solid and still ; masses of cloud, 
 ponderous and white, crowded the sky. 
 
 She saw all these things, and yet she was un- 
 conscious of them. Her eyes were restless with 
 excitement. 
 
 Yes, she was beginning to see clearer now, or 
 rather to realize her immediate surroundings. 
 
 London ! — the broad, white streets, the never- 
 ceasing flow of cabs and carriages, the shining 
 shop-windows, and the black crowd on the pave- 
 ment — to-morrow she would be there ; she was 
 impatient for it to come. 
 
 She would become a Londoner ; soon she would 
 be quite at home in the great city. Hillier would 
 take her to the theatre ; to the opera ; she would 
 be mistress of his house, and sit at the bottom of 
 the table when they had dinner-parties : and when 
 she had grown quite familiar with it all, father and 
 mother should come ; she saw herself walking 
 through the streets with them, naming to them all 
 the famous people as they rolled by in their 
 carriages. And she felt very, very happy.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 
 
 VII 
 
 They were quite strange, these first impressions 
 of London: at least, so they seemed, when she 
 recalled them afterwards ; as if, in those days, the 
 forms of the buildings had been altogether altered. 
 
 Disappointment— disappointment which, for a 
 while, she had refused to recognize — disappoint- 
 ment which, later, she had struggled to suppress — 
 that was what she had first felt. 
 
 The hansom, which brought them from the 
 station, rattled past the long line of porticoes, 
 stretching away and away, in spacious monotony, 
 down the Cromwell Road : then halted. And the 
 house — which was to be theirs — looked lonely, 
 cheerless, dreary, with its expanse of grey-black 
 wall. The sense of separation from every sur- 
 rounding of her country home, each hallowed by 
 its particular associations — the green garden-seats 
 under the trees, the shrubbery-walks, the flowers, 
 the bright colours — came back to her. 
 
 Radiant and eager, he led her through all the 
 house, from the basement to the servants' bed- 
 rooms under the roof. At the beginning, she 
 made some effort to echo his laughter, to emulate 
 his buoyancy ; but, before they had come to the 
 end, she was following him wearily, sick at heart,
 
 28 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 longing for it to be over, that she might be alone 
 with her own thoughts. 
 
 It was only when they were having tea, by 
 themselves in the drawing-room, that he perceived 
 her dejection. And he questioned her so gently, 
 that, in one generous impulse, she gave him all 
 that was in her heart, pouring out her disappoint- 
 ment and her distress, reproaching herself the while 
 for her weakness and for her ingratitude. He seated 
 himself by her side on the sofa, and soothed her, 
 till he had changed her sadness to hesitating 
 happiness, and from hesitating happiness to the 
 rest of pure delight. 
 
 In a corner of the bare, half-furnished drawing- 
 room, while, outside, the rattle of wheels rose, 
 shook the windows, and died away in the distance, 
 he talked, narrating his love for her, till all the 
 vista of the future became tinged with gold. 
 
 After dinner, while he smoked, she sat on a 
 cushion at his feet, resting her head between his 
 knees. 
 
 And when at last they went up-stairs, she re- 
 membered nothing but his goodness, and the 
 abandonment to the intoxication of his love.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 29 
 
 VIII 
 
 There were three days before he must go back 
 to his work — three days more to be passed to- 
 gether; and then, morning after morning, he would 
 have to set off to his work ; and all day, till the 
 late afternoon, she would be alone. 
 
 They had talked together of this daily separation, 
 many times — he resenting it unreasonably, she 
 bravely concealing her dread — a double dread of 
 solitude, and of those friends of his with whom 
 she must become acquainted. For she divined 
 that there would be no affinity between them 
 and her. 
 
 But they were busy days ; for the furniture that 
 the house possessed was quite scanty, and they 
 had but a single, temporary servant. 
 
 So full of their joy as to be oblivious of all that 
 was not directly concerned in it, they wandered 
 through many spacious shops, hesitating at the 
 entrance to consult a voluminous list which she 
 had conscientiously compiled ; then, after starting 
 in the wake of some stately shopman, halting 
 continually, calling the one to the other, purchasing 
 capriciously. Just at first his joyous recklessness 
 roused her scruples : soon, she became entirely 
 infected with his exuberance.
 
 30 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 In the evenings, they were eager to have done 
 with their dinner, that they might the sooner 
 attack the pile of packages encumbering the hall, 
 and spread their contents on the dining-room table, 
 critically, as if for exhibition. 
 
 And, besides, there were servants to be engaged. 
 Hillier was charmed by her timid avowal of in- 
 experience, and good-humouredly took the matter 
 into his own hands, inserting advertisements in 
 the newspapers. So on the morning of their last 
 day they breakfasted earlier than usual : then, as 
 soon as the cloth was cleared, seated themselves, 
 in judgment as it were, at one end of the long 
 table. 
 
 And the invasion began. In rapid succession 
 they appeared ; portly women in smart bonnets ; 
 chubby country-girls ; maids with prim, genteel 
 voices ; bouncing, garrulous creatures of all shapes 
 and sizes. 
 
 Hillier attacked each one with the same deter- 
 mination, questioning and cross-questioning with 
 a confident fluency that filled her with amusement 
 and admiration. So, by luncheon-time, their house- 
 hold was completed. 
 
 And all the while, to know that the separation 
 was at hand, lent to the close companionship of 
 these first days in London — the last of the honey- 
 moon, she named them to herself — a subtle excite- 
 ment and a precious charm.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 3 r 
 
 IX 
 
 " How far is it ? " 
 
 " About three miles. You'd only better come as 
 far as the Circus." 
 
 " Oh ! let me come all the way, please." 
 
 " There, poor little girl, of course you shall, if 
 you want to." 
 
 The morning sunlight was gladdening the city, 
 gilding the roof-tops, driving the dirt from the 
 houses, lending to the pavement a dazzling white- 
 ness, paving the roadway with burnished nuggets, 
 glinting on the panels of carriages, and on the 
 flanks of horses. 
 
 " Look, Hillier ! what a beautiful morning ! " 
 
 Something of the glad spirit entered into her, 
 as, by his side, she walked past the great yellow 
 museum, all agleam in the insolence of its ugliness. 
 To glance down at her bright-blue dress, which 
 she was wearing for the first time, gave her a 
 sense of elation, of kinship with the day's mood. 1 
 
 Hillier was jubilant ; talking, jesting, laughing 
 loudly ; so that, as they passed, people turned to 
 look at them. And when he noticed this, he jested 
 the louder. 
 
 They turned into the Park, and away across the 
 green towards Rotten Row.
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 In the distance the trees, all veiled in blue haze, 
 were merging themselves, indistinct and indefinite, 
 in the glowing sky. Hillier exclaimed how that 
 exquisite atmospheric effect was to be seen but 
 there, and in Corot's best work. She wondered 
 who Corot was ; she fancied his name must be 
 spelt Coreau. 
 
 There they sauntered a little, watching the 
 riders as they cantered past. Once an acquaint- 
 ance of Hillier's raised his hat. She divined, 
 quickly, that the obvious curiosity with which the 
 man eyed her was distasteful to him ; for he 
 started to narrate, in a forced, jocular manner, 
 his peculiarities. She felt that the edge of her 
 happiness was dulling ; as if something, coming 
 between them, had alienated his sympathy from 
 her. 
 
 When they reached Piccadilly, she was thinking 
 of the return home ; the way seemed long, and she 
 would be alone : she was recapitulating all the 
 occupations with which she had told herself last 
 night she would fill the day till his return. 
 
 Moreover, she was acutely conscious that, for 
 the moment, she had no place in his thoughts. 
 She heard him explaining a quarrel between a 
 famous author and the firm of publishers who 
 employed him as reader, and she knew that he 
 had never noticed that she was not listening. 
 Then he spoke of the future, of the people who 
 would call on her, who would ask them to dinner, 
 and whom they would have to entertain in return.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 33 
 
 To hear all these names, with which she was quite 
 unfamiliar, made her heart sink lower and lower. 
 
 At the crossing they paused, for several omni- 
 buses blocked the road : from behind, from each 
 side, the people crowded to the pavement-edge, 
 waiting to cross. 
 
 And still he went on talking. 
 
 The soreness of her wounded pride grew in- 
 tolerable. 
 
 " I shall go back now," she said : but she was 
 keenly hoping that he would ask her to come on. 
 
 " Poor little Nell ! you're tired. I'll put you 
 into a hanson." 
 
 " I'd rather walk," she answered curtly. 
 
 He looked at her doubtfully, then — 
 
 " No, you can't," he remonstrated. 
 
 " I'd rather — at least the bit across the Park." 
 
 " Good-bye," he said. Next, with a glimmer of 
 how things were, he added, " The little wife must 
 take great care of herself. I shall dash home in 
 the swiftest hansom in the Strand." 
 
 The omnibuses had moved on : the roadway was 
 clear: the people,pressing forward, swallowed him up. 
 
 She noticed that he had not touched her hand, 
 or raised his hat to her. Back, against the tide of 
 men and women flowing towards the City, she 
 turned ; dreary-hearted, isolated, in the midst of 
 this crowd that pushed past her, in whose life she 
 had no part. Every one seemed to be watching her, 
 staring at her, hardly, hostilely. She felt more and 
 more awkward, and different from the rest. 
 
 D
 
 34 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 X 
 
 During the late afternoon he returned, bringing 
 her some bunches of violets. She found herself 
 almost shy of him : she told him so, and they 
 laughed together. 
 
 In the evening a band struck up near the house, 
 so they carried chairs and rugs on to the balcony 
 and sat there, talking a little, while the music 
 played. He was pleased that she was thus tender, 
 subdued in manner towards him. Her com- 
 panionship cost him no effort, and he reminded 
 himself how, in marrying her, he had done well. 
 
 Later, in the silence of the night, she listened 
 to the passionate expression of his love, and the 
 memory of the walk, of the parting, of the dreary 
 loneliness in which the day had been spent, faded 
 till it had grown vague and insignificant. Only 
 the next morning she did not offer to accompany 
 him : he did not suggest it : he just kissed her in 
 the hall, his hat on his head, his stick in his hand, 
 and went. 
 
 She was not sorry that it was thus.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 35 
 
 XI 
 
 So the days went by. 
 
 She set to work seriously, methodically, to 
 accustom herself to the new routine, resolute to 
 learn, to make herself at ease in her new life. She 
 was uneasy on account of her ignorance of the 
 ways of people in London ; yet she shrank from 
 communicating her uneasiness to him — partly 
 from a desire to conceal her short-comings, and 
 partly, perhaps, because she feared lest, in 
 betraying them, she would be risking something 
 — of the precise nature of which she had no idea. 
 
 And she was busy making progress. From 
 conversations listened to in the drawing-rooms 
 she visited, she acquired a glib familiarity with 
 the jargon of her new surroundings ; she learnt 
 to manipulate easily, without effort, just those 
 turns of phrase calculated to sustain amiable 
 conversation. 
 
 Besides, from books, from review articles, from 
 his talk, she was getting a queer, jumbled know- 
 ledge of modern thought — of Ibsen, of the labour 
 question, of impressionism, of the works of George 
 Meredith, of the emancipation of women. It was 
 the pressure of a constant consciousness of her 
 husband's superiority that impelled her to struggle
 
 36 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 with all these things. " Hillier wants me to be 
 clever," she had said to herself. But, as yet, her 
 labour bore no fruit ; only the sense of her own 
 ignorance and of her own stupidity came of it. 
 Now and then, with a glimmering perception of the 
 wickedness of the world, she revolted against what 
 she read : but she was generally too preoccupied 
 with the thoughts that were at work in the back- 
 ground of her own mind to grasp intelligently the 
 author's meaning.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 37 
 
 XII 
 
 The innumerable small signs of her love for him, 
 of her submission to him in all things, afforded his 
 vanity a continual regalement such as it had never 
 known before : beside no other woman had he 
 experienced that sense of complete mastery. He 
 attributed his contentment to the depth of his love. 
 At the same time, the period of dissatisfaction with 
 the various sentimental experiences, which other 
 women had bequeathed to him, closed. He had 
 already almost persuaded himself that they were a 
 not inappropriate prelude to the adoration which 
 his wife laid at his feet. 
 
 Thus, the best that was in him was brought to 
 the surface. 
 
 He had visioned himself as treating her with 
 forbearance, indulgence, sweetness, after having 
 displayed an intelligent unworldliness in marrying 
 her. During the honeymoon, and the first days in 
 London, he had achieved this attitude quite satis- 
 factorily, and since he had found that achievement 
 easy, he glided into a complacent security with 
 regard to the future. 
 
 After the strangeness of the first days had worn 
 off, he had been busy with dreams of his own 
 possibilities as her husband. Her entire lack of
 
 38 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 all that small knowledge, of which, in London, she 
 would stand in such need, did not daunt him ; it 
 excited him, while her responsiveness, her eager- 
 ness to accept him as a teacher, swelled his self- 
 confidence. 
 
 And her continual recognition of his kindness 
 towards her, and her avowals of her faith in him, 
 led him insensibly to shirk the knowledge that, 
 after all, he was not what she believed him to be.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 39 
 
 XIII 
 
 A sullen buzz of voices, a dazzle of light, a 
 crowded confusion of men and women, huddled 
 together. 
 
 They passed the doorway, but they could get 
 no further : the room was quite full. 
 
 The faces she saw were quite strange : a grey- 
 haired woman in a low-cut dress lifted some glasses 
 with a long handle to her eyes and stared. Some 
 man nodded to Hillier : the rest did not move. 
 
 So they stood there, hemmed in on all sides, 
 looking round them. She wanted to ask Hillier 
 who the people were. But she dared not, they 
 were all so near. 
 
 Disjointed words, fragments of phrases reached 
 her ears. After a while, quite close, a woman's 
 voice was saying — 
 
 " A simple, country girl. Before she met him 
 her mind must have been a blank. I guess it's 
 pretty well scored with his scribblings though by 
 this time. She takes him, I hear, with prodigious 
 solemnity — and herself too, for that matter." 
 
 " Yes, it's a great pity. Somebody should have 
 done something. But no one knew of it till it was 
 done. He's made a huge fool of himself." The 
 voice was a man's.
 
 4 o SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 The woman's voice answered something which 
 she could not hear. 
 
 She looked, and saw them standing quite close, 
 with their backs turned towards her. 
 
 " He's very devoted to her ? " the woman's voice 
 began again. 
 
 The man said something in a lower tone and the 
 woman laughed. 
 
 " What girl wouldn't under the circumstances ? " 
 he added. 
 
 " She's sweetly pretty, people say." 
 
 " Bah ! the world's stuffed full of pretty women." 
 
 Hillier's hand gripped her arm. 
 
 " Come, let's get on," she heard him saying. 
 
 The roughness of his tone startled her. She saw 
 the tight look on his face. What was the matter ? 
 
 He pressed forward, and, as there was not space 
 for her to follow, he dragged at her arm. But 
 there were no gaps in the human wall in front. 
 The floor was blocked. 
 
 Next, a young man shook hands with Hillier, 
 who introduced him to her. He made some 
 remark about the great crowd. 
 
 The voices began again ; the woman was 
 speaking. 
 
 " If it's as you say, she'll be a great drag on 
 him." 
 
 " He's not the sort of man to enjoy recognizing 
 his own mistakes — especially one of that kind." 
 
 " Perhaps he will never recognize it." 
 
 " Life is long," answered the man's voice.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 41 
 
 She noticed that the young man who had been 
 introduced to her was talking to some one else. 
 The voices were indistinct now. Next she caught 
 the words : — 
 
 "And, you know, he might have married Mrs. 
 Hendrick." 
 
 Mrs. Hendrick ! Mrs. Hendrick was a friend of 
 Hillier's. In a flash it came to her that it was of 
 her — and of Hillier — that they were talking. For 
 a moment the meaning of their words vanished, 
 while resentment, hot and reckless, rose. She 
 wanted to walk straight up to them — there before 
 everybody — to tell them that they were mean, 
 cowardly, hateful. Then the words returned, 
 bringing dull pain. She longed to be alone with 
 him, she was hungering for his comfort. 
 
 " Let's get out of this," he blurted. 
 
 He had heard it all, too. 
 
 He pushed his way towards the door ; she 
 following, dazed. She seemed to hear the voices 
 still talking, indistinctly, behind her. 
 
 When they reached the landing, and were free 
 of the crowd, her dress caught behind her. But 
 he strode on, holding her arm so tightly that she 
 could not stop, and the stuff tore loudly. 
 
 * # # # * 
 
 He had not spoken since they left the house. 
 In the obscurity of the cab she could not see his 
 face, and, till she had read its expression, she 
 shrank from speaking. Several times, as they shot 
 past a lamp-post, she threw a furtive glance at
 
 42 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 him. But his hat was tilted over his eyes, and the 
 light was gone, before she could distinguish any- 
 thing. She rubbed the moisture from off a corner 
 of the window-pane, and peered out. Everything 
 was dark and deserted ; only the gas-lamps seemed 
 awake. And the cab shot by them — one after 
 another — rapidly. 
 
 He half wanted to speak to her, for he was 
 aware that his silence was cruel ; that he was 
 playing an entirely ugly part. And the conscious- 
 ness of how much a word of comfort would mean 
 to her, of his own impotence to speak it, and the 
 suspicion that she was crying, increased his ex- 
 asperation considerably, tempting him to address 
 her brutally. 
 
 He blamed her ; yet he knew he had no right to 
 do so : he disliked her ; yet he knew that he was 
 causing her to suffer. 
 
 They reached home in silence. 
 
 In the hall, a small impulse of remorse prompted 
 him to lift off her cloak for her ; but, as he came 
 forward, she stepped past him with an assumption 
 of haughtiness, so that he could not touch her. 
 Immediately the full flame of his anger flared 
 forth : he tasted an exasperated joy in that she 
 had at last afforded him a pretext for losing his 
 self-control. 
 
 He stepped into the study, and slammed the 
 door behind him with all his force.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 43 
 
 In her room, she sat down mechanically, without 
 taking off her cloak. Her expression was blank : 
 she could not cry. 
 
 Then she struggled to comfort herself. After 
 all, perhaps it didn't matter what people said of 
 her. It would be just the same to-morrow. 
 
 She whispered to herself some old words of his : 
 — " You are the whole world to me : I cannot live 
 without you. I love you, I love you, I love you." 
 Three times he had said it : she shivered : for, 
 somehow, they brought her no warmth. 
 
 How long would he be down there ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 Oh ! why had it ever been ? 
 
 ***** 
 
 And, all at once, her whole being rose in fierce 
 rebellion against her married life ; she recalled, 
 with added bitterness, her first revolt against the 
 revelation which marriage had brought. 
 
 She felt that she hated the whole world, that 
 there was no sweet savour left in life. Human 
 nature, men and women, seemed hideous, degraded. 
 And she hated herself because she had become 
 like the rest. 
 
 She recalled the calm days of her girlhood with 
 exceeding bitterness. She could never be like that 
 again. 
 
 Then she felt that she could not bear to speak 
 to him again to-night. When he came up she 
 pretended to be asleep. He made no attempt to 
 wake her ; and, before long, he was heavily sleeping 
 by her side.
 
 44 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 XIV 
 
 The next morning, as they were preparing to 
 get up :— 
 
 " I wish you'd put on that blue dress you used 
 to wear when we were engaged," he said. 
 
 She had already learned the intonations of his 
 voice, and, as he spoke, she recoiled a little. 
 
 " That old thing. I couldn't." 
 
 " I don't see why not. You used to look fifty 
 times better in that than in all these new gaudy 
 arrangements." 
 
 The harshness of his tone hurt her the more 
 because it had come suddenly, at the very be- 
 ginning of the day. 
 
 " Oh, Hillier ! you never said you didn't like my 
 new dresses," she faltered. 
 
 "I only say the other one suits you, and they 
 don't." 
 
 She remembered the money they had cost, and 
 how she had resolved to make each last as long as 
 possible to compensate for the extravagance of 
 buying them. 
 
 " What's wrong with them ? " 
 
 " I don't know," he answered pettishly. 
 
 "But tell me what you don't like about them, 
 and I will try to get them altered."
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 45 
 
 " That's no good ; get a fresh lot. A different 
 shape, more flowing lines, not tight and stiff." He 
 did not look up : he was rummaging among some 
 proofs on the bed. 
 
 " But it's so expensive," she pleaded. 
 
 " I tell you they don't suit you. How can you 
 wear things that don't suit you ? " 
 
 " I think you're horrid," she broke out, as he 
 went into his dressing-room. 
 
 When she came down-stairs, he was sitting 
 reading the proofs which were littered on the floor 
 around his chair. He took no notice of her as she 
 entered. 
 
 " I believe it's all because of what those people 
 said last night." Before the words were all uttered 
 she was vaguely astonished at herself, and afraid 
 of him. 
 
 " Don't go on nagging like that, you little fool ! 
 Do you hear ? " he retorted loudly. 
 
 She turned to the breakfast-table. She glanced 
 back at him ; he did not look as if he were sorry 
 that he had so spoken. Her resentment swelled 
 tumultuously : she was shaking all over. If she 
 had been a dog he could not have spoken more 
 brutally ; and he had said it just as if he were 
 accustomed to speak to her so. Then the scene, 
 that Sunday morning, in the garden, during the 
 honeymoon, came back to her. Those words, that 
 tone, he had thrown them at some one of the other 
 women, and they had returned for her to hear, like 
 an echo from the past. All through breakfast she
 
 46 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 continued to nurse this idea till she could not 
 trust herself to speak to him, so bitterly did she 
 feel. 
 
 He went on reading his proofs while he ate, and 
 when he had done, gathered them together osten- 
 tatiously, saying that he was pressed for time. 
 
 A few minutes later the hall-door slammed. 
 
 A wild impulse prompted her to write to her 
 mother ; to tell her about last night and about this 
 morning, that he no longer cared for her, that she 
 wanted to come home, back to the old life, never 
 to leave them again. 
 
 But as she dipped the pen in the ink the re- 
 action came. Such a letter would seem silly, 
 excited, absurd. She left the writing-table and 
 started to busy herself with other things.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 47 
 
 XV 
 
 Meanwhile he was walking towards Hyde Park 
 Corner, irritated against the people who obstructed 
 his path. 
 
 An obstreperous November wind, gusty and 
 biting, was rushing about the streets : several 
 ragged, dark clouds were careering across a leaden 
 slab of sky. It was the beginning of winter, and 
 he cursed the vile climate of London as only fit 
 for cattle and dogs. 
 
 A press of work owing to the approach of 
 Christmas had obliged him to cut short his 
 morning's walk : and this, for want of a better 
 pretext, increased his annoyance. 
 
 As he passed the French Embassy, a hansom 
 drove by, carrying a woman wearing a white veil, 
 who stared round at him through the side glass. 
 Before he could raise his hat in recognition she 
 was gone. It was Mrs. Hendrick. 
 
 The words "and he might have married Mrs. 
 Hendrick" threw a whole new light upon her, 
 revealing of a sudden the reason of many things 
 in the past. How blind he must have been never 
 to have perceived it before ! Of course it was him 
 that she wanted. How she had done her best to 
 tell him this, and how obstinately he had shut his
 
 48 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 eyes! If he had only known, all sorts of curious 
 things might have happened. 
 
 Probably she was quite forty ; for she had 
 wrinkles under her eyes and round her mouth, and 
 her skin, white as it was, was altogether opaque. 
 Yes, certainly she looked best in evening dress ; 
 or, at twilight, in a pallid-gold tea-gown which 
 matched her hair. And she had seven thousand 
 a year. 
 
 He recalled his meeting with that ruffian Hen- 
 drick, her husband, a fortnight after she had 
 divorced him — jovial and superb in spite of his 
 grey hairs — banking in the baccarat-rooms at 
 Aix-les-Bains. He had chatted with the fellow 
 afterwards on the balcony of the Cercle. Hendrick 
 had talked the case over shamelessly. 
 
 He remembered certain things which the man 
 had hinted to him concerning her — things which 
 no one but Hendrick could have known ; and he 
 wondered more than ever at himself how it was he 
 had never noticed. 
 
 Mrs. Hendrick had never been to see Ella. The 
 juxtaposition of the two women in his mind pro- 
 duced an only half-stifled movement of repentance, 
 and of shame at his own behaviour this morning. 
 Yet, he argued, there was nothing against Mrs. 
 Hendrick ; few women could have gone through 
 such a case so satisfactorily. 
 
 ^ ^ *K ^ *•* 
 
 By-and-bye, in the afternoon, he received a com-
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 49 
 
 mission to write for an important review, a survey 
 of the year's literature. 
 
 This unexpected stroke of good fortune, and the 
 thought that he might have married Mrs. Hendrick, 
 lent an elasticity to his gait as he walked home. 
 
 £
 
 50 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 XVI 
 
 " Oh ! I'm so glad ! " she exclaimed, when he had 
 finished telling her of his success. "And, Hillier, 
 Mrs. Hendrick has been here." 
 
 " She ought to have come before." There was 
 an insincere note of grievance in his tone. " Well, 
 how did she seem ? " 
 
 " I don't know .... she was very nice, 
 and stayed a long time. She said she had seen you 
 from a hansom this morning, and that reminded 
 her of her negligence. She asked me to go to see 
 her on Tuesday .... It's so difficult, Hillier. 
 .... She's much older than I expected. I 
 thought she must be quite a young woman." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I heard that man say the other evening 
 that — that you might have married her .... 
 And it seemed so — absurd." She brought out the 
 words bravely, though a little tremulously. 
 
 He said nothing ; so she went on more hurriedly : 
 
 " It isn't true, Hillier, is it ? — tell me — that she 
 was one of those .... you know, that after- 
 noon in the garden . . . ." 
 
 " No, of course not." 
 
 " Will you promise me, Hillier? "
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 51 
 
 "You don't believe me, then?" he exclaimed, 
 
 almost angrily. 
 
 " Yes, dear — only I wanted to be sure." 
 
 " Well, then, I swear it. Now are you satisfied ? " 
 
 " But she was a great friend of yours." 
 
 " 1 knew her a good deal. She was married to 
 
 a brute of a man who used to treat her like 
 
 a dog." 
 
 And he told her something of the rest. 
 
 " But her husband — where's her husband now ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; in Paris, probably." 
 
 " Didn't he care, then ? " 
 
 " Not a rap." 
 
 " How horrible ! How long had they been 
 
 married ? " 
 
 " Fifteen years. Why on earth she put up with 
 
 him so long, I can't imagine. It was only when he 
 
 took to bringing his — mistresses — to the house that 
 
 she divorced him." 
 
 " Poor woman ! How she must have suffered ! " 
 
 There was a pause. Then she added — 
 
 " Hillier, I'm so glad she came. I want her to 
 
 like me — to be friends with me — because I think 
 
 she likes you very much." 
 
 " What makes you think that ? " 
 
 " I don't know — but I'm sure she does." 
 
 And he did not mention the article to her.
 
 52 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 XVII 
 
 There lurked, beneath the sweetness of Mrs. 
 Hendrick's smile, and the gentleness of her voice, 
 and the fragility of her whole appearance, an air of 
 bitterness, restrained and refined. After the ex- 
 posure of her husband's cruelty, a section of Society 
 had considered itself justified in proclaiming an 
 emphatic sympathy with her wrongs ; women dis- 
 cussed her with long-drawn exclamations ; men 
 lowered their voices when they spoke to her ; 
 people, whose faces were unfamiliar, gushed with 
 affectionate sympathy ; some boldly indiscreet ; 
 others affecting tact ; and those who had known 
 her longer vindicated effusively their right to 
 correct the general curiosity concerning her. Her 
 worn beauty was in harmony with her new posi- 
 tion ; and those who were busy with her, hailed 
 this harmony with satisfaction, affording, as it did, 
 a fresh subject for comment. And lastly, the large 
 fortune which she inherited just five weeks after she 
 had regained her freedom, made her acquaintances 
 more anxious than ever to assist her in the arrange- 
 ment of her existence. 
 
 But by none of these things was she deceived, 
 for just then she was disinterested enough in the 
 course of her own existence to perceive that it all
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 
 
 was entirely natural. And so, her attitude towards 
 the world remained inert, apathetic, full of tired 
 reserve. She repulsed people wearily, though 
 politely ; she was aware that she had no appetite 
 for the cheap consolations they had to offer her. 
 To abandon herself to her lassitude, to rest, to sleep, 
 to forget, to put time between the present and the 
 past — these were her longings. 
 
 By-and-byc there came with her wealth a 
 clearer realization of her freedom, which made her 
 wearily wonder why she had submitted so long, 
 why she had thus wasted the best years of her life. 
 
 At these moments she marvelled bitterly at him 
 who had been her husband : at his jovial insensi- 
 bility, at the satisfaction, facile and complete, which 
 his simple sensuality afforded him. She hated 
 him ; for she knew that he did not care. Thus, 
 indifferent to the present, hopeless with regard to 
 the future, she saw everything as dreary, colour- 
 less. It was as if the corner she had just turned 
 had brought her face to face with a dead wall. 
 
 Occasionally some sharp phrase of the simple- 
 minded old relative, who had come to live with her, 
 made her conscious of her listlessness ; and then, 
 she rated herself morbid, or hard, selfish, incapable 
 of emotion, and mused how it would have been if 
 she had had a child. 
 
 Yet she continued to fulfil the engagements 
 which Society made for her, because the effort of 
 escaping from them seemed beyond her strength. 
 
 And all this was two years ago.
 
 54 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 It was down in Norfolk, at a country-house, where 
 they were fellow-guests, that her acquaintanceship 
 with Hillier Haselton had developed into intimacy. 
 
 He, the morning of his arrival, had related to her 
 — with a careless audacity that she set down as 
 rare tact — how he had met Henry Hendrick on the 
 Continent, a fortnight before. This placed him, in 
 her eyes, in a slightly privileged position, which he 
 was not slow to assume. So, somehow she drifted 
 into talking to him about herself; on the terrace 
 after breakfast, smoking a cigarette, he would 
 saunter with her, up and down ; he would fetch a 
 basket-chair, and sit by her on the lawn, while the 
 rest played tennis ; he would row her on the lake 
 in the late afternoon. 
 
 It only lasted a week, but they were much alone 
 together, and their conversation glided insensibly 
 into a tone of intimate seriousness. She hinted to 
 him, at certain moments of eager expansion, of 
 things concerning herself which, when she recalled 
 them afterwards, scared her ; yet the next day she 
 would begin again to tell him more. She could 
 not help herself. 
 
 Before he left, she had told him of her gratitude ; 
 though, indeed, she could not say what it was that 
 he had done for her ; only that she understood how 
 un-glad her heart had been before, and that the 
 common things of life looked less cheerless. 
 Perhaps it was a little the consciousness of her 
 wealth, and the new power it brought to her ; for 
 she had confided to him, timidly, her secret wish to
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 55 
 
 employ a large — a very large — portion of it towards 
 helping the outcast children of the great cities, and 
 he had taken up this desire of hers, encouraged it, 
 expanded it, given it, as it seemed to her, practical 
 shape. And on this section of human suffering 
 he spoke simply, with no affectation of false senti- 
 ment ; so that to discuss it with him was in no 
 wise difficult, as was the case with other people. 
 
 He seemed to her strong, fearless, a man of fine 
 fibre. 
 
 ^* ^* *** *I* 
 
 A month passed, and then they were both back- 
 in London. He came one afternoon when she had 
 other visitors : he only stayed a short while, but 
 she learned that he had not forgotten the " scheme," 
 as he called it, that he had been busying himself 
 with its realization. And that, amid the stress of 
 his own work, he should have found time to help 
 her, touched her exceedingly, and intensified her 
 admiration. 
 
 She saw him again, not unfrcquently, for they 
 had many friends in common ; yet they never 
 again got beyond the superficial small-talk of mere 
 acquaintances. She shrank, somehow, from any 
 attempt to renew their intimacy. 
 
 Once more he inquired concerning the " scheme " ; 
 but on learning that it was proceeding satisfac- 
 torily, he passed to another topic. He seemed 
 unwilling that they should talk again as they had 
 talked, in the summer, down in Norfolk. 
 
 So they drifted apart: she attributed it to his
 
 56 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 busy life which left him so little leisure ; and she 
 retained in her mind a clear image of him, as he 
 had first appeared to her — strong, fearless, a man 
 of fine fibre. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 And now, he was married — a penniless clergy- 
 man's daughter — a love-marriage, accomplished 
 quietly, secretly almost, in defiance of every worldly 
 interest. 
 
 She thought it very characteristic of him. 
 
 All her interest in him revived. Yes, she might 
 make friends with his wife, help her in little ways ; 
 and thus, indirectly, she would be of use to him. 
 This idea grew rapidly in her mind : she was very 
 eager to be friends with his wife.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 57 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Ella by this time possessed a large number of 
 acquaintances, but she sought out the society of 
 no one of them, content that they should remain 
 on the fringe, as it were, of her life. Her natural 
 reserve exempted her from the temptation to en- 
 trust to others a selection of her inmost feelings ; 
 and she had no skill in superficial companionship. 
 Thus she made no friends. 
 
 It was commonly reported that she "had not 
 much in her " ; or by others more shallow in 
 thought and acrid of speech, that she was " quite 
 stupid." Many tongues were busy with explan- 
 ations of Hillier Haselton's marriage with the 
 commonplace daughter of a country parson, re- 
 marking how frequently brilliant men tied them- 
 selves to dull women. 
 
 And, since the other evening, she had been 
 growing more and more acutely sensible to all 
 this ; the smart that had been inflicted had en- 
 dowed her, for the moment, with bitter perspicacity ; 
 she was convincing herself that every one whom 
 she met regarded her in the same light. 
 
 More than ever she sent her heart out towards 
 her husband ; starting afresh to urge herself to 
 admire him extravagantly, stifling her sense of
 
 58 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 feverish insecurity, or attributing it to physical 
 causes. 
 
 She was disturbed, puzzled too, by Mrs. Hend- 
 rick. She was not jealous ; that would have been 
 ridiculous ; she did not dislike her, that would 
 have been treacherous. Hillier liked talking to 
 Mrs. Hendrick ; when she came to dinner, and 
 when they went to the big house in Grosvenor 
 Place, he was in high spirits, always. And, of late, 
 except on these occasions, he had been moody, 
 dispirited ; the edge of his buoyancy was blunted ; 
 he was overworking himself. 
 
 No, she was not jealous ; for Mrs. Hendrick 
 liked talking to her, too, and was constantly pro- 
 posing that they should drive together in the 
 afternoon — to a private view, or to an afternoon 
 party. No, she did not dislike Mrs. Hendrick ; 
 for Mrs. Hendrick was kind, gentle, sweet.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 59 
 
 XIX 
 
 The greater part of the afternoon he had been 
 in his office, glancing through a manuscript. 
 
 Suddenly, while he was crossing the room to 
 consult a volume on the shelves, the impulse to 
 go and see Mrs. Hendrick laid hold upon him. It 
 brought at once a feeling of excited unrest. He 
 felt sick of work and cooped up in the room, 
 which seemed dingy and full of dust. The desire 
 to get out, to some immediate change, some outside 
 excitement, became imperious. 
 
 What a long while it was since he had seen 
 her alone ! Not since that time two years ago. 
 Certain incidents came back to him again. How 
 was it he had been so indifferent then ? He 
 tried to flatter himself by the recollection of this 
 indifference of his ; but the effort was unsuccessful. 
 
 At that moment he entirely accepted the fact 
 that he was tired of his wife. And, since he 
 attributed this to some vague superiority in him- 
 self, it was without a pang that he shattered the 
 whole accumulated fabric of his former conceptions 
 of the possibilities of his marriage. Not that it 
 once seemed that he had committed a piece of 
 folly ; for he was ready to blame her that she did 
 not satisfy him. Yes, she did not satisfy him ;
 
 6o SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 and he clutched at this explanation as a justifica- 
 tion for his recent vague dreamings concerning 
 other women. It was no particular woman that 
 he was picturing to himself, but certain types of 
 women which were wholly different from Ella. 
 The actual possibility of unfaithfulness to her he 
 had never faced ; though, perhaps, he had been 
 very near indeed to doing so — certainly much 
 nearer than he himself imagined. But then he 
 had always taken for granted that he was not a 
 brute. He had only been married a few months, 
 and he knew of no one — except notorious scoun- 
 drels — who had done that thing after a few 
 months. 
 
 So he went out, and drove to Grosvenor Place.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 61 
 
 XX 
 
 She was at home. The servant showed him 
 into the drawing-room — a charming room arranged 
 in sound taste, he had always thought it. To-day 
 the furniture was all clothed in shiny, stiff chintzes, 
 which lent a cold, uncomfortable look. He paced 
 up and down restlessly, anxiously curious concern- 
 ing what was about to happen. In half-an-hour 
 it would be over, he told himself. What would 
 be his position then ? Yet he had no fixed idea 
 as to what he was going to do. He lifted a red 
 book from off the writing-table, opened it, and 
 began to read the names absently — Williamson, 
 Williamson, Williamson, Willie, Willington, Wilkie. 
 He shut the book and replaced it. What was he 
 going to do ? 
 
 On the mantelpiece he caught sight of Ella's 
 photograph — an old likeness taken before their 
 marriage. The lips were parted in a faint smile, 
 and the rose-tinted background lent delicacy and 
 sweetness to the face. It was very like her. He 
 realized rapidly that his passion had certainly 
 dwindled ; that the sight of the photograph caused 
 him no vibration of emotion. 
 
 * * # *■ *
 
 62 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 The door opened, Mrs. Hendrick came forward, 
 her hand outstretched frankly, cordially. 
 
 He met her, still holding the photograph in his 
 left hand. 
 
 She noticed it, and smiled, then began — 
 
 " I'm so glad we've made such friends, Mr. 
 Haselton. I can't tell you how much I like her. 
 You must be very, very happy." 
 
 " Yes," he answered instantly. " I am completely 
 happy." 
 
 " That's right, for you deserve it." 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, assuming a blank expression. 
 
 " Because — well, you know, I've always thought 
 of you as one of those people who have a right 
 to the best things of life. When I first heard that 
 you were married, before I knew your wife, I was 
 sure you had done the best thing." 
 
 " But why ? " he repeated mechanically. 
 
 " Oh, because I was sure you would do the right 
 thing." 
 
 He perceived that she was quite genuine in 
 speaking to him thus, and he was not a little 
 disappointed ; her seriousness exasperated him ; 
 she suddenly became to him wholly uninteresting ; 
 he wanted her no longer. 
 
 They talked on about his wife ; by-and-bye, to 
 change the topic, and to cover his indifference to 
 her, he asked concerning her Home, and she 
 recounted at considerable length how it was thriv- 
 ing, and of the peace of mind that the work had 
 brought her.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 63 
 
 When she seemed to have finished he rose, 
 saying that he must be getting home. Laughingly 
 she begged him to replace the photograph, which, 
 unconsciously, he had been holding in his left hand 
 all the while. He did so with a well-simulated 
 smile, and offered her a cheque in aid of the Home ; 
 but she shook her head, still laughing, telling him 
 to buy his wife a present with it instead. 
 
 And she bid him good-bye just as she had met 
 him, frankly, cordially. 
 
 In Bond Street he stopped to look at some 
 diamonds flashing in a jeweller's window ; two 
 pretty women were giggling together by his side, 
 and he wondered vaguely what he would do if 
 anything were to happen to his wife.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER.— II 
 
 I 
 
 THIS was four years later. 
 
 %r ifc $fc •sfr 3fc 
 
 She sat in a corner of a large London drawing- 
 room, and the two men stood before her — Hillier 
 Haselton, her husband, and George Swann, her 
 husband's cousin ; and, beyond them, the mellow 
 light of shaded candles, vague groupings of black 
 coats, white shirt-fronts, and gay-tinted dresses ; 
 and the noisy hum of conversation. 
 
 The subject that the two men were discussing 
 — and more especially Swann's blunt earnestness 
 — stirred her, though throughout it she had been 
 unpleasantly conscious of a smallness, almost a 
 pettiness, in Hillier's aspect. 
 
 " Well, but why not, my dear Swann ? Why 
 not be unjust ? man's been unjust to woman for 
 so many years." 
 
 Hillier let his voice fall listlessly, as if to rebuke 
 the other's vehemence ; and, to hint that he was 
 tired of the topic, looked round at his wife, noting
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 65 
 
 at the same time that Swann was observing how 
 he held her gaze in his meaningly. And the un- 
 expectedness of his own attitude charmed him — his 
 hot defence of an absurd theory, obviously evoked 
 by a lover-like desire to please her. Others, whose 
 admiration he could trust, would, he surmised, 
 have reckoned it a pretty pose. And she, perceiv- 
 ing that Swann seemed to take her husband's 
 sincerity for granted, felt a sting of quick regret 
 that she had ever come to understand him, and 
 that she could not still view him as they all viewed 
 him. 
 
 Hillier moved away across the room, and Swann 
 drew a stool beside her chair, and asking her for 
 news of Claude, her little boy, talked to her of 
 other things — quite simply, for they were grown 
 like old friends. He looked at her steadily, strok- 
 ing his rough, fair beard, as if he were anxious to 
 convey to her something which he could not put 
 into words. She divined : and, a little startled, 
 tried to thank him with her eyes ; but, embarrassed 
 by the clumsiness of his own attempt at sym- 
 pathetic perception, he evidently noticed nothing. 
 And this obtuseness of his disappointed her, since 
 it somehow seemed to confirm her isolation. 
 
 She glanced round the room. Hillier stood on 
 the hearth-rug, his elbow on the mantelpiece, busily 
 talking with slight, deferential gestures to the great 
 English actress in whose honour the dinner had 
 been given. The light fell on his smooth, glisten- 
 ing hair, on his quick, sensitive face ; for the 
 
 F
 
 66 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 moment, forcing herself to realize him as he 
 appeared to the rest, she felt a thrill of jaded pride 
 in him, in his cleverness, in his reputation, in his 
 social success. 
 
 Swann, observing the direction of her gaze, said 
 almost apologetically — 
 
 " You must be very proud of him." 
 
 She nodded, smiling a faint, assumed smile ; then 
 added, adopting his tone — 
 
 " His success has made him so happy." 
 
 " And you too ? " he queried. 
 
 " Of course," she answered quickly. 
 
 He stayed silent, while she continued to watch 
 her husband absently.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 67 
 
 II 
 
 Success, an atmosphere of flattery, suited Hillier 
 Haselton, and stimulating his weaknesses, continu- 
 ally encouraged him to display the handsomer 
 portion of his nature. For though he was yet young 
 — and looked still younger — there was always ap- 
 parent, beneath his frank, boyish relish of praise, 
 a semblance of serious modesty, a strain of genuine 
 reserve. And society — the smart, literary society 
 that had taken him up — found this combination 
 charming. So success had made life pleasant for 
 him in many ways, and he rated its value accord- 
 ingly ; he was too able a man to find pleasure in 
 the facile forms of conceit, or to accept, with more 
 than a certain cynical complacency, the world's 
 generous judgment on his work. Indeed, the 
 whole chorus of admiration did but strengthen his 
 contempt for contemporary literary judgments — a 
 contempt which, lending the dignity of deliberate 
 purpose to his indulgence of his own weakness for 
 adulation — procured him a refined, a private, and an 
 altogether agreeable self-satisfaction. When people 
 set him down as vastly clever, he was pleased ; 
 he was unreasonably annoyed when they spoke of 
 him as a great genius. 
 
 Life, he would repeat, was of larger moment
 
 68 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 than literature; and, despite all the freshness of 
 his success, his interest in himself, in the play of 
 his own personality, remained keener, and, in its 
 essence, of more lasting a nature than his ambition 
 for genuine achievement. The world — people with 
 whom he was brought into relation — stimulated 
 him so far as he could assimilate them to his 
 conception of his own attitude ; most forms of art 
 too, in great measure — and music altogether — 
 attracted him in the proportion that they played 
 upon his intimate emotions. Similarly his friend- 
 ships ; and for this reason he preferred the com- 
 panionship of women. But since his egoism was 
 uncommonly dexterous, he seemed endowed with 
 a rare gift of artistic perception, of psychological 
 insight, of personal charm. 
 
 It had always been his nature to live almost 
 exclusively in the present ; his recollection of past 
 impressions was grown scanty from habitual disuse. 
 His sordid actions in the past he forgot with an 
 ever-increasing facility ; his moments of generosity 
 or self-sacrifice he remembered carelessly, and 
 enjoyed a secret pride in their concealment ; and 
 the conscious embellishment of subjective ex- 
 perience for the purpose of " copy," he had instinc- 
 tively disdained. 
 
 Since his boyhood, religion had been distasteful 
 to him, though, at rare moments, it had stirred his 
 sensibilities strangely. Now, occasionally, the 
 thought of the nullity of life, of its great, un- 
 satisfying quality, of the horrid squalor of death,
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 69 
 
 would descend upon him with its crushing, paralyz- 
 ing weight ; and he would lament, with bitter, 
 futile regret, his lack of a secure stand-point, and 
 the continual limitations of his self-absorption ; 
 but even that, perhaps, was a mere literary melan- 
 choly, assimilated from certain passages by Pierre 
 Loti. 
 
 But, now, he had published a stout volume of 
 critical essays, and an important volume of poetry, 
 and society had clamorously ratified his own concep- 
 tion of himself. Certainly, now, in the eyes of the 
 world, it was agreed beyond dispute that she, his 
 wife, was of quite the lesser importance. " She 
 was nice and quiet," which meant that she seemed 
 mildly insignificant ; " she had a sense of humour," 
 which meant that an odd note of half-stifled 
 cynicism sometimes escaped her. He was evidently 
 very devoted to her, and on that account women 
 trusted him — all the more because her personality 
 possessed no obvious glamour. Perhaps, now and 
 then, his attentions to her in public seemed a little 
 ostentatious ; but then, in these modern, uncourtly 
 days, that in itself was distinctive. In private too, 
 especially at the moments when he found life 
 stimulating, he was still tactful and expansive with 
 sympathetic impulse ; from habit ; from pride in his 
 comprehension of women ; from dislike to cheap 
 hypocrisy. How could he have divined that bitter, 
 suppressed seriousness, with which she had taken 
 her disillusionment ; when not once in three months 
 did he consider her apart from the play of his own
 
 7° 
 
 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 personality ; otherwise than in the light of her 
 initial attitude towards him ? 
 
 And her disillusionment, how had it come ? 
 Certainly, not with a rush of sudden, overwhelming 
 revelation : certainly, it was in no wise inspired 
 by the tragedy of Nora Helmer. It had been a 
 gradual growth, to whose obscure and trivial 
 beginnings she had not had the learning to ascribe 
 their true significance. To sound the current of 
 life was not her way. She was naive by nature ; 
 and the ignorance of her girlhood had been due, 
 rather to a natural inobservance, than to carefully- 
 managed surroundings. And yet, she had come 
 to disbelieve in Hillier ; to discredit his clever 
 attractiveness : she had become acutely sensitive 
 to his instability, and, with a secret, instinctive 
 obstinacy, to mistrust the world's praise of his work. 
 Perhaps had he made less effort in the beginning 
 to achieve a brilliancy of attitude in her eyes ; 
 had he schooled her to expect from him a lesser 
 loftiness of aspiration, things might have been 
 very different ; or at least, there might have resulted 
 from the process of her disillusionment a lesser 
 bitterness of conviction. But she had taken her 
 marriage with so keen an earnestness of ideal, had 
 noted every turn in his personality with so intense 
 an expectation. Perhaps, too, had he detected the 
 first totterings of her ideal conception of him ; had 
 he aided her, as it were, to descend his figure from 
 that pedestal, where he himself had originally 
 planted it, together they might have set it un-
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 71 
 
 injured on a lower and less exposed plane. But he 
 had never heeded her subtle indications of its 
 insecurity : alone, she had watched its peril, awaiting 
 with a frightened fascination the day when it should 
 roll headlong in the dust. And, at intervals, she 
 would vaguely marvel, when she observed others, 
 whose superior perspicacity she assumed, display 
 no perception of his insincerity. Then the oppressive 
 sense that she — she, his wife, the mother of his child 
 — was the only one who saw him clearly, and the 
 unsurmountable shrinking from the relief of sharing 
 this sense with any one, made her sourly sensitive 
 to the pettiness, the meanness, the hidden, tragic 
 element in life. 
 
 A gulf had grown between them — that was how 
 she described it to herself. Outwardly their relations 
 remained the same ; but, frequently, in his con- 
 tinuance of his former attitude, she detected traces 
 of deliberate effort ; frequently, when off his guard, 
 he would abandon all pretension to it, and openly 
 betray how little she had come to mean to him. 
 There were, of course, moments also, when, at the 
 echo of his tenderness, she would feverishly compel 
 herself to believe in its genuineness ; but a minute 
 later, he would have forgotten his exaltation, and, 
 almost with irritation, would deliberately ignore 
 the tense yearning that was glowing within her. 
 
 And so, the coming of his success — a brilliant 
 blossoming into celebrity — had stirred her but fit- 
 fully. Critics wrote of the fine sincerity of his 
 poetry ; while she clung obstinately to her super-
 
 72 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 stition that fine poetry must be the outcome of a 
 great nobility of character. And, sometimes, she 
 hated all this success of his, because it seemed to 
 emphasize the gulf between them, and, in some 
 inexplicable way, to lessen her value in his eyes : 
 then again, from an impulse of sheer unselfishness, 
 she would succeed in almost welcoming it, because, 
 after all, he was her husband. 
 
 But of all this he noted nothing : only now and 
 then he would remind himself vaguely that she had 
 no literary leanings. 
 
 The little Claude was three years old. Before 
 his birth, Hillier had dilated much on the mysterious 
 beauty of childhood, had vied with her own awed 
 expectation of the wonderful, coming joy. During 
 her confinement, which had been a severe one, 
 for three nights in succession he had sat, haggard 
 with sleepless anxiety, on a stiff-backed dining- 
 room chair, till all danger was passed. But after- 
 wards, the baby had disappointed him sorely ; and 
 later, she thought he came near actively disliking it. 
 Still, reminding herself of the winsomeness of other 
 children at the first awakening of intelligence, she 
 waited with patient hopefulness, fondly fancying 
 a beautiful boy-child ; wide, baby eyes ; a delicious 
 prattle. Claude, however, attained no prettiness, as 
 he grew : from an unattractive baby he became an 
 unattractive child, with lanky, carroty hair ; a squat 
 nose ; an ugly, formless mouth. And in addition, 
 he was fretful, mischievous, self-willed. Hillier at 
 this time paid him but a perfunctory attention ;
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 73 
 
 avoided discussing him ; and, when that was not 
 possible, adopted a subtle, aggrieved tone that cut 
 her to the quick. For she adored the child ; 
 adored him because he was hers ; adored him for 
 his very defects ; adored him because of her own 
 suppressed sadness ; adored him for the prospect 
 of the future — his education, his development, his 
 gradual growth into manhood. 
 
 From the house in Cromwell Road the Haseltons 
 had moved to a fiat near Victoria Station : their 
 means were moderate ; but now, through the death 
 of a relative, Hillier was no longer dependent 
 upon literature for a living.
 
 74 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 III 
 
 George Swann was her husband's cousin ; and 
 besides, he had stood godfather to the little Claude. 
 He was the elder by eight years ; but Hillier 
 always treated him as if their ages were reversed, 
 and before Ella, used to nickname him the " Anglo- 
 Saxon," because of his loose, physical largeness, 
 his flaxen hair and beard, his strong simplicity of 
 nature. And Swann, with a reticent good-humour, 
 acquiesced in Hillier's tone towards him ; out of 
 vague regard for his cousin's ability ; out of respect 
 for him as Ella's husband. 
 
 Swann and Ella were near friends. Since their 
 first meeting, the combination of his blunt self- 
 possession, and his uncouth timidity with women, 
 had attracted her. Divining his simplicity, she 
 had felt at once at her ease with him, and, treat- 
 ing him with open, cousinly friendliness, had 
 encouraged him to come often to the house. 
 
 A while later, a trivial incident confirmed her 
 regard for him. They had been one evening to 
 the theatre together — she and Hillier and Swann — 
 and afterwards, since it was raining, she and Hillier 
 waited under the doorway, while he sallied out 
 into the Strand to find them a cab. Pushing his 
 way along the crowded street, his eyes scanning the
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 75 
 
 traffic for an empty hansom, he accidentally collided 
 with a woman of the pavement, jostling her off 
 the kerb into the mud of the gutter. Ella watched 
 him stop, gaze ruefully at the woman's splashed 
 skirt, take oft" his hat and apologize with profuse, 
 impulsive regret. The woman continued her 
 walk, and presently passed the theatre door. She 
 looked middle-aged : her face was hard and 
 animal-like. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon — it was summer-time — 
 as she was crossing the Park to pay a call in 
 Gloucester Square, she came across him sauntering 
 alone in Kensington Gardens. She stopped and 
 spoke to him : he seemed much startled to meet 
 her. Three-quarters of an hour later, when she 
 returned, he was sitting on a public bench beside 
 her path ; and immediately, from his manner, she 
 half guessed that he had been waiting for her. It 
 was a fortnight after Claude's christening : he 
 started to speak to her of the child, and so, talking 
 together gravely, they turned on to the turf, 
 mounted the slope, and sat down on two chairs 
 beneath the trees. 
 
 Touched by his waiting for her, she was anxious 
 to make friends with him ; because he was the 
 baby's godfather ; because he seemed alone in the 
 world ; because she trusted in his goodness. So 
 she led him, directly and indirectly, to talk of him- 
 self. At first, in moody embarrassment, he prodded 
 the turf with his stick ; and presently responded, 
 unwillingly breaking down his troubled reserve, and
 
 76 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 alluding to his loneliness confidingly, as if sure of 
 her sympathy. 
 
 Unconsciously he made her feel privileged to 
 thus obtain an insight into the inner workings of 
 his heart, and gave her a womanly, sentimental 
 interest in him. 
 
 Comely cloud-billows were overhead, and there 
 was not a breath of breeze. 
 
 They paused in their talk, and he spoke to her 
 of Kensington Gardens, lovingly, as of a spot which 
 had signified much to him in the past — Kensington 
 Gardens, massively decorous ; ceremoniously quiet ; 
 pompous, courtly as a king's leisure-park ; the slow, 
 opulent contours of portly foliage, sober-green, im- 
 mobile and indolent ; spacious groupings of tree- 
 trunks ; a low ceiling of leaves ; broad shadows 
 mottling the grass. The Long Water, smooth and 
 dark as a mirror ; lining its banks, the rhododen- 
 drons swelling with colour, cream, purple, and 
 carmine. The peacock's insolent scream ; a silently 
 skimming pigeon ; the joyous twitterings of birds ; 
 the patient bleating of sheep. . . . 
 
 At last she rose to go. He accompanied her as 
 far as the Albert Memorial, and when he had left 
 her, she realized, with a thrill of contentment, that 
 he and she had become friends.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 77 
 
 IV 
 
 That had been the beginning of George Swann's 
 great love for her. His was a slowly-moving 
 nature : it was gradually therefore that he came to 
 value, as a matter of almost sacred concern, the 
 sense of her friendship ; reverencing her with the 
 single-hearted, unquestioning reverence of a man 
 unfamiliar with women ; regarding altogether 
 gravely her relations with him — their talks on 
 serious subjects, the little letters she wrote to him, 
 the books that he had given her — Swinburne's 
 Century of Roundels ; a tiny edition of Shelley, bound 
 in white parchment ; Mrs. Meynell's Rhythm of Life. 
 He took to studying her intellectual tastes, the 
 topics that were congenial to her, her opinions on 
 men and women, with a quiet, plodding earnestness ; 
 almost as if it were his duty. Thus he learned her 
 love of simple country things ; gained a conception 
 of her girlhood's home ; of her father and mother, 
 staid country folk. He did not know how to him 
 alone she could talk of these things ; or of the 
 warm, deep-seated gratitude she bore him in con- 
 sequence ; but he reverted constantly to the topic, 
 because, under its influence, she always brightened, 
 and it seemed to ratify the bond of sympathy 
 between them.
 
 7 8 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 How much, as the months went by, she came to 
 mean to him, he had not in the least realized : 
 he had never thought of her as playing a part in 
 his own life ; only as a beautiful-natured woman, to 
 whom he owed everything, because, by some strange 
 chance, she had made him her friend. 
 
 Not even in his moments of idle, vagrant reverie, 
 did he think to ask more of her than this ; to intrude 
 himself further into her life ; to offer her more than 
 exactly that which she was expecting of him, 
 naturally never occurred to him. Yet, in a queer, 
 uncomfortable way, he was jealous of other men's 
 familiarity with her — vaguely jealous lest they 
 should supplant him, mistrustful of his own 
 modesty. And there was no service which, if she 
 had asked it of him, he would not have accomplished 
 for her sake ; for he had no ties. 
 
 But towards Hillier, since he belonged to her, 
 Swann's heart warmed affectionately : she had loved 
 and married him ; had made him master of her life. 
 So he instinctively extended to his cousin a portion 
 of the unspoken devotion inspired by Ella. Such 
 was the extent of his reverence for her, and his 
 diffidence regarding himself, that he took for 
 granted that Hillier was an ideal husband, tender, 
 impelled by her to no ordinary daily devotion : for, 
 that it should be otherwise, would have seemed to 
 him a monstrous improbability. Yet latterly, since 
 the coming of Hillier's success, certain incidents 
 had disconcerted him, filled him with ill-defined 
 uneasiness.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 79 
 
 From the first, he had been one of Hillier's 
 warmest admirers ; praising, whenever an oppor- 
 tunity offered, out of sheer loyalty to Ella, and 
 pride in his cousin, the fineness of form that his 
 poetry revealed. To her, when they were alone, he 
 had talked in the same enthusiastic strain : the first 
 time she had seemed listless and tired, and after- 
 wards he had blamed himself for his want of tact ; 
 on another occasion, he had brought her a laudatory 
 article, and she had turned the conversation 
 brusquely into another channel. And, since his 
 love for her — of which as yet he was himself 
 unconscious— caused him to brood over means of 
 pleasing her (he lived alone in the Temple), this 
 indication that he had jarred her sensibilities was 
 not lost upon him. 
 
 Hillier's attitude towards the little Claude, and 
 the pain that it was causing her, would in all 
 probability have escaped him, had she not alluded 
 to it once openly, frankly assuming that he had 
 perceived it. It was not indeed that she was in 
 any way tempted to indulge in the transitional 
 treachery of discussing Hillier with him ; but that, 
 distressed, yearning for counsel, she was prompted 
 almost irresistibly to turn to Swann, who had stood 
 godfather to the child, who was ready to join her in 
 forming anxious speculations concerning the future. 
 
 For of course he had extended his devotion to 
 the child also, who, at Hillier's suggestion, was 
 taught to call him Uncle George. Naturally his 
 heart went out to children : the little Claude, since
 
 80 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 the first awakening of his intelligence, had ex- 
 hibited a freakish, childish liking for him ; and, in 
 his presence, always assumed something of the 
 winsomeness of other children. 
 
 The child's preference for Swann, his shy mis- 
 trust of his father, were sometimes awkwardly 
 apparent ; but Hillier, so it seemed to Ella, so far 
 from resenting, readily accepted his cousin's pre- 
 dominance. " Children always instinctively know 
 a good man," he would say, laughing ; and Ella 
 would wince inwardly, discerning, beneath his air 
 of complacent humility, how far apart from her he 
 had come to stand. 
 
 Thus, insensibly, Swann had become necessary 
 to her, almost the pivot, as it were, of her life : to 
 muse concerning the nature of his feeling towards 
 her ; to probe its sentimental aspects, to accept his 
 friendship otherwise than with unconscious ease, 
 that was not her way. 
 
 But Hillier noted critically how things were 
 drifting, and even lent encouragement to their 
 progress in a way that was entirely unostentatious ; 
 since so cynical an attitude seemed in some 
 measure to justify his own conduct.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 8 1 
 
 V 
 
 For he was unfaithful to his wife. It was in- 
 evitable that the temptation, in the guise of a 
 craving for change, should come — not from the 
 outside, but from within himself. And he had 
 had no habit of stable purpose with which to 
 withstand it. Not altogether was it a vagrant, 
 generalized lusting after women other than his 
 wife ; not a mere harking back to the cruder ex- 
 periences of his bachelorhood ; though, at first, it 
 had seemed so to manifest itself. Rather was it 
 the result of a moody restlessness, of a dis- 
 satisfaction (with her, consciously, no ; for the 
 more that he sinned against her, the more lovable, 
 precious her figure appeared to him) kindled by 
 continual contact with her natural goodness. It 
 was as if, in his effort to match his personality with 
 hers, he had put too severe a strain upon the better 
 part of him. 
 
 He himself had never analyzed the matter more 
 exhaustively than this. The treacherous longing 
 had gripped him at certain moments, holding him 
 helpless as in a vice. He had conceived no reck- 
 less passion for another woman : such an eventu- 
 ality, he dimly surmised, was well-nigh improb- 
 
 G
 
 82 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 able. In his case brain domineered over heart : 
 to meet the first outbursting of his adoration for 
 his wife, he had drained every resource of his sen- 
 timentality. 
 
 Was it then an idle craving for adventure, a 
 school-boy curiosity clamouring for fresh insight 
 into the heart of women ? Mere experience was 
 unnecessary for the attainment of comprehension : 
 " to have lived " did not imply " to have under- 
 stood " : the most pregnant adventures, as he 
 knew, were those which entailed no actual un- 
 faithfulness. 
 
 And for these — subtle, psychological intimacies 
 — ample occasion offered. Yet the twist in his 
 nature led him to profess to treat them heedlessly ; 
 and, in reality, to prosecute them with no genuine 
 strenuousness. They would have been obvious 
 lapses : Ella would have been pained, pitied per- 
 haps : from that his vanity and his sham chivalry 
 alike shrank. 
 
 His unfaithfulness to her, then, had been prompted 
 by no evident motive. Superficially considered, it 
 seemed altogether gratuitous, meaningless. The 
 world — that is, people who knew him and her — 
 would probably have discredited the story, had it 
 come to be bruited. And this fact he had not 
 omitted to consider. 
 
 She, the other woman, was of little importance. 
 She belonged to the higher walks of the demi- 
 monde : she was young ; beautiful too, in a 
 manner ; light-hearted ; altogether complaisant.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 83 
 
 She was not the first : there had been others 
 before her ; but these were of no account whatso- 
 ever : they had but represented the bald fact of 
 his unfaithfulness. But she attracted him : he re- 
 turned to her again and again ; though afterwards, 
 at any rate in the beginning, he was wont to spare 
 himself little in the matter of self-reproach, and 
 even to make some show of resisting the temptation. 
 The discretion of her cynical camaraderie, however, 
 was to be trusted ; and that was sufficient to 
 undermine all virtuous resolution. She had the 
 knack, too, of cheering him when depressed, and, 
 curiously enough, of momentarily reinstating him 
 in his own conceit, though, later, on his return 
 to Ella, he would suffer most of the pangs of 
 remorse. 
 
 There was something mannish about her — not 
 about her physiognomy, but about her mind — 
 derived, no doubt, from the scantiness of her 
 intercourse with women. Her cynicism was both 
 human and humorous : she was a person of little 
 education, and betrayed none of the convention- 
 ality of her class : hence her point of view often 
 struck him as oddly direct and unexpected. He 
 used to talk to her about himself, candidly dis- 
 cussing all manner of random and intimate matters 
 before her, without shyness on his part, without 
 surprise on hers — almost at times as if she were 
 not present — and with an assumption of facile 
 banter, to listen to which tickled his vanity. Only 
 to Ella did he never allude ; and in this, of course,
 
 84 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 she tacitly acquiesced. She possessed a certain 
 quality of sympathetic tact ; always attentive to 
 his talk, never critical of it ; mindful of all that 
 he had previously recounted. He could always 
 resume his attitude at the very point where he had 
 abandoned it. Between them there was never any 
 aping of sentimentality. 
 
 That she comprehended him — with so fatuous 
 a delusion he never coquetted : nor that she in- 
 terested him as a curious type. She saw no 
 subtle significance in his talk : she understood 
 nothing of its complex promptings : she was 
 ordinary, uneducated, and yet stimulating — that 
 was the contrast which attracted him towards her. 
 Concerning the course of her own existence he did 
 not trouble himself : he accepted her as he found 
 her ; deriving a sense of security from the fact that 
 towards him her manner varied but little from 
 visit to visit. But, as these accumulated, be- 
 coming more and more regular, and his faith in 
 her discretion blunted the edge of his remorse, he 
 came to notice how she braced him, reconciled him 
 to his treachery ; (which, he argued, in any case was 
 inevitable) lent to it a spice almost of pleasantness. 
 Neither had he misgivings of the future, of how it 
 would end. One day she would pass out of his 
 life as easily as she had come into it. His relations 
 with her were odd, though not in the obvious way. 
 About the whole thing he was insensibly coming 
 to feel composed. 
 
 And its smoothness, its lack of a disquieting
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 85 
 
 aspect, impelled him to persevere towards Ella in 
 cheerfulness, courteous kindness, and a show of 
 continuous affection ; and to repent altogether of 
 those lapses into roughness which had marred the 
 first months of their marriage.
 
 86 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 VI 
 
 The hansoms whirled their yellow, gleaming eyes 
 down West : hot, flapping gusts went and returned 
 aimlessly ; and the mirthless twitterings of the 
 women fell abruptly on the sluggishly shuffling 
 crowd. All the sin of the city seemed crushed to 
 listlessness ; vacantly wistful, the figures waited by 
 the street corners. 
 
 Then the storm burst. Slow, ponderous drops ; 
 a clap of the thunder's wrath ; a crinkled rim of 
 light, unveiling a slab of sky, throbbing, sullen and 
 violet; small, giggling screams of alarm, and a 
 stampede of bunchy silhouettes. The thunder 
 clapped again, impatient and imperious ; and the 
 rain responded, zealously hissing. Bright stains of 
 liquid gold straggled across the roadway ; a sound 
 of splashing accompanied the thud of hoofs, the 
 rumble of wheels, the clanking of chains, and the 
 ceaseless rattle of the drops on the hurried proces- 
 sion of umbrellas. 
 
 Swann, from the corner of a crowded omnibus, 
 peered absently through the doorway, while the 
 conductor, leaning into the street, touted mechanic- 
 ally for passengers. 
 
 The vehicle stopped. A woman, bare-headed 
 and cloaked, escorted by the umbrella of a
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 87 
 
 restaurant official, hurried to the shelter of a cab, 
 across the wet pavement. A man broke the stream 
 of the hastening crowd ; halted beside the wheel to 
 stare. The woman laughed in recognition, noisily. 
 The man stepped rapidly on to the foot-board, and 
 an instant stood there, directing the driver across 
 the roof. The light from a lamp-post caught his 
 face : it was Hillier. The next moment he was 
 seated beside the woman, who was still laughing 
 (Swann could see the gleaming whiteness of her 
 teeth): the driver had loosened the window strap, the 
 glass had slid down, shutting them in. The omni- 
 bus jolted forward, and the cab followed in its wake, 
 impatiently, for the street was blocked with traffic. 
 
 Immediately, with a fierce vividness, Ella's image 
 sprang up before Svvann's eyes — her face with all 
 its pure, natural, simple sweetness. And there — 
 not ten yards distant, behind the obscurity of that 
 blurred glass, Hillier was sitting with another 
 woman — a woman concerning whose status he 
 could not doubt. 
 
 He clenched his gloved fists. The wild impulse 
 spurted forth, the impulse to drag the cur from the 
 cab, to bespatter him, to throw him into the mud, 
 to handle him brutally, as he deserved. It was as 
 though Hillier had struck him a cowardly blow in 
 the face. 
 
 Then the hansom started to creep past the 
 omnibus. Swann sprang into the roadway. A 
 moment later he was inside another cab, whirling 
 in pursuit down Piccadilly hill.
 
 88 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 The horse's hoofs splashed with a rhythmical, 
 accelerated precision : he noticed dully how the 
 crupper-strap flapped from side to side, across the 
 animal's back. Ahead, up the incline, pairs of 
 tiny specks, red and green, were flitting. 
 
 " It's the cab with the lady what come out of 
 the restaurant, ain't it, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes," Swann called back through the trap. 
 
 The reins tightened : the horse quickened his 
 trot. 
 
 Hyde Park Corner stood empty and resplendent 
 with a. glitter of glamorous gold. The cab turned 
 the corner of Hamilton Place, and the driver 
 lashed the horse into a canter up Park Lane. 
 
 " That's 'im — jest in front " 
 
 " All right. Follow," Swann heard himself an- 
 swering. And, amid his pain, he was conscious 
 that the man's jaunty tone seemed to indicate 
 that this sort of job was not unfamiliar. 
 
 He struggled to tame the savageness of his 
 indignation ; to think out the situation ; to realize 
 things coolly, that he might do what was best for 
 her. But the leaping recollection of all her trust- 
 fulness, her goodness, filled him with a burning, 
 maddening compassion. . . . He could see no- 
 thing but the great wrong done to her. . . . 
 
 Where were they going — the green lights of that 
 cab in front — that woman and Hillier? . . . Where 
 would it end, this horrible pursuit — this whirling 
 current which was sweeping him forward ? . . . It 
 was like a nightmare. . . ,
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 89 
 
 He must stop them — prevent this thing . . . . 
 but, evidently, this was not the first time. . . . 
 Hillier and this woman knew one another. He 
 had stopped on catching sight of her, and she had 
 recognized him. . . . The thing might have been 
 going on for weeks — for months. . . . 
 
 .... Yet he must stop them — not here, in the 
 crowded street (they were in the Edgware Road), 
 but later, when they had reached their destination 
 — where there were no passers — where it could be 
 done without scandal. . . . 
 
 .... Yes, he must send Hillier back to her. 
 . . . And she believed in him — trusted him. . . . 
 She must know nothing — at all costs, he must 
 spare her the hideous knowledge — the pain of 
 it. . . . And yet — and yet? . . . Hillier — 
 the blackguard — she would have to go on living- 
 with him, trusting him, confiding in him, loving 
 him. . . . 
 
 And for relief he returned wearily to his in- 
 dignation. 
 
 How was it possible for any man — married to 
 her— to be so vile, so false ? . . . The consummate 
 hypocrisy of it all. . . . 
 
 Swann remembered moments when Hillier's 
 manner towards her had appeared redolent of defer- 
 ence, of suppressed affection. And he— a man of 
 refinement — not a mere coarse-fibred, sensual brute 
 — he who wrote poetry — Swann recalled a couplet 
 full of fine aspiration— that he should have done 
 this loathsome thing — done it callously, openly —
 
 go SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 any one might have seen it — deceived her for some 
 common, vulgar, public creature. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the cab halted abruptly. 
 
 " They're pulled up, across the street there," the 
 driver whispered hoarsely, confidentially ; and for 
 his tone Swann could have struck him. 
 
 It was an ill-lit street, silent and empty. The 
 houses were low, semi-detached, and separated from 
 the pavement by railing and small gardens. 
 
 The woman had got out of the cab and was 
 pushing open the swing-gate. Hillier stood on the 
 foot-board, paying the cabman. Swann, on the 
 opposite side of the street, hesitated. Hillier 
 stepped on to the pavement, and ran lightly up the 
 door-step after the woman. She unlocked the 
 door : it closed behind them. And the hansom 
 which had brought them turned, and trotted away 
 down the street. 
 
 Swann stood a moment before the house, irreso- 
 lute ; then re-crossed the street slowly. And a 
 hansom, bearing a second couple, drew up at the 
 house next door.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 91 
 
 VII 
 
 " You can go to bed, Hodgson. I will turn off 
 the light." 
 
 The man retired silently. It was a stage-phrase 
 that rose unconsciously to his lips, a stage-situation 
 with which she was momentarily toying. 
 
 Alone, she perceived its absurd unreality. 
 Nothing, of course, would happen to-night : though 
 so many days and nights she had been waiting. 
 The details of life were clumsy, cumbersome : the 
 simplification of the stage, of novels, of dozing 
 dreams, seemed, by contrast, bitterly impossible. 
 
 She took up the book again, and read on, losing 
 herself for a while in the passion of its pages — a 
 passion that was all glamorous, sentimental felicity, 
 at once vague and penetrating. But, as she paused 
 to reach a paper-knife, she remembered the irre- 
 vocable, prosaic groove of existence, and that slow 
 drifting to a dreary commonplace — a common- 
 place that was hers — brought back all her aching 
 listlessness. She let the book slip to the carpet. 
 
 Love, she repeated to herself, a silken web, 
 opal-tinted, veiling all life ; love, bringing fragrance 
 and radiance ; love, with the moonlight streaming 
 across the meadows ; love, amid summer-leafed 
 woods, a-sparkle in the morning sun ; a simple
 
 92 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 clasping of hands ; a happiness, child-like and 
 thoughtless, secure and intimate. . . . 
 
 And she — she had nothing — only the helpless 
 child ; her soul was brave and dismantled and 
 dismal ; and once again started the gnawing 
 of humiliation — inferior even to the common 
 people, who could be loved and forget, in the 
 midst of promiscuous squalor. Without love, there 
 seemed no reason for life. 
 
 Away her thoughts sailed to the tale of the fairy- 
 prince, stepping to shore in his silver armour, come 
 to deliver and to love. She would have been 
 his in all humility, waited on him in fearful 
 submission ; she would have asked for nought but 
 his love. 
 
 Years ago, once or twice, men had appeared to 
 her like that. And Hillier, before they were 
 married, when they were first engaged. A strange 
 girl she must have been in those days ! And now, 
 — now they were like any husband and any wife. 
 
 " It happened by chance," the old tale began. 
 Chance ! Yes, it was chance that governed all 
 life ; mocking, ironical chance, daintily sportive 
 chance, hobbled to the clumsy mechanism of daily 
 existence. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck. Ten minutes more 
 perhaps, and Hillier would be home. She could 
 hear his tread ; she could see him enter, take off 
 his coat and gloves gracefully, then lift her face 
 lightly in his two hands, and kiss her on the fore- 
 head. He would ask for an account of her day's
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 93 
 
 doings ; but he would never heed her manner of 
 answering, for he would have begun to talk of 
 himself. And altogether complacently would he 
 take up the well-worn threads of their common life. 
 
 And she would go on waiting, and trifling with 
 hopelessness, for in real life such things were 
 impossible. Men were dull and incomplete, and 
 could not understand a woman's heart. . . . 
 
 And so she would wait, till he came in, and 
 when he had played his part, just as she had 
 imagined he would play it, she would follow him, 
 in dumb docility, up-stairs to bed. . . . 
 
 *■ * * * * 
 
 It was past one o'clock when he appeared. 
 She had fallen asleep in the big arm-chair : her 
 book lay in a heap on the carpet beside her. 
 He crossed the room, but she did not awake. 
 
 One hand hung over the arm of the chair, limp 
 and white and fragile ; her head, bent over her 
 breast, was coyly resting in the curve of her 
 elbow ; her hair was a little dishevelled ; her 
 breathing was soft and regular, like a child's. 
 
 He sat down noiselessly, awed by this vision of 
 her. The cat, which had lain stretched on the 
 hearth-rug, sprang into his lap, purring and caress- 
 ing. He thought it strange that animals had no 
 sense of human sinfulness, and recalled the devo- 
 tion of the dog of a prostitute, whom he had known 
 years and years ago. . . . 
 
 He watched her, and her unconsciousness loosed 
 within him the sickening pangs of remorse. . . .
 
 94 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 He mused vaguely on suicide as the only fitting 
 termination. . . . And he descended to cheap 
 anathemas upon life. . . . 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 By-and-bye she awoke, opening her eyes slowly, 
 wonderingly. He was kneeling before her, kissing 
 her hand with reverential precaution. 
 
 She saw tears in his eyes : she was still scarcely 
 awake : she made no effort to comprehend ; only 
 was impulsively grateful, and slipping her arms 
 behind his head, drew him towards her and kissed 
 him on the eyes. He submitted, and a tear 
 moistened her lips. 
 
 Then they went up-stairs. 
 
 And she, passionately clutching at every memory 
 of their love, feverishly cheated herself into bitter 
 self-upbraiding, into attributing to him a nobility 
 of nature that set him above all other men. And 
 he, at each renewed outburst of her wild straining 
 towards her ideal, suffered as if she had cut his 
 bare flesh with a whip. 
 
 It was his insistent attitude of resentful humility 
 that finally wearied her of the fit of false exaltation. 
 When she sank to sleep, the old ache was at her 
 heart.
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 95 
 
 VIII 
 
 Swann strode into the room. Hillier looked 
 up at him from his writing-table in unfeigned 
 surprise ; greeted him cordially, with a couple of 
 trite, cheery remarks concerning the weather, then 
 waited abruptly for an explanation of this morn- 
 ing visit ; for Swann's trouble was written on his 
 face. 
 
 " You look worried. Is there anything wrong ? " 
 Hillier asked presently. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, can I do anything? If I can be of any 
 service to you, old fellow, you know I " 
 
 " I discovered last night what a damned black- 
 guard you are." He spoke savagely, as if his 
 bluntness exulted him : his tone quivered with 
 suppressed passion. 
 
 Hillier, with a quick movement of his head, 
 flinched as if he had been struck in the face. And 
 the lines about his mouth were set rigidly. 
 
 There was a long, tense silence. Hillier was 
 drawing circles on a corner of the blotting-pad ; 
 Swann was standing over him, glaring at him with 
 a fierce, hateful curiosity. Hillier became conscious 
 of the other's expression, and his fist clenched 
 obviously.
 
 96 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I saw you get into a cab with that woman," 
 Swann went on. " I was in an omnibus going 
 home. I followed you — drove after you. I wanted 
 to stop you — to stop it — I was too late." 
 
 "Ah!" An exasperated, sneering note under- 
 lined the exclamation. Hillier drove the pen- 
 point into the table. The nib curled and snapped. 
 
 The blood rushed to Swann's forehead. In a 
 flash he caught a glimpse of the thought that had 
 crossed Hillier's mind. It was like a personal 
 indignity ; he struggled desperately to control 
 himself. 
 
 Hillier looked straight into his cousin's distorted 
 face. At the sight the tightness about his own 
 mouth slackened. His composure returned. 
 
 " I'm sorry. Forgive me," he said simply. 
 
 " How can you be such a brute ? " Swann burst 
 out unheeding. " Don't you care ? Is it nothing 
 to you to wreck your wife's whole happiness — to 
 spoil her life, to break her heart, to deceive her in 
 the foulest way, to lie to her ? Haven't you any 
 conscience, any chivalry ? " 
 
 The manly anguish in his voice was not lost 
 upon Hillier. He thought he realized clearly how 
 it was for Ella, and not for him, that Swann was 
 so concerned. Once more he took stock of his 
 cousin's agitation, and a quick glitter came into 
 his eyes. He felt as if a mysterious force had been 
 suddenly given to him. Still he said nothing. 
 
 " How could you, Hillier ? How came you to 
 doit?"
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 97 
 
 " Sit down." He spoke coldly, clearly, as if he 
 were playing a part which he knew well. 
 
 Swann obeyed mechanically. 
 
 " It's perfectly natural that you should speak to 
 me like that. You take the view of the world. 
 The view of the world I accept absolutely. Cer- 
 tainly I am utterly unworthy of Ella " (he mentioned 
 her name with a curious intonation of assertive 
 pride). " How I have sunk to this thing — the whole 
 story of how I have come to risk my whole happi- 
 ness for the sake of another woman, who is nothing 
 — absolutely nothing — to me, to whom I am no- 
 thing, I won't attempt to explain. Did I attempt 
 to do so, I see little probability of your understand- 
 ing it, and little to be gained even if you did so. 
 I choose to let it remain for you a piece of in- 
 comprehensible infamy : I have no wish to alter 
 your view of me." 
 
 " You don't care .... you've no remorse .... 
 you're callous and cynical. . . . Good God ! it's 
 awful." 
 
 "Yes, Swann, I care," Hillier resumed, lowering 
 his voice, and speaking with a slow distinctness, as 
 if he were putting an excessive restraint upon his 
 emotions. " I care more than ever you or any one 
 will ever know." 
 
 " It's horrible. ... I don't know what to think. 
 . . . Don't you see the awfulness of your wife's 
 position ? . . . Don't you realize the hideousness 
 of what you've done ? " 
 
 " My dear Swann, nobody is more alive to the 
 
 H
 
 98 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 consequences of what I've done than I am. I 
 have behaved infamously — I don't need to be told 
 that by you. And whatever comes to me out of 
 this thing " (he spoke with a grave, resigned sad- 
 ness) " I shall bear it." 
 
 " Good God ! Can you think of nothing but 
 yourself? Can't you see that you've been a 
 miserable, selfish beast — that what happens to you 
 matters nothing ? Can't you see that the only 
 thing that matters is your wife ? You're a miser- 
 able, skulking cur. . . . She trusted you — she be- 
 lieved in you, and you've done her an almost 
 irreparable wrong." 
 
 Hillier stood suddenly erect. 
 
 " What I have done, Swann, is more than a 
 wrong. It is a crime. Within an hour of your 
 leaving this room, I shall have told Ella everything. 
 That is the only thing left for me to do, and I shall 
 not shirk it. I shall take the full responsibility. 
 You did right to come to me as you did. You are 
 right to consider me a miserable, skulking cur" 
 (he brought the words out with an emphasized 
 bravery). " Now you can do no more. The re- 
 mainder of the matter rests between me and my 
 wife " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "And to think that you " Swann began 
 
 passionately. 
 
 " There is no object to be gained by our dis- 
 cussing the matter further," Hillier interrupted a 
 little loudly, but with a concentrated calm. " There
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 99 
 
 is no need for you to remain here longer." He put 
 his thumb to the electric-bell. 
 
 " The maid will be here in a moment to show 
 you out," he added. 
 
 Swann waited, blinking with hesitation. His 
 personality seemed to be slipping from him. 
 
 " You are going to tell her ? " he repeated slowly. 
 
 The door opened : he hurried out of the room. 
 
 The outer door slammed : Hillier's face turned 
 a sickly white ; his eyes dilated, and he laughed 
 excitedly — a low, short, hysterical laugh. He 
 looked at the clock : the whole scene had lasted 
 but ten minutes. He pulled a chair to the fire, 
 and sat staring at the flames moodily. . . . The 
 tension of the dramatic situation snapped. Before 
 his new prospect, once again he thought weakly of 
 suicide. . . .
 
 ioo SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 IX 
 
 He had told her — not, of course, the whole story 
 — from that his sensitivity had shrunk. Still he 
 had besmirched himself bravely ; he had gone 
 through with the interview not without dignity. 
 Beforehand he had nerved himself for a terrible 
 ordeal ; yet, somehow, as he reviewed it, now that 
 it was all over, the scene seemed to have fallen flat. 
 The tragedy of her grief, of his own passionate 
 repentance, which he had been expecting, had 
 proved unaccountably tame. She had cried, and 
 at the sight of those tears of hers he had suffered 
 intensely ; but she had displayed no suppressed, 
 womanish jealousy ; had not, in her despair, ap- 
 peared to regard his confession as an overwhelm- 
 ing shattering of her faith in him, and so provoked 
 him to reveal the depth of his anguish. He had 
 implored her forgiveness ; he had vowed he would 
 efface the memory of his treachery ; she had 
 acquiesced dreamily, with apparent heroism. There 
 had been no mention of a separation. 
 
 And now the whole thing was ended : to-night 
 he and she were dining out. 
 
 He was vaguely uncomfortable ; yet his heart 
 was full of a sincere repentance, because of the 
 loosening of the strain of his anxiety ; because of
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER lot 
 
 the smarting sense of humilation, when he recol- 
 lected Swann's words ; because he had caused 
 her to suffer in a queer, inarticulate way, which he 
 did not altogether understand, of which he was 
 vaguely afraid. . . .
 
 102 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 X 
 
 When at last he had left her alone, it was with 
 a curious calmness that she started to reflect upon 
 it all. She supposed it was very strange that his 
 confession had not wholly prostrated her ; and 
 glancing furtively backwards, catching a glimpse 
 of her old girlish self, wondered listlessly how it 
 was that, insensibly, all these months, she had 
 grown so hardened. . . . 
 
 ■3f ■* •& ■* -X- 
 
 By-and-bye, the recent revelation of his unfaith- 
 fulness seemed to recede slowly into the misty 
 past, and, fading, losing its sharpness of outline, its 
 distinctness of detail, to resemble an irreparable 
 fact to which familiarity had inured her. 
 
 And all the uneasiness of her mistrustfulness, 
 the pain of her fluctuating doubtings ceased ; her 
 comprehension of him was all at once clarified, 
 rendered vivid and indisputable ; and she was 
 conscious of a certain sense of relief. She was eased 
 of those feverish, spasmodic gaspings of her half- 
 starved love ; at first the dullness of sentimental 
 atrophy seemed the more endurable. She jibed 
 at her own natural artlessness ; and insisted to 
 herself that she wanted no fool's paradise, that she 
 was even glad to see him as he really was, to
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 103 
 
 terminate, once for all, this futile folly of love ; 
 that, after all, his unfaithfulness was no unusual 
 and terrible tragedy, but merely a commonplace 
 chapter in the lives of smiling, chattering women, 
 whom she met at dinners, evening parties, and 
 balls. . . . 
 
 *■ * * * •» 
 
 There were some who simpered to her over 
 Hillier as a model of modern husbands ; and she 
 must go on listening and smiling. . . . 
 
 . . . And the long years ahead would unroll 
 themselves — a slow tale of decorous lovelessness. . . 
 
 He would be always the same — that was the 
 hardest to face. His nature could never alter, 
 grow into something different .... never, never 
 change .... always, always the same. . . . 
 
 Oh ! it made her dread it all — the restless round 
 of social enjoyments ; the greedy exposure of the 
 petty weaknesses of common acquaintance ; the ill- 
 natured atmosphere that she felt emanating from 
 people herded together. . . . All the details of her 
 London life looked unreal, mean, pitiful. . . . 
 
 And she longed after the old days of her girl- 
 hood, of the smooth, staid country life ; she longed 
 after the simple, restful companionship of her old 
 father and mother ; after the accumulation of little 
 incidents that she had loved long ago. . . . She 
 longed too — and the straining at heart-strings 
 grew tenser — she longed after her own lost maiden- 
 hood ; she longed to be ignorant and careless ; 
 to see life once again as a simple, easy matter ; to
 
 104 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 know nothing of evil ; to understand nothing of 
 men ; to trust — to trust unquestioningly. . . . All 
 that was gone ; she herself was all changed ; those 
 days could never come again. . . . 
 
 And she cried to herself a little, from weakness 
 of spirit, softly. . . . 
 
 #■ #■ * ¥c * 
 
 Then, gradually, out of the weary turmoil of her 
 bitterness, there came to her a warm impulse of 
 vague sympathy for the countless, unknown 
 tragedies at work around her : she thought of the 
 sufferings of outcast women — of loveless lives, full 
 of mirthless laughter ; she thought of the long 
 loneliness of childless women. . . . 
 
 She clutched for consolation at the unhappiness 
 of others ; but she only discovered the greater 
 ugliness of the world. And she returned to a 
 tired contemplation of her own prospect. . . . 
 * * * # * 
 
 He had broken his vows to her — not only the 
 solemn vow he had taken in the church (she re- 
 called how his voice had trembled with emotion, 
 as he had repeated the words) — but all that passion- 
 ate series of vows he had made to her during the 
 spring-time of their love. . . . 
 
 . . . Yes, that seemed the worst part of it — that, 
 and not the making love to another woman. . . . 
 What was she like ? . . . What was it in her that 
 had attracted him ? . . . Oh ! but what did that 
 matter? . . . — only why were men's natures so 
 different from women's ? . . .
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 105 
 
 . . . Now, she must go on — go on alone. Since 
 her marriage she had lost the habit of daily converse 
 with Christ : here in London, somehow, He had 
 seemed so distant, so difficult of approach. . . . 
 
 . . . She must just go on. . . . She had the little 
 Claude. . . It was to help her that God had given 
 her Claude. . . . Oh ! she would pray to God to 
 make him good — to give him a straight, strong, 
 upright, honest nature. And herself, every day, 
 she would watch over his growth, guide him, teach 
 him. . . Yes, he must grow up good .... into boy- 
 hood .... different from other boys .... into 
 manhood, simple, honourable manhood. . . . She 
 would be everything to him : he and she would 
 come to comprehend each other, to read into each 
 other's hearts. . . . Perhaps, between them, would 
 spring up perfect love and trust. . . .
 
 io6 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 XI 
 
 Swann had written to her : — 
 
 " You are in trouble : let me come." 
 
 Gradually, between the lines of the note, she 
 understood it all — she read how his love for her 
 had leapt up, now that he knew that she was 
 unhappy ; how he wanted to be near her, to 
 comfort her, and perhaps .... perhaps .... 
 
 She was filled with great sorrow for him — and 
 warm gratitude, too, for his simple, single-hearted 
 love — but sorrow, that she could give him nothing 
 in return, and because it seemed that, somehow, he 
 and she were about to bid one another good-bye : 
 she thought she dimly foresaw how their friendship 
 was doomed to dwindle. . . . 
 
 So she let him come. 
 
 * #• #• ■* * 
 
 . . . And all this she fancied she read again in 
 the long, grave glance of his greeting, and the firm 
 clasp of his big hand. 
 
 When he spoke, his deep, steady voice dominated 
 her : she knew at once that he would do what was 
 right. 
 
 " Ella, my poor Ella, how brave you are ! " She 
 looked up at him, smiling tremulously, through 
 her quick-starting tears. . . . The next moment it
 
 A COMMONPLACE CHAPTER 107 
 
 was as if the words had escaped him — almost as if 
 he regretted them. 
 
 He sat down opposite her, and, lightening his 
 voice, asked — just as he always did — for news of 
 the little Claude. 
 
 And so their talk ran on. 
 
 After awhile, she came to realize that he meant 
 to say no more : the strength of his great reserve 
 became apparent, and a sense of peace stole over 
 her. He talked on, and to the restful sound of 
 his clear, strong voice, she abandoned herself 
 dreamily. . . . This he had judged the better 
 course .... that he should have adopted any other 
 now seemed inconceivable. Beside him she felt 
 weak and helpless : she remembered the loneliness 
 of his life : he seemed to her altogether noble ; and 
 she was vaguely remorseful that she had not 
 perceived from the first that it was from him that 
 her help would come. . . . 
 
 She divined, too, the fineness of his sacrifice — that 
 manly, human struggle with himself, through which 
 he had passed to attain it — how he had longed for 
 the right to make her his .... and how he had 
 renounced. The sureness of his victory, and the 
 hidden depths of his nature which it revealed, 
 awed her .... now he would never swerve from 
 what he knew to be right. . . . And on, through 
 those years to come, she could trust him, always, 
 always. . . . 
 
 ... At last he bid her good-bye : even at the 
 last his tone remained unchanged.
 
 10S SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 It was close upon seven o'clock. She went 
 up-stairs to dress for dinner, and kneeling beside 
 the bed, prayed to God with an outburst of 
 passionate, pulsing joy. . . . 
 
 Ten minutes later Hillier came in from his 
 dressing-room. He clasped his hands round her 
 bare neck, kissing her hair again and again. 
 
 " I have been punished, Nellie," he began in a 
 broken whisper. " Good God ! it is hard to bear. . . . 
 Help me, Nellie .... help me to bear it." 
 
 She unclasped his fingers, and started to stroke 
 them ; a little mechanically, as if it were her duty 
 to ease him of his pain. . . .
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 
 
 I 
 
 " You may smoke, you know, Ron, if you like. 
 I'm afraid I haven't any cigarettes, though." 
 
 " All right. I've got some here." 
 
 He dipped a spill into the grate, and stretching 
 himself on the hearthrug in front of her, steadied 
 the flame. Helen fell to musing on the graceful- 
 ness of the attitude he unconsciously adopted, the 
 natural nobility that, despite their boyish indecision, 
 his features suggested. 
 
 " Make haste, or you'll burn your fingers," she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 He puffed vigorously, for the paper was almost 
 consumed ; then gazed up at her in frank scrutiny. 
 
 " Well, what are you thinking about me ? " She 
 smiled ; her voice was soft and leisurely. 
 
 Blinking with surprise, he dropped his cigarette 
 into the fender, and sat up, clasping his hands 
 round his knees. 
 
 " How on earth did you know that ? " 
 
 " It wasn't so very difficult to guess. Now tell 
 me ; I'm very curious to know."
 
 no SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I was thinking how glad I am I've come to 
 live here," he said simply. 
 
 " You dear boy ! " She was flushing with quick 
 pleasure. 
 
 " You see, Helen," he continued seriously, " I 
 should have been beastly dull all alone, and you 
 have to know a man awfully well before you can 
 go into rooms with him. I found that out at 
 Oxford. I used to wonder a great deal what it 
 would be like, my living with you. I think you're 
 changed tremendously." 
 
 " Changed — how ? " 
 
 " I don't know exactly, it's so difficult to explain. 
 But in the old days— that time you came down to 
 Battlebury — you seemed just the same as all other 
 girls. You're absolutely different now. I think it 
 is," he stumbled over his thoughts, "that you're 
 more like a man than any one I've known. I 
 mean I felt at home with you at once, just as if 
 we were old friends. Most women are so silly to 
 talk to." 
 
 " What a queer boy you are ! " she laughed. 
 
 " I'm not queer a bit," he retorted, picking up 
 the cigarette. " I'm only just a rather dense, 
 ordinary sort of chap." 
 
 " So you're really glad you've come ? " 
 
 " Rather. But I don't mind telling you now 
 that I didn't care much for the idea, when you 
 first wrote about it from India. I wanted to be 
 independent. I was sick of being looked after." 
 
 " What made you change your mind ? "
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK m 
 
 " Oh, several things. That second letter you 
 wrote me. I thought you'd be lonely perhaps, 
 
 now — now that " He sent her a quick, shy 
 
 glance. 
 
 " Dear ! " Her hand stretched out towards his. 
 " You're right. I did feel utterly lonely ; as if the 
 world had suddenly grown empty all around me. 
 And Hal, just before he died — almost the last 
 words " — (her voice was quavering) " said, ' When 
 you get back look after Ronald.' We often talked 
 about you, and he used to wait for your letters so 
 eagerly. He was so fond of you." 
 
 Ronald stared stiffly into the fire, struggling 
 with his emotion. 
 
 Presently he perceived her eyes glistening. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm so awfully sorry — I didn't mean to 
 make you cry. What a stupid ass I am ! " 
 
 " No, dear, it's not your fault. It's nothing. 
 You couldn't help it. Go on talking. It's better 
 to talk about these things." 
 
 "I wish I remembered Hal better," he began 
 gravely, after a pause. "You see it's nine years 
 since he went away. I was a lower-boy at Eton 
 then. He and I never saw very much of each 
 other; he was so much older. I used to think 
 about him a good deal though, after mother died. 
 I suppose it was having to be alone with father. 
 That was a beastly time. I used to mark off the 
 days till I went back to Eton on a calendar." 
 
 " Why, didn't you get on with your father ? " 
 
 " Get on with him — no, I never did. I dare say
 
 112 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 you'll think I oughtn't to talk like this, but I can't 
 help it. Directly I get into the same room with 
 him I feel uncomfortable." 
 
 " Oh, Ronald : what a pity ! " 
 
 " I dare say it's all my fault ; but it's just as if I 
 had to bottle myself up, and pretend to see every- 
 thing just as he does. He makes me feel ever so 
 far beneath him. It was always the same." 
 
 " But hadn't you any friends down there ? " 
 
 " No ; no one much. Sometimes some of my 
 Eton friends came to stay ; but he always used to 
 treat me before them as if I was a little school- 
 boy — and them too sometimes. I hated it awfully, 
 and of course I never could do anything. You 
 can't imagine how keen fellows at school are about 
 their people." 
 
 " And after — when you went to Oxford ? " 
 
 " Oh ! then I used to stay about with people as 
 much as I could. One summer I went on a 
 walking tour round the west coast of Scotland, 
 with a sort of tutor. We had a ripping time. Of 
 course one had an enormous number of friends up 
 at Oxford. That's the worst of Oxford, one knows 
 such a crowd of men. But they're all so much 
 alike, Oxford men, I think. They all say the 
 same things." 
 
 * * * * #- 
 
 She rose presently from her chair, to look at 
 the clock. 
 
 " Why, it's eleven already. What time would 
 you like to breakfast to-morrow?"
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 113 
 
 "Well, I've got to be at the crammer's at half- 
 past nine." 
 
 " Shall I order it for half-past eight then ? " 
 
 " That'll do splendidly." 
 
 " Good-night, Ronald." 
 
 " Good-night," he answered a little awkwardly, 
 jumping to his feet. 
 
 Her hand lingered affectionately in his. 
 
 " Put out the lamp when you go up," she added, 
 at the door.
 
 ii 4 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 II 
 
 When Helen awoke next morning, her first 
 thought was of Ronald. Like a ray of glad sun- 
 shine, it came to her. She looked forward eagerly 
 to the companionship of this first breakfast with 
 him, impatient to begin the routine of the life 
 together. So she hurried over her dressing that 
 she might get down-stairs quickly, to greet him. 
 She was tall and loosely-knit ; flaxen hair, a 
 swinging gait, and a large simplicity of gesture 
 that seemed inappropriately clothed in widow's 
 weeds. Her features, though faulty and individu- 
 ally insignificant, achieved, in their combination, an 
 immediate charm, by means of the rare spontaneity, 
 fearlessness almost, of regard. 
 
 Her marriage with Ronald's elder brother had 
 been an unison almost without flaw. In the gentle- 
 ness of his unsoiled instincts, backed by sheer 
 robustness, she had definitely realized her ideal of 
 the lovable in man. Alone with him in a beautiful 
 and remote station, where the sequence of dreamy, 
 uneventful days cheated the flight of time, she had 
 drifted, unchecked, into an entire merging of her- 
 self in the play of his personality. For she had no 
 child. 
 
 Later, when they removed to Calcutta, amid the
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 115 
 
 novelty of strange faces, social tasks, and the annual 
 summer separation, their intimacy was securely 
 sealed, beyond danger of damage. 
 
 It was in the spring of the third year there that 
 he died, at the end of five days' fever. 
 
 During the night after the funeral, she attempted 
 to take poison ; the thought that she was left 
 behind maddened her. There followed a long 
 period of nervous prostration and emotional numb- 
 ness, while time built for her a barrier between the 
 present and the past. 
 
 When she was herself again, she was conscious 
 of but one desire — to avoid the faces who had 
 known him, to be alone with her sorrow. By- 
 and-bye, vague, filtering hopes of relief by the 
 side of his young brother Ronald roused her. 
 She started for England. Sometimes, during the 
 voyage, sitting on deck, watching the lazy rhythm 
 of blue billows, she dimly foresaw how, if the 
 boy failed her, life would be altogether dismal 
 and bare. Then the intolerable ache of yearning 
 would start again, the sickening remembrance that 
 Hal was gone, gone for always, that it was over, 
 that it could never be again. It was but listlessly 
 that she clutched at belief in a meeting after 
 death ; she could not escape from the near presence 
 of the irrevocable. 
 
 But when Ronald arrived from Oxford, to live 
 with her in her new London house, while he worked 
 for his army examination, her torpor lifted, like 
 a murky fog-curtain, and she beheld the world
 
 n6 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 a-glitter once more. A haze settled down over the 
 memories of the past, blurring their edge, and the 
 traces of her sorrow faded, leaving her bright with 
 vitality. 
 
 While she was coiling her hair, she saw him 
 again, as a lanky, unattractive boy, who was 
 stubbornly rude to her because she was engaged to 
 his elder brother. Once Hal had boxed his ears, 
 and sent him in to her to apologize. He stood 
 sheepishly in the doorway, his face aflame, throw- 
 ing his excuse at her defiantly. And before she 
 could attempt to soothe him, he was gone in 
 ruffled dignity. 
 
 How like he had grown to Hal — a certain poise 
 of the head, certain tones of his voice ! At first 
 she had recoiled from this resemblance ; but now, 
 she was happy in brooding on it. For it removed 
 the strained sense of strangeness, and swathed in 
 a soft tint of melancholy the prospect of her 
 affection for him.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 117 
 
 III 
 
 Ronald adapted himself to his new surroundings 
 with the quick pliability of youth still innocent of 
 habit ; traversing in the transition from boisterous 
 irresponsibility to the restraint of routine no inter- 
 mediary period of restlessness. The repetition of 
 the daily morning walk to his crammer's ; of the 
 return across the Park, all wrapped in the drab 
 haze of lingering day ; of the uneventful evenings, 
 when, lulled to drowsy contentment by the day's 
 work, he talked idly to Helen — he accepted its 
 whole quiet monotony with easy cheerfulness. 
 
 And he grew to enjoy the hours spent with her. 
 Little by little she encouraged him to assume with 
 her small airs of authority, almost of proprietorship ; 
 to insist on her wearing furs when the wind was 
 bitter, or thick boots when the streets were wet. 
 Thus she made him conscious of his male superi- 
 ority, impregnating with a subtle charm the novelty 
 of his independence. He thought now of his 
 father's attitude towards him with aggressive 
 disgust. Feminine companionship was new to 
 him, and close familiarity with her provoked in 
 him a vague, questioning interest in womankind. 
 His consciousness of sex slept less soundly. 
 
 Meanwhile, stimulated by pride in his own
 
 nS SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 conscientiousness, he accomplished his daily tasks 
 thoroughly ; looking forward to his profession 
 eagerly, stirred when a regiment passed him in 
 the park, discussing with Helen historical cam- 
 paigns. Several of the faces at the crammer's 
 were familiar to him ; but he purposely restricted 
 all intercourse to conventional greetings ; flat com- 
 ments on the weather or the work ; curt, mutual 
 recollections of Oxford men. All proposals for 
 evening amusements he declined, unwilling for 
 change.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 119 
 
 IV 
 
 One evening, when they had finished dinner, 
 Helen retired to her room. Ronald sat for a while 
 in the drawing-room fidgeting with his note-books. 
 He was sick of work, sick of the sight of the shiny 
 covers. The sense of cramping confinement chafed 
 him, his legs tingled with pent-up energy, he was 
 eager for activity. He left the house. Tightening 
 his sinews, stiffening his shoulder, ready from sheer 
 excess of vigour to buffet the passers, he strode 
 alcng. 
 
 * ■* •* ■* * 
 
 Immediately he entered the theatre, the sudden 
 sight of the scene stopped him, revealed, as it 
 were, through a great gap. The stage blazed 
 white ; masses of recumbent girls, bathed in soft 
 tints, swayed to dreamy cadence of muffled violins, 
 before the quivering, gold-flecked minarets of an 
 Eastern palace. He leaned against the side of the 
 lounge to gaze down across the black belt of 
 heads. The sight bewildered him. By-and-bye he 
 became conscious of a hum of voices and a con- 
 tinual movement behind him. He turned to look. 
 
 Men, for the most part in evening dress, were 
 passing in procession to and fro, some women 
 amongst them, smiling as they twittered mirthlessly ;
 
 120 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 now and then he caught glimpses of others seated 
 before little round tables ; vacant, impassive, like 
 wax-work figures, he thought. He felt ill-at-ease, 
 almost wished he had not come in. A vision of 
 Helen, pale with headache, flitted before his mind's 
 eye, succeeded by a glimmering perception :>f the 
 sense of things. He started in chase of this fleeting 
 perception, only to entangle himself amidst the 
 incoherence of novel sensation. Then his face 
 grew hot, the gaze of one of the seated figures was 
 upon him ; he turned hastily back to the stage. 
 
 He was throbbing with trepidating curiosr.y, 
 buffeted by irresolution. The music clashed 
 triumphantly, and the dancers massed together, 
 formed a solid, whirling wheel of glittering 
 humanity. Exhilaration and a quiet, tense com- 
 posure took possession of him. As he faced round 
 again his foot encountered an obstacle. 
 
 " I beg your pardon." The exclamation came 
 mechanically. 
 
 " It didn't hurt a bit." 
 
 Amusement was dancing in her big, baby eyes, 
 and friendliness on her open lips. The strains of 
 the band, the restless flow around him, everything 
 vanished ; he was only aware of her face sparkling 
 upon him. 
 
 The ceasing of her voice nipped the spell, and 
 he dropped back to consciousness of the external. 
 He comprehended in a flash that he was talking 
 to a girl in the lounge of a music-hall. And the 
 image of Helen flitted past, almost unobserved.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 121 
 
 Beside the girl he felt himself clumsy and 
 clownish ; he recollected his muddy boots. 
 
 " Have you been here before ? " she was asking 
 him. 
 
 He was busy noting her large-brimmed, black 
 velvet hat ; the soft duskiness of her skin, which a 
 feather boa caressed ; her white, tight-fitting gloves, 
 and the gold bangles on her wrists. 
 
 " No, I've only just come," he answered. 
 
 Her face still sparkled. 
 
 " Have you been here long ? " he stammered. 
 
 She had not heard him ; she was smiling across 
 at some one in the crowd. He imagined that she 
 was slipping from him, and roused himself rudely 
 from his contemplation. 
 
 "Aren't there any seats ?" His eyes pretended 
 to search the balcony ostentatiously ; but in reality 
 everything appeared blurred. 
 
 " Let's go and see," she suggested, bringing her 
 glance back to him. 
 
 They moved to the gangway, and he sat down 
 beside her in the back row. Her tiny, shell-like 
 ear held his gaze, while he beat his brain for some 
 remark which would cause her to think well of him. 
 
 " Did you see the performing birds ? " she said. 
 <( I love birds. I've got one at home. He sings 
 beautifully." 
 
 " No, I didn't see them. Were they good ? " 
 
 "There are two pigeons, who draw a carriage 
 with some dressed-up sparrows in it, right round 
 the stage."
 
 122 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " By Jove ! I wish I'd seen that." 
 
 " They've been going on a long while. Haven't 
 you been here before ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do you generally go to the Alhambra ? " 
 
 " No, I've not been there either yet. I've only 
 been in town a short while, you see. And I'm 
 working very hard." 
 
 " You're in business ? " 
 
 " No, I'm going in for an exam — for the army." 
 
 " Is it very difficult ? " 
 
 " Yes. You see one has to know such a lot of 
 different things." 
 
 " You're awfully young," she said presently. 
 
 He reddened, apprehensive of her disapprobation. 
 
 " Yes, awfully young," she concluded decisively. 
 
 She seemed to be thinking to herself. The 
 music had softened again. She was beautiful, he 
 thought, and abandoned himself to the glow of 
 pride at being with her. 
 
 " What's your name ? " she asked. 
 
 " Ronald Thornycroft. And — will you tell me 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Midge." 
 
 " Midge— what ? " 
 
 " Midge — that's all — nothing else." Her face 
 was sparkling upon him, as when she had first 
 spoken to him. " Do you know any of the girls 
 here ? " she began. 
 
 " No— do you ? " 
 
 " Do you live by yourself? "
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 123 
 
 " Yes, mostly ; my father lives in the country and 
 my mother is dead." 
 
 " I'm so sorry," she exclaimed. Her tone 
 troubled him instantly ; her face, he saw, had 
 grown quite grave. 
 
 " It's a long time ago," he explained. Their eyes 
 met, and she smiled at him again. 
 
 "Do you know, I'm going home next month — 
 down to the country. I love the country." 
 
 " So do I," he answered. 
 
 " And the sea-side ? Do you care for the sea- 
 side ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I haven't been there much." 
 
 " I was down there in the summer. I'm awfully 
 fond of the roar of the waves and the wind, when 
 the sea gets black and angry, and seems to show 
 its teeth." 
 
 The music crashed before stopping ; the curtain 
 slid down. 
 
 " Shall we go back ? The ballet's over. Lend 
 me your programme." 
 
 He waited while she wrote with a tiny silver 
 pencil-case. As they regained the lounge, she 
 thrust the programme into his hand, saying — 
 
 " There's my address." 
 
 He took it and moved forward to a clear space. 
 When he turned to look for her she was gone.
 
 124 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 V 
 
 Midge was feeding her canary, humming a waltz- 
 tune to herself the while : lazily lingering over the 
 thrill that filtered through her, as she reminded 
 herself how, since last night, she had fallen in 
 love. . . . 
 
 "Don't," she exclaimed, with an affectation of 
 pettishness, roused from her dream-land by the nip 
 of the bird's beak. "What a bother you are, 
 master impatience!" She scattered some hemp 
 seeds over the floor of the cage : the plump little 
 mass of yellow fluff hopped down, vigorously dip- 
 ping his head. 
 
 .... He'd got such a nice face. ... If she 
 could just be friends with him .... keep him to 
 herself. . . . out of the way of harm. . . . He looked 
 so young .... she could become such friends with 
 a boy like that .... real friends .... different, 
 separate from the others. . . . He had made her 
 feel so queer, uncomfortable, unhappy almost, last 
 night : she couldn't help running- away from him 
 .... he might so easily have spoilt it all for her. 
 . . . And she had lain awake in the dark, such 
 a long while, dreaming about him. . . . Yes, she 
 was quite in love with him. . . . 
 
 She moved to the window. The hoar-frost had
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 125 
 
 come, decking the trees in the square ; and the sky 
 was white with the glare of the winter sun. How 
 pretty everything looked in the clear morning 
 light ! A man with a barrow-full of cabbages was 
 moving slowly down the street, leading his donkey, 
 all brown and furry, chanting as he went. She 
 tried to catch the meaning of his cry. ... A 
 congregation of fat sparrows were taking their 
 dust-bath and combing their wings in the road- 
 way. One little fellow had lost his tail : he was so 
 comical when he tried to fly. 
 
 She crumbled a biscuit on to the window-sill, 
 and hid behind the curtain, peeping and waiting. 
 But they refused to come ; they sat in a row on the 
 railings, jerking their heads from side to side, as if 
 by clockwork. She began to hum the waltz-tune 
 over again. 
 
 .... Yes, something about that boy's face was 
 sweet and gentle. . . . She'd never known any one 
 quite like him. . . . She felt certain they would 
 get along together. . . . How that tune kept run- 
 ning in her head ! . . . 
 
 She seated herself before the piano, and started 
 to strum it. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Of a sudden, in the full, languorous swing of a 
 phrase, the piano-lid crashed, rattling the whole 
 room. She had caught his reflection in the mirror. 
 
 " My goodness ! " she gasped, half swinging 
 round on the stool. " How you did startle me ! "
 
 126 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I'm very sorry. ... I didn't mean to." He 
 stood blinking at her white cheeks. 
 
 " There, it's all right now. ... It made me feel 
 quite bad. ... I never expected you'd come — so 
 soon, I mean. ... I was just thinking about you." 
 
 There was a red hat-mark across his forehead ; 
 otherwise he was just the same as last night ; his 
 open stare was unchanged. 
 
 " Had breakfast ? " 
 
 " Yes— at half-past eight." 
 
 " Oh ! I forgot — you've got a holiday to-day ? " 
 
 " It's Sunday." 
 
 " So it is ! " she cried, her face rippling. " Fancy 
 my not knowing that. How dreadful ! " Then, 
 ruefully examining her skirt — " And I'm not fit to 
 be seen." 
 
 "But you are, really — you're lovely," he blurted 
 out hastily, combating in all seriousness her depre- 
 ciation of herself. " I think you're even prettier 
 than last night." 
 
 She uttered a quick, nervous laugh. 
 
 Her unloosened hair was romping in rich folds 
 over her shoulders ; a white flannel dressing-gown 
 clung to her bust, while within the hollow of her 
 falling sleeves he perceived her white arms. She 
 reminded him of some school-picture of a Greek 
 priestess. And his eyes went on devouring her. 
 
 " Please sit down. You look so uncomfort- 
 able. ... I say, are you always solemn like this ? 
 You don't know how glum you look. No wonder 
 you startled me."
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 127 
 
 He coloured, and sat down opposite her stiffly. 
 
 " There, don't be vexed ; I didn't mean to laugh 
 at you, Ronald. You see I've remembered your 
 name." 
 
 His eyes were travelling round the room ; he 
 was unaware how she was watching him. 
 
 " Is that your canary ? " he said at last. 
 
 " Come and look at him ; he's such a darling." 
 
 " Does he do any tricks ? " he asked, as they 
 stood together by the cage. 
 
 " No — only bites — awfully hard sometimes." 
 
 She chirped to the bird, pursing her lips. He 
 felt his heart thump ; his teeth began to chatter. 
 
 " How cold you are ! Go and warm yourself at 
 the fire. ... I say, I've got an idea. Do you 
 know a game called Badminton ? " 
 
 " No ; what is it ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it's splendid fun. It's like lawn-tennis, only 
 you play with battledores and shuttlecocks. . . . 
 Here, just move these chairs out of the way. . . . 
 Now the table. . . . Mind ! you'll spill the flowers. . . . 
 Wait, I'll help you. . . . Now for the string. There 
 it is on the piano. . . . Catch hold of the end — see, 
 it wants knotting. . . . This nail '11 do. . . . Tie 
 the other end on to the curtain hook — no, you 
 silly boy, over there, opposite. . . . Now that anti- 
 macassar. . . . Give us your handkerchief. Spread 
 them out over the string. . . . That's beautiful. . . . 
 Now for the battledores. They're on the top of 
 the cupboard. . . . Get on the table. . . . Take 
 care — you'll fall. . . . Put your hand on my
 
 128 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 shoulder. . . . All right, it doesn't hurt. Lean on 
 me. . . . Now then, you go the other side. . . . I'll 
 begin. Ready ! Play ! " 
 
 Pang ! pang ! pang ! pang ! . . . the shuttle- 
 cock flew from one to the other. At last it struck 
 the string, hesitated, and toppled over. 
 
 " Good stroke ! " he cried enthusiastically. 
 " What's that ? Fifteen ? How do you count ? " 
 
 " That's nothing." 
 
 " No, no ; of course it must count." 
 
 " Don't contradict. Play ! " 
 
 The shuttlecock whizzed to and fro. Both were 
 warming to the game. They were evenly matched, 
 though she played with easy skill, and he with 
 laborious clumsiness. Their countenances grew 
 graver and graver, only intent on the flight of the 
 feathers. For several minutes no comment passed 
 between them, only, at the end of each bout, 
 Ronald mechanically registered the score. 
 
 " Take that ! " he called suddenly, loosing his 
 energy awkwardly in a slash. But the shuttlecock 
 shot under the string, and tumbled at her feet. 
 
 " Hurrah ! Game to me ! " And she clapped 
 her battledore gleefully. 
 
 "Your service," he replied grimly. And, with 
 a renewed volley of battledore blows, the battle 
 raged again. 
 
 .... Deuce ! . . . Vantage in ! . . . Midge held 
 the game, playing securely, while Ronald contorted 
 his body to ungainly angles. He seemed on the 
 point of missing every time.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 129 
 
 All at once her battledore caught a picture-edge 
 and the shuttlecock alighted on the floor. 
 
 " Damn that thing ! " she broke out, vindictively 
 staring in its face. 
 
 "Come," remonstrated Ronald from across the 
 barrier. " You've another chance yet." 
 
 " Play ! " she called excitedly. But she failed to 
 reach the return volley. The game was his. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Ugh ! I am hot." She flung herself into an 
 arm-chair. " Have a cigarette ? There's some in 
 that case on the mantelpiece." 
 
 He saw two letters, G. S., stamped on the leather 
 inside. Why were they there ? he wondered 
 rapidly. 
 
 " Well, and me ? Aren't you going to offer me 
 one ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon." 
 
 " Perhaps you think it wrong to smoke ? " she 
 queried, roguishly turning her eyes up to him, the 
 cigarette between her lips. 
 
 " No, I don't— not at all." 
 
 " Then give me a light." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " I say, you were awfully shy at first, weren't 
 you ? " She was pensively flicking the ash with 
 her little finger. 
 
 " Yes," he acknowledged, colouring. " But I'm 
 not a bit now," he added, smiling at her frankly. 
 
 " No, I see that," she retorted. 
 
 K
 
 no SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Why did you disappear like that last night ? 
 Were you offended with me ? " 
 
 She sat without answering, perplexedly watching 
 the ascending streak of smoke. Presently she 
 looked up, her expression clear. 
 
 " I'll tell you straight out all about it. The 
 minute you spoke to me I liked your face awfully. 
 You somehow seemed to me quite different from 
 all the rest. . . . You looked so young and shy and 
 bewildered. And then, I was afraid you'd say 
 something — you wouldn't understand how it was 
 I liked you. It was just an idea of mine. . . . 
 When I got home I thought how jolly it would 
 be if I were to be friends with you— proper 
 friends, I mean. I wouldn't mind if I didn't see you 
 very often ; if only I just knew it was like that. I 
 wouldn't bother you ; I can look after myself all 
 right." She stopped in anxious expectancy. 
 
 He felt himself suddenly overflowing with devo- 
 tion to her ; he longed desperately to be able to 
 afford her some striking proof of his gratitude. 
 And the novel sense of important responsibility 
 towards her swelled his exultation. 
 
 " I will be your friend always," he answered 
 simply. 
 
 " Perhaps I seem to you ridiculous, talking like 
 this when I have only seen you once before. But 
 I'm like that. I always do things just as they 
 come. It's my way — I can't help it. If I could, 
 perhaps things would have been quite different. 
 Now you know exactly what I am, don't you ? "
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 131 
 
 He flushed crimson : his whole being rose in 
 revolt against the brutal thought she forced upon 
 him. His troubled glance appealed to her, but 
 she did not seem to notice. The moment of silence 
 that followed quickened the whirl of his perplexity. 
 
 " Yes," he blurted out, with a supreme effort. 
 " But that doesn't matter. ... It doesn't make any 
 difference. ... It isn't your fault, I mean. . . . 
 You aren't any the worse. ... I respect you just 
 the same. . . ." Hot shame hustled the words 
 helter-skelter to his lips. 
 
 "You're a dear good boy to say that. But 
 you're wrong. I don't mind telling you that. I've 
 got no one to blame but myself. . . . Promise me 
 you'll come and see me again. . . . Promise." 
 
 " I promise," he said solemnly, " to do whatever 
 you ask me." 
 
 As he ceased speaking, she laughed a little 
 excitedly. Then jumping up, with a sudden light- 
 ness of tone — 
 
 " My goodness ! I am hungry. Aren't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am, rather." 
 
 "Well now, tell me, what would you like for 
 lunch ? " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "I'm most awfully sorry — the fact is, I ought 
 to go home. My sister-in-law asked a friend of 
 mine to lunch. But I'll come back as soon as 
 I can." 
 
 " No, you mustn't do that." 
 
 " I'll stay then. After all, it doesn't matter."
 
 1 32 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 He felt pride in obeying. 
 
 " May I come to see you to-morrow ? — in the 
 morning ? " 
 
 " No ; you must go to your work." 
 
 " But I must see you," he objected impetuously. 
 
 " Well, if you must then," she answered, laugh- 
 ing ; " would you like to take me out to dinner ? " 
 
 " Most awfully. To-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes; come to fetch me at half-past seven. 
 Now good-bye, or you'll be late for your friend." 
 
 He took her outstretched hand. She looked for 
 a moment straight into his eyes, and then he 
 moved away. 
 
 " Good-bye, till to-morrow— at half-past seven," 
 he forced himself to say. 
 
 " Good-bye," she repeated quietly.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 
 
 VI 
 
 Faster and faster he walked, struggling to cheat 
 the longing to return to her. The keen air flicked 
 his cheeks, and the crisp, whitened turf of the Park 
 crackled under his tread. Behind the frail tracery 
 of the twigs, peeping between the gaunt arms of 
 the black-skinned trees, dancing over the ripples 
 that shimmered silver across the lake, he beheld 
 her sparkling smile 
 
 .... He was her friend .... her friend. . . . 
 The word coursed exultantly through him, echoing 
 and re-echoing. The scene lived again ; he saw 
 her rippling rivulets of hair ; he felt the quick play 
 of her gaze ; he heard the ring of her laughter ; 
 her voice spoke to him : he replied to her ; once 
 more, in a corner of that disordered room, their 
 bond was sealed. . . . 
 
 She stood, a white and dazzling figure, blocking 
 the centre of his imagination ; exquisite, wonderful, 
 yet having accorded him the intoxicating privilege 
 of familiarity. 
 
 He pictured himself by her side, intimate, con- 
 fidential, grateful, reckless in devotion ; or strong, 
 protective, necessary ; or again, before the world, 
 masking the bond in proud unobtrusiveness, and 
 so always, on, on, into the misty future. . . .
 
 134 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 Only he and she remained in the world — alone, 
 and together the rest faded to thin silhouettes. 
 Helen slipped to the fringe of his life. The 
 luncheon towards which he was walking became 
 unreal, like a stage-scene, in which a part had 
 been set for him. The time till to-morrow evening 
 was as a stretch of colourless waste. 
 
 Then, under his care, how beautiful she would 
 look ! . . . Her tiny, white-gloved hands, and the 
 gold bangles encircling her wrists ! And all 
 during dinner, while, with the waiters moving 
 behind, they discussed trivial topics, he would know 
 that she had secretly chosen him — set him apart. 
 His blood quickened with excited anticipation. . . . 
 Ignorance simplified his whole prospect : blind 
 jealousy of the male, unpricked by the goad of 
 sexual vision, drowsed on ; the welling-up of 
 unsullied chivalry held him to the exact letter of 
 her appeal. Eagerly he exchanged the crude name 
 she had driven him to give her for another of 
 gentler import, and that he accepted readily, 
 slurring its significance. His faith in his own 
 exaltation was spontaneous, unquestioning. 
 
 And he seemed to see the past months mapped 
 out behind him, hollow, empty of purpose, filled by 
 a senseless accumulation of poor trivialities. Across 
 the newly-kindled glow, he caught flittings of 
 vague possibilities, hints of a life permeated by 
 sound, exhilarating goodness. He remembered, 
 with a twinge of repentant shame, certain tacit 
 acquiescences in obscene college conversations :
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 135 
 
 henceforward he felt himself ennobled, lifted above 
 the common ruck. . . . 
 
 Stout, over-clothed ladies, coming from church, 
 passed him ; men in smooth-fitting, tight-buttoned 
 coats, carrying along with them a torpid, Sunday 
 air ; children trotting gravely, as if oppressed by 
 stiff garments ; the streets bare ; the houses asleep ; 
 the shops barred up and lifeless : from sheer frolic 
 of heart he fell to noting the quaint physiognomy 
 of the London Sabbath.
 
 136 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 VII 
 
 She was in black ; a sleeveless dress, just be- 
 traying her breasts, banded at the waist with vivid 
 crimson. Her smooth hair hung low over her 
 nape, as was the fashion, in a dark, heavy coil ; 
 and the simplicity of her bare arms and neck was 
 unspoiled by ornament. 
 
 And he — she was proud of him in evening attire, 
 straight and lithe and correctly spotless ; his hair 
 brushed in a clean sweep back from his forehead, 
 and drifting, above the ears, into crisp curls. 
 
 He took command of her at once ; authoritatively 
 deciding the place of the dinner, insisting that 
 she was well wrapped at the throat. And to his 
 deferential protection she abandoned herself with 
 delight. 
 
 They sped lightly away, the bell on the horse's 
 neck tinkling shrilly, past dark houses and blazing 
 shops. 
 
 " It's freezing, I believe," he remarked. " Glass 
 down," he shouted up through the trap. 
 
 The window descended slowlv: she nestled almost 
 imperceptibly against his shoulder : he was adorable, 
 she told herself. 
 
 At the restaurant, she found a room reserved, 
 and a dinner ordered. And, as he relieved her of
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 137 
 
 her cloak and lace wrapper, she became conscious 
 that he had none of that indefinable air of ob- 
 trusive proprietorship, adopted on like occasions 
 by other men. For a while she made pretence of 
 chatting carelessly ; but his attitude towards her, 
 continuing gravely, a little elaborately, respectful, 
 swelled her gratitude, choked her spirits, and 
 swathed her happiness in sentimental melancholy. 
 
 A dreamy mood crept over her irresistibly, 
 evoking blurred glimpses of past scenes : she forgot 
 him, feeling herself curiously alone and isolated. 
 No bitterness flavoured her musings ; only fleeting, 
 half-formulated wonderings : no rankling remem- 
 brance of male cruelty ; no savagely revolting 
 realization of the part she played. She had found 
 men pleasant, affectionate, generous. 
 
 So she recalled each one, without rancour : and 
 of one she thought almost tenderly, for he was 
 now dead. Yet when, awakening, she looked across 
 at Ronald, her eyes grew hot, and her sight misty. 
 She felt the rising of a passionate longing to cry — 
 from no grief, for no reason. Clenching her lips 
 she fought with the hungering for tears, struggling 
 to hear his words, to see her plate clearly. 
 
 He had noticed her untouched food, her incon- 
 sequent replies, the tight lines of her mouth ; and 
 the end of the dinner seemed to him interminable. 
 
 " What is it, Midge ? Are you feeling bad ? " 
 he asked quickly, as the door closed behind the 
 obsequious waiter. 
 
 " No, of course not. It's nothing."
 
 138 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 But the next moment she was sobbing with her 
 head on the table. . . . 
 
 .... She felt the firm clasp of his hands round 
 her head, trying to raise it ; and between the 
 throbs of her weeping she heard him saying — 
 
 " . . . . Don't .... don't cry. . . . What is it ? 
 .... Can't I do anything ? . . ." 
 
 But she let the tears flow on unchecked : they 
 brought her warm relief. . . . Presently his hands 
 were on her head again : she submitted. And 
 when he had gently lifted the face, a smile was 
 gleaming through her tears, like the sparkle of 
 sunshine across a fleeting shower. 
 
 " Aren't I a silly ? " 
 
 " But what were you crying for ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It came quite suddenly." She 
 laid her hand on his. " You're a good, kind boy. 
 I'm not often like that." 
 
 He remembered quickly how Helen had once 
 spoken to him in that tone ; and he felt a great 
 compassion for the frailty of women welling up 
 within him. 
 
 "Sit down now and finish your coffee," she 
 continued. 
 
 He obeyed. 
 
 " I don't remember ever having cried all about 
 nothing before." 
 
 She took a banana, and began to peel it slowly ; 
 and he carried his chair round the table and sat 
 down by her side, slipping her bare arm under his 
 own.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 139 
 
 " Dear Midge ! It's all right now, isn't it ? " 
 
 She nodded, munching the fruit, and turned to 
 him with a smile of affectionate happiness. 
 
 " Come, have the other half." And she held the 
 end for him to bite. 
 
 "We'll often have dinner here, I vote. It's a 
 jolly little place," he said, caressing her hand. 
 
 " Isn't it rather ruinous ? " 
 
 He named the price. 
 
 " But you don't know, I've three hundred a year 
 of my own." 
 
 "What a fortune! All your very own, do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Yes ; my mother left it to me. I came into it 
 when I was twenty-one." 
 
 " You're not twenty-one. Don't talk such absurd 
 nonsense." 
 
 "Yes, I am — twenty-two. And you, how old 
 are you ? " 
 
 " Guess." 
 
 " Twenty ? " 
 
 " No— more." 
 
 " Twenty-one ? " 
 
 " More." 
 
 " Twenty-two ? " 
 
 She assented. 
 
 " Fancy our being the same age. When's your 
 birthday ? " 
 
 " The fourteenth of March." 
 
 " And mine's on the tenth." 
 
 " By Jove ! You're just four days older then,"
 
 l 4 o SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Split another banana with me." 
 
 " No, I couldn't really." 
 
 " Do as you're told. Obey your elders, sir." 
 
 " Very good, madam," he retorted in mock 
 meekness. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " What would you like to do now ? " he began. 
 
 " Nothing. Let's just stay here and talk." 
 
 " You wouldn't like to go to the Gaiety ? I've 
 taken a box." 
 
 " How extravagant ! " 
 
 " You've forgotten the fortune. Why, except to- 
 night, I don't believe I've spent two pounds during 
 the last three weeks. I'm positively saving." 
 
 " How shocking ! But about that box — it's 
 awfully wasteful. I suppose we ought to go for 
 a little." 
 
 " No, not if you'd rather not. Remember, it'll 
 cost a shilling to get there." 
 
 " If it comes to that, I don't mind standing the 
 cab." And they laughed together. 
 
 -*- -:|;- * * * 
 
 " I say, Ronald, I want to ask you something. 
 Promise to answer truthfully. . . . Well, have 
 you ever been in love ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Never at all ? " 
 
 " Never at all." 
 
 " Haven't you ever kissed any one ?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " But you must have."
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 141 
 
 " No, I swear I haven't." 
 
 " I wish I was like that," she remarked in a more 
 sober tone. 
 
 " Have you ? — been in love, I mean . . . often ? " 
 he asked, fingering her hand nervously to hide his 
 embarrassment. 
 
 She nodded with gravity. "Yes, lots of times. 
 But never seriously," she continued reflectively. 
 " Just sort of short likings. Men are always awfully 
 good to me." 
 
 He saw her lips part in a faint smile, and winced, 
 his pity stung to incoherent sputterings by a 
 sudden recollection of the brutal name men gave 
 to her calling. Unconsciously he let her hand 
 drop. . . . What had gone before ? . . . . what was 
 her tale ? . . . Those others — who were good to 
 her — what were they like ? He drove in wild 
 parade a flock of male faces. . . . They had all 
 known her before he had. . . . They knew her 
 now — she and they had common memories. . . . 
 They had made love to her — kissed — yes, of 
 course, kissed her — those soft, cool arms. . . . He 
 was the last — he was behind them all. . . . But no, 
 protested his vanity, he was different — she had said 
 so .... it must be that he was different. . . . Fever- 
 ishly he climbed to the pinnacle of his former 
 exaltation, giddily forcing himself to vision her 
 by his side, her white-gloved hands clasping his 
 shoulders, while he shielded her from the yelping 
 pack of other men. . . . Then he dropped back 
 into the turmoil of perplexity. . . .
 
 142 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 He waited in suspense for her to tell him more, 
 yet he shrank from questioning her. When, how- 
 ever, she spoke again, he at once perceived that 
 the drift of her thoughts had altogether changed. 
 And he could not but acquiesce. 
 
 " Tell me what you do every day. You go to 
 your tutor's in the morning ? " 
 
 He described the place to her. She asked him 
 about his evenings. 
 
 " I sit and talk to my sister-in-law, when I've no 
 work." 
 
 She plied him with an abundance of questions 
 concerning Helen, listening to his replies attentively, 
 encouraging him to hear himself talk. Thus the 
 edge of his curiosity concerning her was, for the 
 moment, dulled. 
 
 He again mentioned the empty box at the 
 theatre. She declined, and declared with abrupt 
 decision that she must start for home. He remon- 
 strated, but she retorted firmly, and quickly grew 
 impatient at his persistence, forbidding him to 
 escort her. He continued to repeat his remon- 
 strance ; her tone became brusquely imperious. 
 They descended to the street in silence. She 
 entered a hansom and said something to him, which 
 he failed to hear, as the horse swung round. A 
 flock of cabs, whirling down Oxford Street, en- 
 gulfed her. 
 
 Hardly realizing that she was gone, he was left 
 standing on the pavement. The first thing that 
 he remembered was that he had never kissed her. . .
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 143 
 
 VIII 
 
 Ronald sat amidst the closely-packed figures 
 that blackened an omnibus roof, his thoughts 
 spinning aimlessly, like the fitful columns of dust 
 lifted at street corners by a gusty breeze. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The conductor demanding his fare, rousing him 
 from his musings, snapped the train of his thought. 
 Fumbling in his pocket for the coppers, all at once 
 he remembered her. . . . 
 
 " She'll git no verdict." 
 
 " Not she. Why, 'ee's bin bled for years." 
 
 " Well, serve 'im right. 'Ees a bad 'un any'ow. 
 The aristocracy's all rotten nowadays. I say it's 
 because they ain't got to earn their own bread. 
 Them young toffs wouldn't be so free with their 
 cash if they 'ad to sweat for it." 
 
 "An' quite right of the women to bleed 'em. 
 Let 'em get all they can, I say. They're druv to 
 it, poor things. Why, I tell you they're worth a 
 damned side more, most of 'em, than them as calls 
 'emselves gentlemen jest because they wears top 
 'ats. I'm a regular Socialist, I am. Every man 
 earn his own bread, I say." 
 
 Ronald listened with vague curiosity, while 
 before the vision of tangled brown locks, and
 
 144 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 the soft white dress clinging at the bust, and 
 trimmed with gold braid round the sleeves, the 
 resolve all slipped from his mind. 
 
 .... They were right, those men, in their rough 
 fashion, he thought. They looked labourers of 
 some kind, with battered hats and rugged, un- 
 finished sort of faces. ... It was women like 
 Midge they meant, women trodden down, women 
 driven to it. . . . He likened her to a beautiful 
 flower cast to the routlings of swine. . . . And the 
 stirrings of pity sent proud exhilaration bubbling up 
 boisterously within him : his own attitude towards 
 her stood out in clear, luminous contrast. . . . 
 
 .... The frost still held. ... A team of heavy 
 horses, straining at a waggon-load of casks, stag- 
 gered by, banging their hoofs on the pavement, 
 while the driver, all muffled in sacks, high up on 
 his perch, cracked his whip with sharp reports over 
 their backs. ... A greyish haze daintily blurred 
 the clustering swarm of vehicles, creeping like flies 
 up the hill towards the narrow end of the straight, 
 broad street; and the sun, topping a bank of 
 creamy clouds, set bright specks twinkling on the 
 harness of cabs, and the window-panes ablaze with 
 gold. . . . 
 
 .... The omnibus, turning the corner, rumbled 
 down Regent Street. Each jolt carried him further 
 from Thurgate Road. But he did not descend, 
 judging it was yet too early, dallying with his 
 impatience by means of a series of hurried calcula- 
 tions of time, watching the clocks, and, as the face
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 145 
 
 of each one varied, computing afresh how long it 
 would take him to reach her from the different 
 points on the route. When the omnibus halted 
 at the Circus he got down, intending to saunter 
 back the way he had come : soon, however, he was 
 unconsciously walking as fast as his legs could 
 carry him. . . . 
 
 An old woman, whom he had seen on his first 
 visit, was kneeling on the doorstep, some rags and 
 a zinc bucket beside her. The door stood ajar. 
 
 " She's away," she called, as he came up. 
 
 " Away — out of London, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe so." And she started to scrub 
 noisily. 
 
 " Where's she gone ? " he asked blankly. 
 
 The grating sound ceased. 
 
 "Dunno, I'm sure. Wait a minute. I'll ask 
 Mrs. Wraggleston. She'll know." 
 
 She disappeared down the passage, and presently 
 returned, followed by a younger woman, whom he 
 guessed to be the landlady. 
 
 " Miss Bashford's gone to the country, sir," she 
 began civilly. 
 
 " Where ? " he asked again. 
 
 " I'm sure I can't tell you, sir, for certain — 
 Brighton, I expect." 
 
 " You don't know her address ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I don't." 
 
 " Or when she'll be back ? " 
 
 " It's sure to be in a day or two." 
 
 " Thanks." He moved to go.
 
 146 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Do you wish to leave any message ? " 
 
 " No ; good-morning," he heard himself answering. 
 
 A little way down the street he turned to glance 
 
 at the house. The two women still stood on the 
 
 doorstep, looking after him, and talking to one 
 
 another. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He returned disconsolately to the crammer's, 
 and for two hours scribbled mechanically in his 
 note-books. As the minutes slipped by, his long- 
 ing to see her, to be with her, strengthened in 
 aching intensity. . . . Everything seemed cheer- 
 less, dreary. . . . Why had she gone ? . . . When 
 would she be back ? ... in a day or two .... to- 
 morrow? ... or the next day? ... He might 
 catch a train down to Brighton .... but her 
 address? . . . Still he might meet her in some 
 street, on the Parade. . . . What was the reason 
 for her going ? . . . Was she alone ? . . . Who 
 was she with ? 
 
 The class-room was darkening. Some one lit 
 the gas. Outside he saw snowflakes in the air. 
 
 At two o'clock he went out to lunch with the 
 others, Harbord, Willson, and Dawkins. They 
 talked of a new burlesque, and retailed some of 
 the jokes. He sat staring gloomily into the street. 
 
 It had stopped snowing, but the fog had 
 descended. The gas-lamps were burning, dismally 
 speckling the monotony of the mud-coloured 
 atmosphere, like sickly remains of an unfinished 
 orgy. Some lighted windows opposite cast squares
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 147 
 
 of murky red : a sense of silence and of desolation 
 prevailed, as if some curse had fallen upon the 
 town. 
 
 " What's the matter, Thornycroft ? In the blues, 
 eh ? " 
 
 " Given you the chuck, has she ? Cheer up, old 
 chap. There are as good fish in the sea as ever 
 came out of it." 
 
 The allusion rudely roused him : he blurted out 
 an oath concerning the weather to cover his 
 confusion. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 And the hours of the afternoon loomed ahead of 
 him, long and yellow. . . .
 
 148 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 IX 
 
 It was a Saturday. In the class-room the hours 
 dragged by sluggishly ; he tingled with impatience, 
 and his eyes travelled constantly to the clock. At 
 last it was over. The men rose, clattering their 
 note-books. Harbord and Willson were planning 
 to spend the afternoon at some music-hall. Ronald 
 shook them off curtly, hailed a cab, and started for 
 Thurgate Road. 
 
 The horse lolloped in a senseless sort of canter, 
 rattling the trace-chains and the glass overhead. 
 The streets were crowded ; at every instant, it 
 seemed, omnibuses blocked the way. Near the top 
 of Regent Street a policeman stopped the traffic 
 while a string of stout ladies crossed the road. He 
 sat drumming his fingers on the door, convincing 
 himself that she was back, and feverishly anticipat- 
 ing the first moment of meeting. In Portland 
 Place he shouted to the driver ; and a heavy 
 lashing roused the horse into a caricature of a 
 gallop. 
 
 From the doorstep he vacantly observed some 
 ragged children dancing to the tune of a piano- 
 organ before a public-house at the corner. Then 
 the door opened. 
 
 " She's jest come back," said the old woman.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 149 
 
 He pushed past her, and stepping over a bundle 
 of rugs, brown-paper parcels, and portmanteaus 
 strewn across the passage, ran up, taking two 
 stairs at a time. 
 
 The room was unchanged. There she was 
 kneeling on the hearthrug, holding an open news- 
 paper against the grate, in a brown dress, a dark 
 hat and veil ; wearing a stiff collar like a man's 
 with a red sailor's knot beneath. She half turned 
 her head. 
 
 "Hulloa! it's you. How did you know I was 
 back ? I was just wondering when I should see 
 you." 
 
 He came close to her, a glow of warm happiness 
 rising within him. The red tie made her cheeks 
 look quite rosy. 
 
 " Let me help," he said, kneeling beside her. 
 
 " Thanks. Hold that corner tight or it'll catch 
 fire." 
 
 Presently he said simply — 
 
 " It is jolly to see you again." 
 
 She smiled at him, her face lit up with pleasure. 
 
 " I've been awfully lonely without you." 
 
 " What nonsense you talk, you silly boy ! " 
 
 " But I have, really. I came up here every day 
 to try to find out when you'd be back." 
 
 " I don't believe you did," she exclaimed quickly. 
 
 " Yes, I promise you." 
 
 She was leaning on her elbow, one arm still 
 keeping the newspaper in its place. Her dis- 
 engaged hand slowly found its way across the
 
 150 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 hearthrug to his. At the soft, gloved pressure, his 
 gaze turned slowly to hers. 
 
 " Dear little Midge " 
 
 But springing up of a sudden, and dragging back 
 the paper, she cut him short. 
 
 " I thought it was alight. There, that'll burn, I 
 think. . . . Now, sit down and talk to me." 
 
 She sank into an arm-chair ; he remained kneel- 
 ing on the hearthrug. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " about Brighton. Why did 
 you go ? " 
 
 " But I want to hear all about you first. What 
 have you been doing ? " 
 
 "Nothing. . . . Going to my work just as 
 usual. . . ." 
 
 " Tell me, why did you go to Brighton ? " he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I love the sea. It was beautiful weather — 
 quite warm and sunny. I suppose it was like that 
 in town. We sat on the Parade- " 
 
 " You and some one else ? " 
 
 " You don't know him," she said shortly. 
 
 " Do you like him very much ? " he asked. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " What a curious boy you are ! What funny 
 questions you do ask ! . . . I say, take me out to 
 lunch, will you ? " 
 
 " Of course. Where shall we go ? " 
 
 She named a restaurant in Great Portland Street. 
 Then — 
 
 " Wait a minute while I get an umbrella."
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 151 
 
 They walked together through the streets, dry 
 and clean with the frost. Men stared at her as 
 she passed, and when he noticed this he felt very 
 proud. 
 
 Once during luncheon he reverted hesitatingly 
 to Brighton. 
 
 "Don't keep on bothering about that," she re- 
 torted, almost crossly. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Afterwards they went back to Thurgate Road. 
 She wanted, she said, to show him her two new 
 dresses. 
 
 Sitting on the floor, she opened the big card- 
 board boxes, unfolded the tissue-paper with which 
 they seemed filled, and spread the silks on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " This, you see," she began, fingering a soft mass 
 of pale pink, " is an evening one. Princess with a 
 Watteau back. Do you like that ? " She stopped, 
 rippling with laughter. 
 
 " Don't look so horribly puzzled ! . . . You 
 poor boy, you don't understand a bit, now do 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, I don't much," he admitted ruefully. " But 
 explain." 
 
 She declined, still shaking with mirth. 
 
 " But you think them nice all the same ? " 
 
 " Lovely." 
 
 Then she ran out, and returned with a box of 
 chocolate creams. He took one, and they stood 
 close together with the box between them.
 
 152 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Midge," he began, " will you tell me a little 
 about yourself?" 
 
 " About myself. . . . There's nothing to tell." 
 
 ° Why did you go down to Brighton with that 
 man?" 
 
 " What a bother you are ! " 
 
 " But why did you go ? " he reiterated obstinately. 
 
 " I suppose I can go where I like, can't I ? I 
 needn't ask your leave first. Since you're dead 
 keen on knowing — well, I went because I was 
 hard up. — There ! " 
 
 She caught a little at her breath, and her face 
 was flaming. 
 
 " Now are you satisfied ? " she concluded bitterly. 
 
 " But why didn't you tell me ? . . . I would 
 have given you as much money as you wanted." 
 
 He spoke very quietly. 
 
 " I don't want your money. ... I wouldn't take 
 it." 
 
 Her voice trembled ; he thought she was going 
 to cry. Looking down, however, her eyes fell on 
 the chocolate-box, and she laughed again through 
 her tears. Then her face clouded again ; she 
 recoiled quickly, as he tried to put his arm round 
 her. 
 
 "But, Midge .... dear Midge " 
 
 " Don't," she muttered, as if in sudden pain. 
 u Don't spoil things. How stupid you are ! Can't 
 you understand a bit ? " 
 
 Behind the houses opposite the sun was sinking 
 sullenly, against a cold, opaque-grey sky, spattered
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 153 
 
 with black fragments of cloud. It seemed as if the 
 twilight had come all at once. 
 
 " Come, Ron," she said gently, " don't let's 
 squabble. Come and sit by the fire. I want to 
 tell you some things." 
 
 He sat astride of the arm of her chair, his hand 
 caressing her hair. After waiting a moment for 
 her to speak, he said — 
 
 " Midge, I didn't know, I didn't understand till 
 just now. I've never cared for any one before. I've 
 hardly stopped thinking about you since the first 
 time I saw you." The words came out clumsily ; 
 the last phrase, as soon as he had spoken it, he 
 remembered having read in some novel. 
 
 She took his hand in hers silently. 
 
 " Midge, will you let me love you ? I love you 
 better than everything else in the world. Some- 
 how I've got to understand things a lot better 
 just lately. It's no good my going into the 
 army. We'll get married and go away to the 
 colonies." 
 
 She lifted his hand to her lips. The next 
 moment his arms were around her ; he was passion- 
 ately kissing her neck. 
 
 " Say you love me back a little," he whispered. 
 
 " Yes, dear, dear boy. I've never been so happy 
 before." 
 
 " And we'll belong to each other for always ? " 
 
 With a quick excited laugh she answered — 
 
 " I'm married, you know." 
 
 " Married ! "
 
 154 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I ran away from him," she continued. " He 
 was a brute. He beat me." 
 
 " What's his name ? " 
 
 " Keith. He's an actor." 
 
 " But can't you get a divorce ? " 
 
 " He could. But he's gone to America. That's 
 why I ran away from him. I was afraid to go 
 with him." 
 
 " How long ago was it ? " 
 
 " Nearly a year. I was only married to him six 
 weeks. A friend of his — Ethel Stainer, a sort of 
 actress — helped me to get away. He suspected it, 
 I've always thought. He wouldn't let me out of 
 his sight. It was the evening before the ship 
 sailed that I escaped." 
 
 " Won't he come back ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Haven't you heard anything of him ? " 
 
 " No, nothing. Ethel Stainer said she would try 
 to find out about him for me, but I didn't want 
 her to. You mustn't be jealous of the others. 
 They've been downright good friends to me." 
 
 So they sat on in the growing darkness, and she 
 told him the whole story of her life. And it 
 seemed to him horribly, infinitely pathetic, so that 
 when she had finished he felt that he was bound to 
 her irrevocably, whatever might happen. 
 
 " Well, that's about the lot," she exclaimed after 
 a pause, with an abrupt hardening of tone. " What 
 do you think of me ? " 
 
 " I love you just the same, more than ever.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 155 
 
 Poor Midge, I am so sorry. But I'll make you 
 happier in the future." 
 
 "But I'm not down on my luck at all. He 
 made me feel very miserable — lots of things which 
 you wouldn't understand. But I've been quite 
 happy since." 
 
 « Midge." 
 
 " Don't call me that name. Every one calls me 
 that. My proper name is Nita. Now promise 
 you'll give up all those mad ideas. I'm all right ; 
 don't you get excited about me. Promise me 
 you'll go on working very hard. The army's your 
 profession. How funny it seems to me talking to 
 you like this." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " Now, no buts. Remember you're only a boy : 
 I'm a full-grown woman." 
 
 " Won't you let me speak ? " 
 
 " I'll not let you say anything — at least not now. 
 Good-bye." There was a note of command in her 
 voice ; he felt he must obey. 
 
 " Mayn't I see you to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear," she answered gently. "Come in 
 the afternoon. I'll buy a cake and get them to 
 make some tea. That'll be great fun, won't it ? 
 And now, I'm going to send you home. Your 
 people '11 be wondering what's become of you." 
 
 With a new joy in doing exactly as she bid him 
 he took her hand — then went.
 
 156 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 X 
 
 Beneath a clear sun the frost had melted ; and 
 of a sudden, as it were, the days grew glittering and 
 altogether warm. It was with a subtle, indefinable 
 gladness that Midge anticipated the coming of 
 spring, and there were moments when, at the sight 
 of the light glancing prettily in the street, she 
 would smile faintly to herself, for no reason, from 
 sheer sunniness of heart. 
 
 She saw scarcely any one but Ronald now ; 
 and every day he appeared at odd, unexpected 
 moments. She liked that it should be so, for then 
 each day the thrill of expectancy was renewed. 
 She took to dressing early in the hope that he 
 would look in for ten minutes in the morning on 
 his way to work ; she waited for him at tea-time, 
 or later, in case he should come to take her out to 
 dinner. She found a childish delight in awaiting 
 him ; living entirely in the present, she thought- 
 lessly accepted the chastity of their relations as 
 irrevocable. Thus her sentiment for him floated 
 on from day to day in heedless security, and some- 
 times she mused indolently concerning the past, 
 wondering whether certain memories had not after 
 all been left her by dreams. 
 
 One afternoon they went together by train into 
 the country. They wandered from the station into
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 157 
 
 a beech-wood near the line, and sat down on the 
 clean slab left by a freshly-felled tree. After the 
 roar of London — the thronged streets, the rush of 
 cabs, the rattle of vans and omnibuses — the stillness 
 of the beech-wood pervaded her intimately. She 
 forgot Ronald, who lay smoking a cigarette beside 
 her ; she felt she would be content to remain there 
 for hours and hours, doing nothing, thinking of 
 nothing, remembering nothing. The sparkling 
 floor, all speckled by the sunlight, was thickly 
 carpeted with brown leaves, one of which, every 
 now and again, would rise to flutter uneasily at 
 her feet. Here and there a bush, decked in infant 
 greenery, shamed the rest, still shivering in the 
 dead garb of winter. Huge trees lifted like pillars 
 their smooth, green trunks ; and beyond, through a 
 crowd of straight, slim stems, she could discern the 
 steely gleam of a river, banding the meadows. 
 
 Ronald's smoke blew in her face : she shifted 
 her position. 
 
 The swelling undulations of the earth, coated in 
 a great patchwork of grey and brown and rank 
 green, carried a crest of ruddy wood, broken at last 
 by a bunch of fruit trees, powdered from head to 
 foot with snow-white blossom. Faint cries — 
 whether of birds or of men she could not tell — 
 wandered up from the distance. . . . 
 
 * ■* * * * 
 
 And when they were back in London, a dull sad- 
 ness crept over her — a dissatisfaction, a dislike of the 
 sight of streets, and a vague longing for home. . . .
 
 158 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 XI 
 
 A treacherous, unmanageable wind, screaming 
 as it rushed past, rilled the night. The rain fled 
 before it, helter-skelter ; and ragged glimmers of 
 gold danced across the wet pavement. The vague 
 mass of a group of people darkened the steps 
 before the entrance-hall of the Star and Garter ; 
 by the road-edge a double phaeton, the horses 
 plunging between the bars of light from the 
 carriage lamps. 
 
 A crash ! then a shout. 
 
 " Woa ! yer damned fool — stand steady, will yer. 
 Here, a light — he's caught the splinter-bar." 
 
 A lantern moved out of the crowd, illuminating 
 the horses' flanks. 
 
 " Steady, boy, steady. He's just nicked hi'self. 
 The bar's right enough." And the man tested it 
 vigorously. 
 
 "Tell the gentleman to 'urry up," called the 
 ostler. " The 'orses is jest pullin' my arms off." 
 
 At that moment the doorway swung open and 
 Ronald appeared. The hard, white electric light 
 struck his face, as he leisurely buttoned his gloves, 
 his hat aslant on his head. 
 
 "It's raining, isn't it?" said Midge, coming up 
 behind him. 
 
 " Yes, beastly night."
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 159 
 
 " Mr. Thornycroft, sir," cried a waiter, running 
 up the steps towards them, and speaking excitedly. 
 "Be advised, sir. Don't try to take them horses 
 back to London to-night. It ain't safe : it ain't 
 indeed, sir." 
 
 Ronald threw a quick glance at the people on 
 the steps. 
 
 " Here, get me a cigar — a large Habana," he 
 answered, raising his voice. 
 
 " Can't you persuade him, miss ? The ostler says 
 he knows you can't get home to-night. They ain't 
 fit to be in harness, them animals." 
 
 A boy in buttons brought some cigars on a 
 plate. 
 
 " Have a hansom, Midge ? " said Ronald, laconic- 
 ally, as he chose one. 
 
 " Come, be quick," she retorted sharply. 
 
 They descended the steps, and the people moved 
 aside to let them pass. 
 
 "They'll smash up before they're through the 
 town," said a voice. 
 
 " It's madness — and the girl too." 
 
 " She's no business to go. Can't some one stop 
 her ? " 
 
 Ronald had swung himself on to the box. 
 
 Midge turned to the crowd. 
 
 " Well, won't any of you help me up ? " 
 
 Half-a-dozen figures started forward : in an 
 instant she was strapping the apron round her. 
 
 " Why doesn't some one stop them ? " repeated 
 a voice.
 
 160 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " There's a spare seat behind, if the gentleman's 
 in a hurry to be home," Midge called back. 
 
 " Let 'em go," shouted Ronald. 
 
 The off horse plunged again, struggling to rear. 
 Ronald let the reins drop loose, and cut him 
 heavily with the whip. The animal banged against 
 the collar, and the pair broke into a gallop down 
 the hill. 
 
 Ronald rammed the brake home, and they 
 steadied a bit when they reached the bottom. 
 
 " You're quite sober ? " asked Midge, as they 
 clattered through the town. 
 
 " It'll be all right when we get outside." 
 
 " I say, chuck away that cigar." 
 
 " Catch hold of it, will you ? " 
 
 He lowered his head, and she took it from 
 between his teeth. It hit the road with a shower 
 of sparks. 
 
 " Mind the 'bus. It's going to start — I heard 
 the bell. Keep outside, for God's sake." 
 
 He twisted the rein round his wrist by the 
 buckle, and with a steady wrench from the shoulder 
 hauled the horses on to their haunches. Her grip 
 was on his arm — so tight that he almost cried 
 out. 
 
 Then they swung round the corner. 
 
 Midge clutched her hat : the wind caught them. 
 
 " This is lovely," she broke out. 
 Ronald did not answer. The near horse was 
 trying to stop, frightened at something black by 
 the roadside. With a rush he sprang past it,
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 161 
 
 banging his belly against the pole, and away they 
 whirled down the colonnade of lamp posts. 
 
 " What did you say ? " he asked. 
 
 " I think this is splendid — dashing through the 
 nieht, with the wind and the rain. I shouldn't 
 mind a scrap if we were to smash up. I'd rather 
 like to be killed with you, Ron," she laughed 
 nervously. 
 
 "The fool's been and put them on the cheek." 
 
 Still galloping, they shot past a jogging pony- 
 cart. 
 
 "You do drive splendidly," she exclaimed 
 presently. 
 
 They were on Barnes Common. 
 
 As they neared the railway-bridge, he slackened 
 the reins, and the phaeton rocked more heavily, as 
 they mounted the hill at top speed. 
 
 " The bay's getting done." 
 
 Down past the silent rows of square villas, they 
 rattled over the river into London, the horses 
 shaking the whole bridge with their stamping. 
 The streets swarmed with a crowd of umbrellas, 
 which overflowed on either side into the roadway. 
 
 " Lucky it's Sunday. Bother these 'busses." 
 
 " Ronald." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Does any one — does your sister-in-law know — 
 suspect — me ? " 
 
 " That I took you out to dinner ? No." 
 
 " I don't mean that, but — oh ! mind that child." 
 
 He shouted, and the child scuttled back. 
 
 M
 
 1 62 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " That we love each other, I mean ? " 
 
 " I don't see what it's got to do with any one." 
 
 " Ron " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What do you think they'll do when they find 
 out ? They must find out soon — your relations, I 
 mean." 
 
 " You are a funny child, Midge. What on earth 
 are you driving at ? " 
 
 " Because I'd hate for them to know about me 
 and to come between us, that's all." 
 
 He noticed the hardness of her tone, and, 
 embarrassed, flicked the whip to and fro. 
 ***** 
 
 " This will do. Stop, please. I'll take a hansom 
 from here." 
 
 Mechanically he pulled the horses to a standstill. 
 Almost before he had turned to give her his hand, 
 she was in the roadway. 
 
 " Good-bye, Ron," and she stepped into a 
 passing hansom. 
 
 Absently, for a while, he followed the red specks 
 of the cab-lamps. 
 
 Piccadilly looked dark and dreary ; across St. 
 James's Park, he could see the pattern of some 
 lighted windows high up against the sky. How 
 tall those houses were, he thought, as he turned 
 down a side street towards the stables. A sudden 
 jolt brought him to his senses : he had driven over 
 the kerb.
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 163 
 
 XII 
 
 The next night saw the end of it — an end, 
 sudden and unexpected as the beginning had 
 been. He had not seen her all day, and in the 
 evening he had been dining out. It was dark in 
 the hall, when he let himself in : the servants had 
 gone to bed. He lit a candle, the match striking 
 noisily in the stillness of the house. An envelope, 
 addressed to him, lay on the table, and he went 
 into the dining-room to read it. 
 
 " Dear Ronald, 
 
 " I did enjoy it so yesterday. It was jolly, 
 the dark night, and the galloping horses, and the 
 rain blowing in one's face. After I got home I 
 stayed a long while thinking about it all, and sort 
 of mooning about you and everything. And I 
 don't know why, but I began to feel quite old 
 and sensible, and all my silly feather-brainedness 
 went away. It was awfully strange and queer, 
 Ronald, and I don't believe you'll understand a 
 bit. It came to me quite suddenly that it could 
 never go on like that. It couldn't really. It 
 was too nice and jolly. Something would have 
 happened. I feel quite sure of it. So, as I said, 
 quite suddenly I made up my mind to go back
 
 1 64 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 home. I'd been meaning to do so for a long 
 while. Do you remember I told you I was going 
 that first time you spoke to me ? I can't explain 
 why I made up my mind suddenly like that — 
 and perhaps you'll think me quite heartless. I 
 should be very sorry for you to think of me 
 like that. But I can't help it if you do, because 
 I am quite certain I'm doing what's best. As I 
 have said, I've been intending to go for a long 
 while, and if I hadn't met you I should have 
 gone before this. No one down there knows 
 anything about what I've been doing in London, 
 and father's getting very old, and he's all alone 
 now. I shall live with him, and become very good 
 and steady. 
 
 " Now I want you, dear Ronald — you've been 
 very, very good to me — I want you to promise 
 me one thing. Never, never to try to find 07it 
 zvhere I've gone, and never to come down after me. 
 You will promise me this, won't you, Ronald, for 
 the sake of all the jolly times we've had together ? 
 Yes, I know you will, and I shall trust you. 
 
 " So now I shall say good-bye, and wish you 
 all good luck. You've been a dear, dear, good, 
 true friend to me, and I shall never, never forget 
 you. Good-bye, once again. 
 
 " NlTA." 
 
 The fire was dead ; only cold cinders lay in the 
 grate. But he did not notice the chilliness of 
 the room, but for a long while remained there,
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 165 
 
 staring stupidly at the letter, as he was, in his hat, 
 overcoat, and gloves. The door stood ajar, and 
 the almond-shaped flame of the candle, orange- 
 coloured at the tip, flickered fitfully in the 
 draught. ... A clock sounded a single timid 
 note. He started, crumpled the letter in his 
 pocket, and went briskly up-stairs, as if he had 
 come to some satisfactory decision. 
 
 A streak of light lay under Helen's door : as he 
 crossed the landing, it opened. 
 
 " Come in a moment, Ron," said her voice. " I 
 haven't seen you since the morning. Did you have 
 a pleasant evening ? " 
 
 He had never before seen the inside of her 
 room. The dainty refinement of each intimate 
 detail struck him. How orderly everything was ! 
 The glistening, silver-backed brushes, ranged on 
 the toilet-table ; the white-panelled wardrobes, 
 their edges picked out in gold ; the bright-blue 
 bed-curtains ; the warm, terra-cotta walls. A fire 
 was cosily blazing, throwing a vague dance of 
 shadows across the ceiling. And she looked 
 white and fragile, in a loose dress that seemed 
 all lace. Irresistibly, he compared her in his 
 mind to Midge. How curiously different they 
 were ! . . . 
 
 "What's the matter?" she asked in a startled 
 voice. 
 
 " Nothing's the matter," he answered shortly. 
 
 " But there is. . . . I can see it in your face. I 
 can see you've got something on your mind."
 
 1 66 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 No, I'm all right. Don't you worry about 
 
 me." 
 
 " What is it ? " she persisted. " Is it the examin- 
 ation ? Don't you think you'll get through ? " 
 
 He made an impatient sign of dissent. 
 
 " Ron, don't shut yourself up from me. Tell me 
 your difficulties. . . . Let me help you. . . . I'm 
 sure I could, whatever they are. . . . Much more 
 than you think." 
 
 The strained note of her pleading startled him. 
 How excited she was all of a sudden ! She stood 
 waiting for him to speak. He wished she would 
 sit down, and not gaze at him like that. He felt 
 goaded to say something. 
 
 " I think I shall give up the idea of the army," 
 he muttered half to himself. 
 
 " Give it up ! . . . Give it up ! . . . Why ? " she 
 asked in blank astonishment. 
 
 " The army's rot nowadays. I can't get into a 
 really good regiment as it is, and I should be only 
 cooped up in some poky country town." 
 
 " But you used to be so enthusiastic about it 
 all." 
 
 "No, I only fancied I was. ... I shall go 
 out to the colonies — to New Zealand, or some- 
 where. . . ." 
 
 "Ronald!" 
 
 There was a silence. The gasp of her exclam- 
 ation seemed to linger in the air. 
 
 " Since when have you had these ideas ? " 
 
 " Just lately."
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 167 
 
 " And you really mean them ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was another pause. He got up and stood 
 by the mantelpiece, fidgeting with some china 
 ornaments, apprehensively tempted to tell her. . . . 
 He must tell somebody. . . . And led by her 
 question, and his reply to it, to believe in the firm- 
 ness of his decision to sacrifice his career in order 
 to marry her, he was nervously proud of its 
 importance. 
 
 " But I don't understand. . . . What has made 
 you change like this ? " 
 
 He continued to fidget with the ornaments. 
 " There must be some reason. . . . Why won't 
 you trust me? Don't keep me in the dark like 
 this. ... It isn't right of you. . . . It's unkind. 
 . . . Don't you trust me ? " she repeated, catching 
 a glimpse of his irresolution. " Tell me what's 
 made you change ? " 
 
 " Nothing. . . . Nothing's made me change." 
 Her features stiffened slowly, and he felt angrily 
 uncomfortable because he could not help paining 
 her. He turned a little vase round and round in 
 the palm of his hand. The silence was becoming 
 intolerable. 
 
 At last he spoke, ostentatiously replacing the 
 vase, and forcing himself to simulate indifference. 
 
 " By Jove ! it's half-past twelve. I must be 
 going to bed. Good-night. . . . Good-night, 
 Helen." 
 
 " Good-night," she answered mechanically.
 
 1 68 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 He had reached the door, but there the impulse 
 to speak gently to her fought for release. 
 
 " Helen — " he began. 
 
 " Good-night," she repeated dully as before. 
 
 She sat listening to his footsteps ascending the 
 stairs. His door closed, and she heard his tread 
 overhead. After a while, all sound ceased. . . .
 
 BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK 169 
 
 XIII 
 
 Twelve years later, on his return from India, he 
 met Midge again. 
 
 It was a frosty October evening in a stable-yard 
 at Huntingdon. He was on his way to a country 
 house in the neighbourhood, and had come to hire 
 a horse and trap. Her husband kept the yard, 
 and she was the mother of three chubby-cheeked 
 girls. It was late : the men had all gone to bed, 
 so she held the lantern, while her husband harnessed 
 the mare. 
 
 She knew him at once ; but because of her 
 husband, refrained from betraying it. And he just 
 glanced carelessly at her and never recognized 
 her. 
 
 Then he climbed up beside her husband, and the 
 trap rattled out of the yard.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 
 
 A PHANTOM regiment of giant mist-pillars swept 
 silently across the valley; beaded drops loaded 
 each tuft of coarse, dull-tinted grass ; the peat- 
 hags gaped like black, dripping flesh-wounds in 
 the earth's side ; the distance suggested rectangular 
 fields and wooded slopes — vague, grey, phantas- 
 magoric ; and down over everything floated the 
 damp of fine rain. 
 
 Alec's heavy tread crunched the turfed bridle- 
 path rhythmically, and from the stiff rim of his 
 clerical hat the water dribbled on to his shoulders. 
 
 It was a rugged, irregular, almost uncouth face, 
 and now the features were vacantly huddled in a 
 set expression, obviously habitual. The cheeks 
 were hunched up, almost concealing the small eyes ; 
 a wet wisp of hair straggled over the puckered 
 forehead, and the ragged, fair moustache was 
 spangled by the rain. 
 
 At his approach the sheep scampered up the 
 fell-side ; then, stood staring through the mist in 
 anxious stupidity. And Alec, shaking the water 
 from his hat, strode forward with an almost im-
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 171 
 
 perceptible gleam on his face. It was so that he 
 liked the valley — all colourless and blurred, with 
 the sky close overhead, like a low, leaden ceiling. 
 
 By-and-bye, a cluster of cottages loomed ahead — 
 a choppy pool of black slate roofs, wanly a-glimmer 
 in the wet. As he entered the village, a group of 
 hard-featured men threw him a curt chorus of 
 greetings, to which he raised his stick in response, 
 mechanically. 
 
 He mounted the hill. Three furnace chimneys 
 craned their thin necks to grime the sky with a 
 dribbling, smoky breath ; high on a bank of coal- 
 dust, blurred silhouettes of trucks stood waiting in 
 forlorn strings ; women, limp, with unkempt hair, 
 and loose, bedraggled skirts, stood round the door- 
 ways in gossiping groups. 
 
 "Which is Mrs. Matheson's?" he stopped to 
 ask. 
 
 " There — oop there, Mr. Burkett — by yon ash — 
 where them childer's standin','' they answered, all 
 speaking together, eagerly. " Look ye ! that be 
 Mrs. Matheson herself." 
 
 Alec went up to the woman. His face clouded 
 a little, and the puffs from his pipe came briskly 
 in rapid succession. 
 
 " Mrs. Matheson, I've only just heard Tell 
 
 me, how did it happen ? " he asked gently. 
 
 She was a stout, red-faced woman, and her eyes 
 were all bloodshot with much crying. She wiped 
 them hastily with the corner of her apron before 
 answering.
 
 172 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " It was there, Mr. Burkett, by them rails. He 
 was jest playin' aboot in t' road wi' Arnison's 
 childer. At half-past one, t' grandmoother stepped 
 across to fetch me a jug o' fresh water an' she see'd 
 him settin' in door there. Then — mabbee twenty 
 minutes later — t' rain coome on an' I thought to 
 go to fetch him in. But I couldna see na sign of 
 him anywhere. We looked oop and doon, and 
 thought, mabbee, he'd toddled roond to t' back. 
 An' then, all at once, Dan Arnison called to us 
 that he was leein' in t' water, doon in beck-pool. 
 An' Dan ran straight doon, an' carried him oop 
 to me ; but 'twas na use. He was quite cold and 
 
 drownded. An' I went " But the sobs, rising 
 
 thickly, swallowed the rest. 
 
 Alec put his hand on her shoulder soothingly. 
 
 "Ay, I know'd ye'd be grieved, Mr. Burkett. 
 He was the bonniest boy in all t' parish." 
 
 She lifted the apron to her eyes again, while he 
 crossed to the railings. The wood of the posts 
 was splintered and worm-eaten, and the lower rail 
 was broken away. Below, the rock shelved down 
 some fifteen feet to the beck-pool, black and oily- 
 looking. 
 
 " It's a very dangerous place," he said, half to 
 himself. 
 
 "Ay, Mr. Burkett, you're right," interrupted a 
 bent and wizened old woman, tottering forward. 
 
 " This be grandmoother, Mr. Burkett," Mrs. 
 Matheson explained. "'Twas grandmoother that 
 see'd him last "
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 
 
 173 
 
 " Ay, Mr. Burkett," the old woman began in a 
 high, tremulous treble. "When I went fer to fill 
 t' jug fer Maggie he was a-settin' on t' steps there 
 playin' with t' kitten, an' he called after me, 
 1 Nanny ! ' quite happy-like ; but I took na notice, 
 but jest went on fer t' water. I shawed Mr. 
 Allison the broken rail last month, when he was 
 gittin' t' rents, and I told him he ought to put it 
 into repair, with all them wee childer playin' all 
 daytime on t' road. Didn't I, Maggie ? " Mrs. 
 Matheson assented incoherently. "An' he was 
 very civil-like, was Mr. Allison, and he said he'd 
 hev' it seen to. It's alus that way, Mr. Burkett," 
 the old woman concluded, shaking her head wisely. 
 "Folks wait till some accident occurs, and then 
 they think to bestir themselves." 
 
 Alec turned to the mother, and touched her 
 thick, nerveless hand. 
 
 " There, there, Mrs. Matheson, don't take on so," 
 he said. 
 
 At his touch her sobbing suddenly ceased, and 
 she let her apron fall. 
 
 "Will ye na coome inside, Mr. Burkett?" she 
 asked. 
 
 And they all three went in together. 
 
 The little room had been scrubbed and tidied, 
 and a number of chairs, ranged round the table, 
 blocked the floor. 
 
 " We've bin busy all marnin,' gittin' things a bit 
 smartened oop for t' inquest. T' coroner's cooming 
 at twelve," the grandmother explained.
 
 174 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Will ye coome oop-stairs, Mr. Burkett — jest — 
 jest to tak' a look at him ? " Mrs. Matheson asked 
 in a subdued voice. 
 
 Alec followed her, squeezing his burly frame up 
 the narrow, creaking staircase. 
 
 The child lay on the clean, white bed. A look 
 of still serenity slept on his pallid face. His tawny 
 curls were smoothed back, and some snowdrops 
 were scattered over the coverlet. All was quite 
 simple. 
 
 Mrs. Matheson stood in the doorway, struggling 
 noisily with her sobs. 
 
 " It is God's will," Alec said quietly. 
 
 " He was turned four last week," she blurted 
 out. " Ye'll excuse me, Mr. Burkett, but I'm that 
 overdone that I jest canna help myself," and she 
 sank into a chair. 
 
 He knelt by the dead child's side and prayed, 
 while the slow rise and fall of the mother's sobs 
 filled the room. When he rose his eyes were all 
 moist. 
 
 "God will help you, if you ask Him. His ways 
 are secret. We cannot understand His purpose. 
 But have faith in Him. He has done it for the 
 best," he said. 
 
 " Ay, I know, I know, Mr. Burkett. But ye see 
 he was the youngest, and that bonny " 
 
 " Let me try to comfort you," he said. 
 
 ***** 
 
 When they came down-stairs again, her face was 
 calmer and her voice steadier. The coroner, a
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 175 
 
 dapper man with a bright-red tie, was taking off 
 his gloves and mackintosh ; the room was fast filling 
 with silent figures, and the old grandmother was 
 hobbling to and fro with noisy, excited import- 
 ance. 
 
 " Will ye na stay for t' inquest ? " 
 
 Alec shook his head. " No, I can't stop now. 
 I have a School-board meeting to go to. But I 
 will come up this afternoon." 
 
 "Thank'ee, Mr. Burkett, God bless thee," said 
 Mrs. Matheson. 
 
 He shook hands with the coroner, who was 
 grumbling concerning the weather ; then strode 
 out back down the valley. 
 
 Though long since he had grown familiar with 
 the aspects of suffering, that scene in the cottage, 
 by reason of its very simplicity, had affected him 
 strangely. His heart was full of slow sorrow for 
 the woman's trouble, and the image of the child, 
 lying beautiful in its death-sleep, passed and re- 
 passed in his mind. 
 
 By-and-bye, the moaning of the wind, the whirl- 
 ing of lost leaves, the inky shingle-beds that stained 
 the fell-sides, inclined his thoughts to a listless 
 brooding. 
 
 Life seemed dull, inevitable, draped in sombre, 
 drifting shadows, like the valley-head. Yet in all 
 good he saw the hand of God, a mysterious, in- 
 visible force, ever imperiously at work beneath the 
 ravages of suffering and of sin. 
 
 It was close upon six o'clock when he reached
 
 176 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 home. He was drenched to the skin, and as he 
 sat before the fire, dense clouds of steam rose from 
 his mud-stained boots and trousers. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Burkett, jest ye gang and tak' off 
 them things, while I make yer tea. Ye'll catch 
 yer death one of these days — I know ye will. I 
 sometimes think ye haven't more sense than a 
 boy, traipsin' about all t' day in t' wet, and niver 
 takin' yer meals proper-like." 
 
 A faint smile flickered across his face. He was 
 used to his landlady's scoldings. 
 
 "A child was drowned yesterday in the beck 
 up at Beda Cottages. I had to go back there 
 this afternoon to arrange about the funeral," he 
 mumbled, half apologetically. 
 
 Mrs. Parkin snorted defiantly, bustling round 
 the table as she spread the cloth. Presently she 
 broke out again : 
 
 "An' noo, ye set there lookin' as white as a 
 bogle. Why don't ye go an' git them wet clothes 
 off? Ye're fair wringin'." 
 
 He obeyed ; though the effort to rise was 
 great. He felt curiously cold : his teeth were 
 clacking, and the warmth from the flames seemed 
 delicious. 
 
 In his bedroom a dizziness caught him, and it 
 was a moment before he could recognize the familiar 
 objects. And he realized that he was ill, and 
 looked at himself in the glass with a dull, scared 
 expression. He struggled through his dressing, 
 however, and went back to his tea. But, though
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 177 
 
 he had eaten nothing since the morning, he had 
 no appetite ; so, from sheer force of habit, he lit 
 a pipe, wheeling his chair close to the fire. 
 
 And, as the heat penetrated him, his thoughts 
 spun aimlessly round the day's events, till these 
 gradually drifted into the background of his mind, 
 as it were, and he and they seemed to have become 
 altogether detached. His forehead was burning, 
 and a drowsy, delicious sense of physical weakness 
 was stealing over his limbs. He was going to be 
 ill, he remembered ; and it was with vague relief 
 that he looked forward to the prospect of long 
 days of monotonous inactivity, long days of repose 
 from the daily routine of fatigue. The details of 
 each day's work, the accomplishment of which, 
 before, had appeared so indispensable, now, he felt 
 in his lassitude, had faded to insignificance. Mrs. 
 Parkin was right: he had been overdoing himself; 
 and with a clear conscience he would take a forced 
 holiday in bed. Things in the parish would get 
 along without him till the end of the week. There 
 was only the drowned child's funeral, and, if he 
 could not go, Milner, the neighbouring vicar, would 
 take it for him. His pipe slipped from his hand 
 to the hearthrug noiselessly, and his head sank 
 forward. . . . 
 
 He was dreaming of the old churchyard. The 
 trees were rocking their slim, bare arms ; drip, 
 drip, drip, the drops pattered on to the tombstones, 
 tight-huddled in the white, wet light of the moon ; 
 the breath of the old churchyard tasted warm 
 
 N
 
 178 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 and moist, like the reek of horses after a long 
 journey. 
 
 The child's funeral was finished. Mrs. Matheson 
 had cried noisily into her apron ; the mourners 
 were all gone now ; and alone, he sat down on 
 the fresh-dug grave. By the moonlight he tried 
 to decipher the names carved on the slabs ; but 
 most of the letters had faded away, and moss- 
 cushions had hidden the rest. Then he found it 
 — "George Matheson, aged four years and five 
 days," and underneath were carved Mrs. Matheson's 
 words : " He was the bonniest boy in all the 
 parish." He sat on, with the dread of death upon 
 him, the thought of that black senselessness ahead, 
 possessing him, so sudden, so near, so intimate, 
 that it seemed entirely strange to have lived on, 
 forgetful of it. By-and-bye, he saw her coming 
 towards him — Ethel, like a figure from a picture, 
 wearing a white dress that trailed behind her, a 
 red rose pinned at the waist, and the old smile on 
 her lips. And she came beside him, and told him 
 how her husband had gone away for ever, and he 
 understood at once that he and she were betrothed 
 again, as it had been five years ago. He tried to 
 answer her, but somehow the words would not 
 come ; and, as he was striving to frame them, 
 there came a great crash. A bough clattered 
 down on the tombstones ; and with a start he 
 awoke. 
 
 A half-burned coal was smoking in the fender. 
 He felt as if he had been sleeping for many hours.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 179 
 
 He fell to stupidly watching the red-heat, as it 
 pulsed through the caves of coal, to imagining 
 himself climbing their ashen mountain-ridges, 
 across dark defiles, up the face of treacherous 
 precipices. . . . 
 
 Hundreds of times, here, in this room, in this 
 chair, before this fire, he had sat smoking, picturing 
 the old scenes to himself, musing of Ethel Fulton 
 (Ethel Winn she had been then ; but, after her 
 marriage, he had forced himself to think of her as 
 bearing her husband's name — that was a mortifi- 
 cation from which he had derived a sort of bitter 
 satisfaction). But now, with the long accumulation 
 of his solitude — five years he had been vicar of 
 Scarsdale — he had grown so unconscious of self, 
 so indifferent to the course of his own existence, 
 that every process of his mind had, from sheer lack 
 of external stimulation, stagnated, till, little by 
 little, the growth of mechanical habit had come 
 to mould its shape and determine its limitations. 
 And hence, not for a moment had he ever realized 
 the grip that this habit of sentimental reminiscence 
 had taken on him, nor the grotesque extent of its 
 futile repetition. Such was the fervour of his 
 attitude towards his single chapter of romance. 
 
 Five years ago, she and he had promised their 
 lives to one another. And the future had beckoned 
 them onward, gaily, belittling every obstacle in its 
 suffusion of glad, alluring colour. He was poor : 
 he had but his curate's stipend, and she was used 
 to a regular routine of ease. But he would have
 
 180 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 tended her wants, waiting on her, watching over 
 her, indefatigably ; chastening all the best that 
 was in him, that he might lay it at her feet. And 
 together, hand in hand, they would have laboured 
 in God's service. At least so it seemed to him 
 now. 
 
 Then had come an enforced separation ; and 
 later, after a prolonged, unaccountable delay, a 
 letter from her explaining, in trite, discursive 
 phrases, how it could never be — it was a mistake 
 — she had not known her own mind — now she 
 could see things clearer — she hoped he would 
 forgive and forget her. 
 
 A wild determination to go at once to her, to 
 plead with her, gripped him ; but for three days 
 he was helpless, bound fast by parish duties. And 
 when at last he found himself free, he had already 
 begun to perceive the hopelessness of such an 
 errand, and, with crushed and dogged despair, to 
 accept his fate as irrevocable. 
 
 In his boyhood — at the local grammar-school, 
 where his ugliness had made him the butt of his 
 class — and later, at an insignificant Oxford college, 
 where, to spare his father, whose glebe was at the 
 time untenanted, he had set himself grimly to live 
 on an impossibly slender allowance — at every turn 
 of his life, he had found himself at a disadvantage 
 with his fellows. Thus he had suffered much, 
 dumbly — meekly many would have said — without 
 a sign of resentment, or desire for retaliation. But 
 all the while, in his tenacious, long-suffering way,
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 181 
 
 he was stubbornly inuring himself to an acceptance 
 of his own disqualifications. And so, once rudely 
 awakened from his dream of love, he wondered 
 with heavy curiosity at his faith in its glamorous 
 reality, and, remembering the tenour of his life, 
 suffered bitterly like a man befooled by his own 
 conceit. 
 
 Some months after the shattering of his romance, 
 the rumour reached him that James Fulton, a 
 prosperous solicitor in the town, was courting her. 
 The thing was impossible, a piece of idle gossip, 
 he reasoned with himself. Before long, however, 
 he heard it again, in a manner that left no outlet 
 for doubt. 
 
 It seemed utterly strange, unaccountable, that 
 she, whose eager echoing of all his own spiritual 
 fervour and enthusiasm for the work of the Church 
 still rang in his ears, should have chosen a man, 
 whose sole talk had seemed to be of dogs and of 
 horses, of guns and of game ; a man thick-minded, 
 unthinking, self-complacent ; a man whom he 
 himself had carelessly despised as devoid of any 
 spark of spirituality. 
 
 And, at this moment, when the first smartings 
 of bitter bewilderment were upon him, the little 
 living of Scarsdale fell vacant, and his rector, 
 perhaps not unmindful of his trouble, suggested 
 that he should apply for it. 
 
 The valley was desolate and full of sombre 
 beauty ; the parish, sparsely-peopled but exten- 
 sive ; the life there would be monotonous, almost
 
 182 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 grim, with long hours of lonely brooding. The 
 living was offered to him. He accepted it excitedly. 
 
 And there, busied with his new responsibilities, 
 throwing himself into the work with a suppressed, 
 ascetic ardour, news of the outside world reached 
 him vaguely, as if from afar. 
 
 He read of her wedding in the local newspaper : 
 later, a few trite details of her surroundings ; and 
 then, nothing more. 
 
 But her figure remained still resplendent in his 
 memory, and, as time slipped by, grew into a sort 
 of gleaming shrine, incarnating for him all the 
 beauty of womanhood. And gradually, this incar- 
 nation grew detached, as it were, from her real 
 personality, so that, when twice a year he went 
 back to spend Sunday with his old rector, to preach 
 a sermon in the parish church, he felt no shrinking 
 dread lest he should meet her. He had long 
 ceased to bear any resentment against her, or to 
 doubt that she had done what was right. The 
 part that had been his in the little drama seemed 
 altogether of lesser importance. 
 
 ***** 
 
 All night he lay feverishly tossing, turning his 
 pillow aglow with heat, from side to side ; anxiously 
 reiterating whole incoherent conversations and 
 jumbled incidents. 
 
 At intervals, he was dimly conscious of the 
 hiss of wind-swept leaves outside, and of rain- 
 gusts rattling the window-panes ; and later, of the
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 183 
 
 sickly light of early morning streaking the ceiling 
 with curious patterns. By-and-bye, he dropped 
 into a fitful sleep, and forgot the stifling heat of 
 his bed. 
 
 Then the room had grown half full of daylight, 
 and Mrs. Parkin was there, fidgeting with the 
 curtains. She said something which he did not 
 hear, and he mumbled that he had slept badly, and 
 that his head was aching. 
 
 Some time later — how long he did not know — 
 she appeared again, and a man, whom he presently 
 understood to be a doctor, and who put a ther- 
 mometer, the touch of which was deliciously cool, 
 under his armpit, and sat down at the table to 
 write. Mrs. Parkin and he talked in whispers at 
 the foot of the bed : they went away ; Mrs. Parkin 
 brought him a cup of beef-tea and some toast ; and 
 then he remembered only the blurred memories of 
 queer, unfinished dreams. 
 
 Consciousness seemed to return to him all of a 
 sudden ; and, when it was come, he understood 
 dimly that, somehow, the fatigue of long pain was 
 over, and he tasted the peaceful calm of utter 
 lassitude. 
 
 He lay quite still, his gaze following Mrs. Parkin, 
 as she moved to and fro across the room, till it fell 
 on a basket-full of grapes that stood by the bed- 
 side. They were unfamiliar, inexplicable ; they 
 puzzled him ; and for awhile he feebly turned the 
 matter over in his mind. Presently she glanced at 
 him, and he lifted his hand towards the basket.
 
 1 84 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Would ye fancy a morsel o' fruit noo ? 'Twas 
 Mrs. Fulton that sent 'em," she said. 
 
 She held the basket towards him, and he lifted a 
 bunch from it. They were purple grapes, large 
 and luscious-looking. Ethel had sent them. How 
 strange that was ! For an instant he doubted if 
 he were awake, and clutched the pillow to make 
 sure that it was real. 
 
 " Mrs. Fulton sent them ? " he repeated. 
 
 "Ay, her coachman came yesterday in t' fore- 
 noon to inquire how ye were farin', and left that 
 fruit for ye. Ay, Mr. Burkett, but ye've had a 
 mighty quantity o' callers. Most all t' parish has 
 been askin' for news o' ye. An' that poor woman 
 from t' factory cottages has been doon forenoon 
 and night." 
 
 " How long have I been in bed ? " he asked after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Five days and five nights. Ye've bin nigh at 
 death's door, ravin' and moanin' like a madman. 
 But, noo, I mustna keep ye chatterin'. Ye should 
 jest keep yeself quiet till t' doctor coomes. He'll 
 be mighty surprised to find ye so much improved, 
 and in possession of yer faculties." 
 
 And she left him alone. 
 
 He lay staring at the grapes, while excitement 
 quickened every pulse. Ethel had sent them — 
 they were from Ethel — Ethel had sent them — 
 through his brain, to and fro, boisterously, the 
 thought danced. And then, he started to review 
 the past, dispassionately, critically, as if it were
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 1S5 
 
 another man's ; and soon, every detail, as he 
 lingered on it, seemed to disentangle itself, till it 
 all achieved a curious simplification. The five 
 years at Scarsdale became all blurred : they 
 resembled an eventless waste-level, through which 
 he had been mechanically trudging. But the 
 other day, it seemed, he was with her — he and she 
 betrothed to one another. A dozen scenes passed 
 before his eyes : with a flush of hot, intolerable 
 shame, he saw himself, clumsy, uncouth, devoid 
 of personal charm, viewing her bluntly, selfishly 
 through the cumbrous medium of his own per- 
 sonality. And her attitude was clear too ; the 
 glamour, woven of habitual, sentimental reminis- 
 cence, faded, as it were, from her figure, and she 
 appeared to him simply and beautifully human ; 
 living, vibrating, frail. Noiv he knew the meaning 
 of that last letter of hers — the promptings of each 
 phrase ; the outpourings of his ideals, enthusiasms, 
 aspirations — callow, blatant, crude, he named them 
 bitterly — had scared her : she had felt herself un- 
 equal to the strain of the life he had offered her : 
 in her lovable, womanish frailty, she had grown 
 to dread it ; and he realized all that she had 
 suffered before she had brought herself to end it — 
 the long struggles with doubt and suspense. The 
 veil that had clogged his view was lifted : he knew 
 her now : he could read the writing on her soul : 
 he was securely equipped for loving her ; and now, 
 she had passed out of his life, beyond recall. In
 
 186 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 his blindness he had not recognized her, and had 
 driven her away. 
 
 How came it that to-day, for the first time, all 
 these things were made clear ? 
 
 The clock struck ; and while he was listening to 
 its fading note, the door-handle clicked briskly, 
 and the doctor walked in. He talked cheerily of 
 the crops damaged by the storm, and the sound of 
 his voice seemed to vibrate harshly through the 
 room. 
 
 "There's a heavy shower coming up," he re- 
 marked. " By the way, you're quite alone here, 
 Mr. Burkett, I believe. Have you no relatives 
 whom you would like to send for ? " 
 
 " No — no one," Alec answered. " Mrs. Parkin 
 will look after me." 
 
 " Yes — but you see," and he came and sat down 
 by the bedside, " I don't say there's any immediate 
 danger ; but you've had a very near touch of it. 
 Now isn't there any old friend ? — you ought not to 
 be alone like this." He spoke the last words with 
 emphasis. 
 
 Alec shook his head. His gaze had fallen on 
 the basket of grapes again : he was incoherently 
 musing of Ethel. 
 
 " Mind, I don't say there's any immediate 
 danger," he heard the man repeating ; " but I must 
 tell you that you're not altogether out of the wood 
 yet." 
 
 He paused.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 187 
 
 "You ought to be prepared for the worst, Mr. 
 Burkett." 
 
 The last phrase lingered in Alec's mind ; and 
 slowly its meaning dawned upon him. 
 
 " You mean I might die at any moment ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, no — I don't say that," the other answered 
 evasively. "But you see the fever has left you 
 very weak ; and of course in such cases one can 
 never be quite sure " 
 
 The rest did not reach Alec's ears ; he was only 
 vaguely aware of the murmur of the man's voice. 
 
 Presently he perceived that he had risen. 
 
 " I will come back in the afternoon," he was 
 saying. " I'll tell Mrs. — Mrs. Parker to bring you 
 in some breakfast." 
 
 After the doctor had gone he dozed a little . . . 
 Then remembered the man's words — " No im- 
 mediate danger, but you must be prepared for the 
 worst." The sense of it all flashed upon him : he 
 understood what the man had meant : that was 
 the way doctors always told such things, he 
 guessed. So the end was near . . . He wondered, 
 a little curiously, if it would come before to-night, 
 or to-morrow ... It was near, quite near, he 
 repeated to himself ; and gradually, a peacefulness 
 permeated his whole being, and he was vaguely 
 glad to be alone. . . . 
 
 A little while, and he would be near God. He 
 felt himself detached from the world, and at peace 
 with all men.
 
 1 88 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 His life, as he regarded it trailing behind him, 
 across the stretch of past years, seemed inadequate, 
 useless, pitiable almost ; of his own personality, as 
 he now realized it, he was ashamed — petty morti- 
 fications, groping efforts, a grotesque capacity for 
 futile, melancholy brooding — he rejoiced that he 
 was to have done with it. The end was near, 
 quite near, he repeated once again. 
 
 Then, afterwards, would come rest — the infinite 
 rest of the Saviour's tenderness, and the strange, 
 wonderful expectation of the mysterious life to 
 come ... A glimpse of his own serenity, of his 
 own fearlessness, came to him ; and he was moved 
 by a quick flush of gratitude towards God. He 
 thought of the terror of the atheist's death — the 
 world, a clod of dead matter blindly careering 
 through space ; humanity, a casual, senseless 
 growth, like the pullulating insects on a rottening 
 tree. . . . 
 
 A little while, only a little while, and he would 
 be near God. And, softly, under his breath, he 
 implored pardon for the countless shortcomings of 
 his service. . . . 
 
 The German clock on the mantel-piece ticked 
 with methodical fussincss : the flames in the grate 
 flickered lower and lower; and one by one dropped, 
 leaving dull-red cinders. Through the window, 
 under the half-drawn blind, was the sky, cold with 
 the hard, white glare of the winter sun, flashing 
 above the bare, bony mountain-backs ; and he 
 called to mind spots in the little, desolate parish,
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 1S9 
 
 which, with a grim, clinging love, he had come to 
 regard as his own for always. Who would come 
 after him, live in this house of his, officiate in the 
 square, grey-walled church, move and work in 
 God's service among the people ? . . . 
 
 And, while he lay drowsily musing on the 
 unfinished dream, a muffled murmur of women's 
 voices reached his ears. By an intuition, akin 
 perhaps to animal instinct, he knew all at once 
 that it was she, talking with Mrs. Parkin down in 
 the room below. Prompted by a rush of imperious 
 impulse he raised himself on his elbow to listen. 
 
 There was a rustling of skirts in the passage and 
 the sound of the voices grew clearer. 
 
 "Good-day, ma'am, and thank ye very kindly, 
 I'm sure," Mrs. Parkin was saying. 
 
 No reply came, though he was straining every 
 nerve to catch it ... At last, subdued, but alto- 
 gether distinct, her voice — 
 
 " You're sure there's nothing else I can send ? " 
 
 The door of his room was ajar. He dug his 
 nails into the panel-edge, and tried to swing it 
 open. But he could scarcely move it, and in a 
 moment she would be gone. 
 
 Suddenly he heard his own voice — loud and 
 queer it sounded : 
 
 " Ethel— Ethel." 
 
 Hurried steps mounted the stairs, and Mrs. 
 Parkin's white cap and spectacled face appeared. 
 
 " What be t' matter, Mr. Burkett ? " she asked 
 breathlessly.
 
 i go SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Stop her— tell her." 
 
 " Dearie, dearie me, he's off wanderin' agin." 
 
 " No, no ; I'm all right— tell— ask Mrs. Fulton 
 if she would come up to see me ? " 
 
 " There, there, Mr. Burkett, don't ye excite yeself. 
 Ye're not fit to see any one, ye know that. Lie ye 
 doon agin, or ye'll be catchin' yer death o' cauld." 
 
 "Ask her to come, please — just for a minute." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake lie doon. Ye'll be workin' 
 yeself into a fever next. There, there, I'll ask her 
 for ye, though I've na notion what t' doctor 'ud 
 say." 
 
 She drew down the blind and retired, closing 
 the door quietly behind her. 
 
 The next thing he saw was Ethel standing by 
 his bedside. 
 
 He lay watching her without speaking. She 
 wore a red dress trimmed with fur ; a gold brace- 
 let was round her gloved wrist, and a veil half hid 
 her features. 
 
 Presently he perceived that she was very white, 
 that her mouth was twitching, and that her eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 " Alec — I'm so sorry you're so ill . . . Are you 
 in pain ? 
 
 He shook his head absently. Her veil and the 
 fur on her cloak looked odd, he thought, in the 
 half-light of the room. 
 
 " You will be better soon : the worst is over." 
 
 " No," he answered, with a dreary smile. " I am 
 going to die."
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 191 
 
 She burst into sobs. 
 
 " No, no, Alec . . . You must not think 
 that." 
 
 He stretched his arm over the coverlet to- 
 wards her, and felt the soft pressure of her gloved 
 hand. 
 
 « Forgive me, Ethel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean 
 to pain you. But it is so ; the doctor told me this 
 morning." 
 
 She sat down by the bedside, still crying, press- 
 ing her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 " Ethel, how strange it seems. Do you know I 
 haven't seen you since I left Cockermouth ? " The 
 words came deliberately, for his mind had grown 
 quite calm. " How the time has flown ! " 
 
 Her grasp on his hand tightened, but she made 
 no answer. 
 
 " It was very kind of you to come all this way, 
 Ethel, to see me. Will you stay a little and let 
 me talk to you ? It's more than five years since 
 we talked together, you know," and he smiled 
 faintly. " Don't cry so, Ethel dear. I did not 
 mean to make you cry. There's no cause to cry, 
 dear ; you've made me so happy." 
 
 " My poor, poor Alec," she sobbed. 
 
 " You'd almost forgotten the old days, perhaps," 
 he continued dreamily, talking half to himself; 
 " for it's a long while ago now. But to me it 
 seems as if it had all just happened. You see I've 
 been vegetating rather, here in this lonely, little 
 place . . . Don't go on crying, Ethel dear . . .
 
 1 92 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 let mc tell you about things a little. There's no 
 harm in it now, because you know I'm " 
 
 " Oh ! don't— don't say that. You'll get better. 
 I know you will." 
 
 " No, Ethel, I shan't. Something within me 
 tells me that my course is done. Besides, I don't 
 want to get better. I'm so happy . . . Stay a 
 little with me, Ethel ... I wanted to explain . . . 
 I was stupid, selfish, in the old days " 
 
 " It was I — I who " she protested through 
 
 her tears. 
 
 " No, you were quite right to write me that 
 letter. I've thought that almost from the first 
 . . . I'm sure of it," he added, as if convincing 
 himself definitely. " It could never be ... it was 
 my fault ... I was stupid and boorish and 
 wrapped up in myself. I did not try to under- 
 stand your nature ... I didn't understand any- 
 thing about women ... I never had a sister . . . 
 I took for granted that you were always thinking 
 and feeling just as I was. I never tried to under- 
 stand you, Ethel ... I was not fit to be entrusted 
 with you." 
 
 "Alec, Alec, it is not true. You were too 
 good, too noble-hearted. I felt you were far 
 above me. Beside you I felt I was silly and 
 frivolous. Your standards about everything seemed 
 so high " 
 
 But he interrupted, unheeding her : 
 " You don't know, Ethel, how happy you've 
 made me ... I have thought of you every day.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 193 
 
 In the evenings, I used to sit alone, remembering 
 you and all the happy days we had together, and 
 the remembrance of them has been a great joy to 
 me. I used to go over them all, again and again. 
 The day that we all went to Morecambe, and that 
 walk along the sea-shore, when the tide caught us, 
 and I carried you across the water . . . the time 
 that we went to those ruins, and you wore the 
 primroses I picked for you. And I used to read 
 over all your letters, and remember all the things 
 you used to say. Down-stairs, under the writing- 
 table, there is a black, tin cash-box — the key is 
 on my bunch — Mrs. Parkin will give it you. It's 
 where ;I've kept everything that has reminded me 
 of you, all this time. Will you take it back with 
 you ? . . . You don't know how you've helped 
 me all these years — I wanted to tell you that . . . 
 When I was in difficulties, I used to wonder how 
 you would have liked me to act . . . When I 
 was lonely and low-spirited, I used to tell myself 
 that you were happy." He paused for breath, and 
 his voice died slowly in the stillness of the room. 
 "You were quite right," he murmured almost 
 inaudibly, "I see it all, quite clearly now." 
 
 She was bending over him, and was framing his 
 face in her two hands. 
 
 " Say I was wrong," she pleaded passionately. 
 " Say I was wicked, wrong. I loved you, Alec . . . 
 I was promised to you. I should have been so 
 happy with you, dear . . . Alec, my Alec, do not 
 die . . . God will not let you die . . . He cannot 
 
 o
 
 194 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 be so cruel . . . Come back, Alec .... I love 
 you . . . Do you hear, my Alec ? I love you 
 . . . Ethel loves you . . . Before God I love 
 you ... I was promised to you ... I broke 
 my word ... I loved you all the time, but I did 
 not know it . . . Forgive me, my Alec . . . 
 forgive me ... I shall love you always." 
 
 He passed his fingers over her forehead tenta- 
 tively, as if he were in darkness. 
 
 " Ethel, every day, every hour, all these years, 
 you have been with me. And now I am going 
 away. Kiss me — just once — just once. There 
 can be no wrong in it now." 
 
 She tore her veil from her face : their lips met, 
 and her head rested a moment, sobbing, on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Hush ! don't cry, Ethel dear, don't cry. You 
 have made me so glad . . . And you will remember 
 to take the box . . . And you will think of me 
 sometimes . . . And I shall pray God to make 
 you happy, and I shall wait for you, Ethel, and be 
 with you in thought, and if you have trouble, you 
 will know that I shall be sorrowing with you. Isn't 
 it so, dear? . . . Now, good-bye, dear one — good- 
 bye. May God watch over you." 
 
 She had moved away. She came back again, 
 however, and kissed his forehead reverently. But 
 he was not aware of her return, for his mind had 
 begun to wander. 
 
 She brushed past Mrs. Parkin in the passage, 
 bidding her an incoherent good-bye : she was
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 1 95 
 
 instinctively impatient to escape to the protection 
 of familiar surroundings. Inside the house, she 
 felt helpless, dizzy ; the melodrama of the whole 
 scene had stunned her senses, and pity for him 
 was rushing through her in waves of pulsing 
 emotion. 
 
 As she passed the various landmarks, which she 
 had noted on her outward journey — a group of 
 Scotch firs, a roofless cattle-shed, a pile of felled 
 trees — each seemed to wear an altered aspect. 
 With what a strange suddenness it had all hap- 
 pened ! Yesterday the groom had brought back 
 word that he was in delirium, and had told her 
 of the loneliness of the house. It had seemed so 
 sad, his lying ill, all alone : the thought had preyed 
 on her conscience, till she had started to drive out 
 there to inquire if there were anything she could 
 do to help him. Now, every corner round which 
 the cart swung, lengthened the stretch of road that 
 separated her from that tragic scene in his room . . . 
 Perhaps it was not right for her to drive home and 
 leave him ? But she couldn't bear to stay ; it was 
 all so dreadful. Besides, she assured herself, she 
 could do no good. There was the doctor, and that 
 old woman who nursed him — they would see to 
 everything . . . Poor, poor Alec — alone in that 
 grey-walled cottage, pitched at the far end of this 
 long, bleak valley — the half-darkened room — his 
 wasted, feverish face — and his knowing that he 
 could not live — it all came back to her vividly, 
 and she shivered as if with cold. Death seemed
 
 196 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 hideous, awful, almost wicked in the cruelty of its 
 ruthlessness. And the homeward drive loomed 
 ahead, interminably — for two hours she would 
 have to wait with the dreadful, flaring remem- 
 brance of it all — two hours — for the horse was 
 tired, and it was thirteen miles, a man by the 
 roadside had told her. . . . 
 
 He was noble-hearted, saint-like . . . Her pity 
 for him welled up once more, and she convinced 
 herself that she could have loved him, worshipped 
 him, been worthy of him as a husband — and now 
 he lay dying. He had revealed his whole nature 
 to her, it seemed. No one had ever understood, as 
 she did now, what a fine character he was in reality. 
 Her cheeks grew hot with indignation and shame, 
 as she remembered how she had heard people laugh 
 at him behind his back, refer to him mockingly as 
 the " love-sick curate." And all this while — for five 
 whole years — he had gone on caring for her — 
 thinking of her each day, reading her letters, re- 
 calling the things she used to say — yes, those were 
 his very words. Before, she had never suspected 
 that it was in his nature to take it so horribly 
 tragically ; yet, somehow, directly he had fixed 
 his eyes on her in that excited way, she had 
 half guessed it. . . . 
 
 The horse's trot slackened to a walk, and the 
 wheels crunched over a bed of newly-strewn 
 stones . . . She was considering how much of 
 what had happened she could relate to Jim. Oh ! 
 the awfulness of his knowing beforeliand like that !
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 197 
 
 She had kissed him : she had told him that she 
 cared for him : she hadn't been able to help doing 
 that. There was no harm in it ; she had made 
 him happier — he had said so himself . . . But Jim 
 wouldn't understand : he would be angry with her 
 for having gone, perhaps. He wouldn't see that 
 she couldn't have done anything else. No, she 
 couldn't bear to tell him : besides, it seemed some- 
 how like treachery to Alec . . . Oh ! it must be 
 awful to know beforehand like that ! . . . The 
 doctor should never have told him. It was 
 horrible, cruel ... In the past how she had been 
 to blame — she saw that now : thoughtless, selfish, 
 altogether beneath him. 
 
 It was like a chapter in a novel. His loving her 
 silently all these years, and telling her about it on 
 his deathbed. At the thought of it she thrilled 
 with subtle pride : it illuminated the whole ordin- 
 ariness of her life. The next moment the train of 
 her own thoughts shamed her. Poor, poor Alec. 
 . . . And to reinforce her pity, she recalled the 
 tragic setting of the scene. 
 
 That woman — his landlady — could she have 
 heard anything ? she wondered with a twinge of 
 dread. No, the door was shut, and his voice had 
 been very low. 
 
 The horse turned on to the main road, and 
 pricking his ears, quickened his pace. 
 
 She would remember him always. Every day, 
 she would think of him, as he had asked her to do 
 — she would never forget to do that. And, if she
 
 198 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 were in trouble, or difficulty, she would turn her 
 thoughts towards him, just as he had told her he 
 used to do. She would try to become better — 
 more religious — for his sake. She would read her 
 Bible each morning, as she knew had been his 
 habit. These little things were all she could do 
 now. Her attitude in the future she would make 
 worthy of his in the past . . . He would become 
 the secret guiding-star of her life : it would be her 
 hidden chapter of romance. . . . 
 
 The box — that box which he had asked her to 
 take. She had promised, and she had forgotten it. 
 How could she get it? It was too late to turn 
 back now. Jim would be waiting for her. She 
 would only just be in time for dinner as it was. 
 . . . How could she get it ? If she wrote to his 
 landlady, and asked her to send it — it was under 
 the writing-table in the sitting-room he had said. 
 . . . She mast get it, somehow. . . . 
 
 It was dark before she reached home. Jim was 
 angry with her for being late, and for having driven 
 all the way without a servant. She paid no heed 
 to his upbraiding ; but told him shortly that Alec 
 was still in great danger. He muttered some 
 perfunctory expression of regret, and went off to 
 the stables to order a bran-mash for the horse. His 
 insensibility to the importance of the tragedy she 
 had been witnessing, exasperated her : she felt 
 bitterly mortified that he could not divine all that 
 she had been suffering.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 199 
 
 The last of the winter months went, and life in 
 the valley swept its sluggish course onwards. The 
 bleak, spring winds rollicked, hooting from hill to 
 hill. The cattle waited for evening, huddled under 
 the walls of untrimmed stone ; and before the fire- 
 sice, in every farmhouse, new-born lambs lay help- 
 lessly bleating. On Sundays the men would loaf 
 n churlish groups about the church door, jerk curt 
 greetings at one another, and ask for news of 
 Parson Burkett. It was a curate from Cocker- 
 nouth who took the services in his stead — one of 
 the new-fangled sort ; a young gentleman from 
 London way, who mouthed his words like a girl, 
 carried company manners, and had a sight of 
 strange clerical practices. 
 
 Alec was slowly recovering. The fever had 
 altogether left him : a straw-coloured beard now 
 covered his chin, and his cheeks were grown hollow 
 and peaky-looking. But by the hay-harvest, the 
 doctor reckoned, he would be as strong as ever 
 again — so it was commonly reported. 
 
 Mrs. Parkin declared that the illness had done 
 him a world o' good. " It's rested his mind like, 
 and kept him from frettin'. He was alus ower 
 given to studyin' on his own thoughts, till he got 
 dazed like and took na notice o' things. An' noo," 
 she would conclude, "ye should jest see him, 
 smilin' as free as a child." 
 
 So day after day floated vaguely by, and to 
 Alec the calm of their unbroken regularity was 
 delicious. He was content to lie still for hours,
 
 200 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 thinking of nothing, remembering nothing, tastiig 
 the torpor of dreamy contemplation ; watching 
 through the window the slow drifting of the 
 shadows ; listening to the cackling of geese, and 
 the plaintive bleating of sheep. . . . 
 
 By-and-bye, with returning strength, his senses 
 quickened, and grew sensitive to every passing 
 impression. To eat with elaborate deliberation 
 his invalid meals ; to watch the myriad specks of 
 gold dancing across a bar of sunlight — these were 
 sources of keen, exciting delight. But in the fore- 
 ground of his mind, transfiguring with its glamour 
 every trivial thought, flashed the memory of Ethel's 
 visit. He lived through the whole scene again and 
 again, picturing her veiled figure as it had stood by 
 the bedside, wrapped in the red, fur cloak ; and 
 her protesting words, her passionate tears, seemed 
 to form a mystic, indissoluble bond between them, 
 that brightened all the future with rainbow colours. 
 
 God had given him back to her. Whether 
 circumstances brought them together frequently, 
 or whether they were forced to live their lives 
 almost wholly apart, would, he told himself, matter 
 but little. Their spiritual communion would remain 
 unbroken. Indeed, the prospect of such separa- 
 tions, proving, as it did to him, the sureness of the 
 bond between them, almost elated him. There 
 would be unquestioning trust between them, and, 
 though the world had separated them, the best 
 that was in him belonged to her. When at length 
 they met, there would be no need for insistence on
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 201 
 
 common points of feeling, for repeated handling 
 of past threads, as was customary with ordinary 
 friendships. Since each could read the other's 
 heart, that sure intuition born of chastened, spiritual 
 love would be theirs. If trouble came to her, he 
 would be there to sacrifice all at a moment's 
 bidding, after the fashion of the knights of old. 
 Because she knew him, she would have faith in 
 him. To do her service would be his greatest joy. 
 
 At first the immobile, isolated hours of his con- 
 valescence made all these things appear simple and 
 inevitable, like the events of a great dream. As 
 time went on, however, he grew to chafe against 
 his long confinement, to weary of his weakness, and 
 of the familiar sight of every object in the room ; 
 and in the mornings, when Mrs. Parkin brought 
 him his breakfast, he found himself longing for a 
 letter from her— some brief word of joy that he was 
 recovering. He yearned for some material object, 
 the touch of which would recall her to him, as if a 
 particle of her personality had impregnated the 
 atoms. 
 
 Sometimes, he would force himself into believing 
 that she would appear again, drive out to learn the 
 progress of his recovery . . . After luncheon she 
 would leave home . . . about half-past one, pro- 
 bably . . . soon after three, he would see her . . . 
 Now, she was nearing the cross-roads . . . now 
 climbing the hill past Longrigg's farm ... she 
 would have to walk the horse there . . . now, 
 crossing the old bridge. He would lie watching
 
 202 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 the clock ; and when the suspense grew intolerable, 
 to cheat it, he would bury his head in the pillow to 
 count up to a thousand, before glancing at the 
 hands again. So would slip by the hour of her 
 arrival ; still, he would struggle to delude himself 
 with all manner of excuses for her — she had been 
 delayed — she had missed the turning, and had been 
 compelled to retrace her steps. And, when at 
 length the twilight had come, he would start to 
 assure himself that it was to be to-morrow, and 
 sink into a fitful dozing, recounting waking dreams 
 of her, subtly intoxicating. . . . 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 In April came a foretaste of summer, and, for an 
 hour or two every day, he was able to hobble 
 down-stairs. He perceived the box at once, lying 
 in its accustomed place, and concluded that on 
 learning that he was out of danger, she had sent it 
 back to him. The sight of it cheered him with 
 indefinable hope : it seemed to signify a fresh 
 token of her faith in him : it had travelled with her 
 back to Cockermouth on that wonderful day which 
 had brought them together ; and now, in his eyes, 
 it was invested with a new preciousness. He un- 
 locked it, and, somehow, to discover that its con- 
 tents had not been disturbed, was a keen dis- 
 appointment. He longed for proof that she had 
 been curious to look into it, that she had thus been 
 able to realize how he had prized every tiny object 
 that had been consecrated for him by her. Then 
 it flashed across him that she herself might have
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 203 
 
 brought the box back, and fearing to disturb him, 
 had gone home again without asking to see him. 
 All that evening he brooded over this supposition ; 
 yet shrank from putting any question to Mrs. 
 Parkin. But the following morning, a sudden 
 impulse overcame his repugnance ; and the next 
 moment he had learned the truth. Untouched, 
 unmoved, the box had remained all the while — 
 she had never taken it — she had forgotten it. And 
 depression swept through him ; for it seemed that 
 his ideal had tottered. 
 
 His prolonged isolation and his physical lassitude 
 had quickened his emotions to an abnormal sensi- 
 bility, and had led him to a constant fingering, as 
 it were, of his successive sentimental phases. And 
 these, since they constituted his sole diversion, he 
 had unconsciously come to regard as of supreme 
 importance. The cumbersome, complex details of 
 life in the outside world had assumed the simplifi- 
 cation of an indistinct background : in his vision of 
 her figure he had perceived no perspective. 
 
 But now the grain of doubt was sown : it germi- 
 nated insidiously ; and soon, the whole complexion 
 of his attitude towards her was transformed. All 
 at once he saw a whole network of unforeseen 
 obstacles, besetting each detail of the prospect he 
 had been planning. Swarming uncertainty fastened 
 on him at every turn ; till at last, goaded to despera- 
 tion, he stripped the gilding from the accumulated 
 fabric of his idealized future. 
 
 And then his passion for her flamed up — ardent,
 
 204 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 unreasoning, human. After all, he loved as other 
 men loved — that was the truth : the rest was mere 
 calfish meandering. Stubbornly he vindicated to 
 himself his right to love her .... He was a man 
 — a creature of flesh and blood, and every fibre 
 within him was crying out for her — for the sight of 
 her face ; the sound of her voice ; the clasp of her 
 hand. Body and soul he loved her ; body and soul 
 he yearned for her. . . . She had come back to him, 
 she was his again — with passionate tears she had 
 told him that she loved him. To fight for her, he 
 was ready to abandon all else. At the world's laws 
 he gibed bitterly ; before God they were man and 
 
 wife. 
 
 The knowledge that it lay in his power to make 
 her his for life, to bind her to him irrevocably, 
 brought him intoxicating relief. Henceforward he 
 would live on, but for that end. Existence without 
 her would be dreary, unbearable. He would resign 
 his living and leave the Church. Together they 
 would go away, abroad : he would find some work 
 to do in the great cities of Australia .... She 
 was another man's wife — but the sin would be his 
 — Ms, not hers — God would so judge it ; and for 
 her sake he would suffer the punishment. Besides, 
 he told himself exultantly, the sin, was it not 
 already committed ? " Whosoever looketh on a 
 woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery 
 with her already in his heart." 
 
 He would go to her, say to her simply that he 
 was come for her. It should be done openly,
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 205 
 
 honestly in the full light of day. New strength 
 and deep-rooted confidence glowed within him. 
 The wretched vacillation of his former self was put 
 away like an old garment. Once more he sent her 
 words of love sounding in his ears — the words that 
 had made them man and wife before God. And 
 on, the train of his thoughts whirled : visions of a 
 hundred scenes flitted before his eyes — he and she 
 together as man and wife, in a new home across 
 the seas, where the past was all forgotten, and 
 the present was redolent of the sure joy of perfect 
 love. . . . 
 
 ***** 
 
 He was growing steadily stronger. Pacing the 
 floor of his room, or the gravel-path before the 
 house, when the sun was shining, each day he 
 would methodically measure the progress of his 
 strength. He hinted of a long sea voyage to the 
 doctor : the man declared that it would be madness 
 to start before' ten days had elapsed. Ten days 
 — the stretch of time seemed absurd, intolerable. 
 But a quantity of small matters relating to the 
 parish remained to be set in order: he had de- 
 termined to leave no confusion behind him. So 
 he mapped out a daily task for himself : thus he 
 could already begin to work for her : thus each 
 day's accomplishment would bring him doubly 
 nearer to her. The curate, who had been taking 
 his duty, came once or twice at his request to help 
 him ; for he was jealously nursing his small stock
 
 206 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 of strength. He broke the news of his approaching 
 departure to Mrs. Parkin, and asked her to accept 
 the greater portion of his furniture, as an inade- 
 quate token of his gratitude towards her for all 
 she had done for him. The good creature wept 
 copiously, pestered him with questions concerning 
 his destination, and begged him to give her news 
 of him in the future. Next he sent for a dealer 
 from Cockermouth to buy the remainder, and dis- 
 puted with him the price of each object tenaciously. 
 
 One afternoon his former rector appeared, and 
 with tremulous cordiality wished him God-speed, 
 assuming that the sea voyage was the result of 
 doctor's advice. And it was when the old man 
 was gone, and he was alone again, that, for the 
 first time, with a spasm of pain, he caught a 
 glimpse of the deception he was practising. But 
 some irresistible force within him urged him 
 forward — he was powerless — to look back was 
 impossible now — there was more yet to be done 
 — he must go on — there was no time to stop to 
 think. So to deaden the rising conscience-pangs 
 he fiercely reminded himself that now, but five 
 days more separated her from him. He sat down 
 to write to his bishop and resign his living, 
 struggling with ambiguous, formal phrases, im- 
 petuously attributing to his physical weakness his 
 inability to frame them. 
 
 The letter at length finished, instinctively dread- 
 ing fresh gnawings of uneasiness, he forced himself 
 feverishly into thinking of plans for the future,
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 207 
 
 busying his mind with time-tables, searching for 
 particulars of steamers, turning over the leaves of 
 his bank-book. All the money which his father 
 had left to him had remained untouched : for three 
 years they could live comfortably on the capital ; 
 meanwhile he would have found some work. 
 
 At last, when, with the growing twilight, the 
 hills outside were hurriedly darkening, he sank 
 back wearily in his chair. And all at once he 
 perceived with dismay that nothing remained for 
 him to do, nothing with which he could occupy his 
 mind. For the moment he was alone with himself, 
 and looking backwards, realization of the eager 
 facility with which he had successively severed 
 each link, and the rapidity with which he had set 
 himself drifting towards a future, impenetrable 
 with mysterious uncertainty, stole over him. He 
 had done it all, he told himself, deliberately, un- 
 aided ; bewildered, he tried to bring himself face 
 to face with his former self, to survey himself as 
 he had been before the fever — that afternoon when 
 he had gone up to Beda Cottages — plodding in- 
 differently through life in the joyless, walled-in 
 valley, which, he now understood, had in a measure 
 reflected the spirit of his own listless broodings. 
 Scared remorse seized him. The prospect of de- 
 parture, now that it was close at hand, frightened 
 him ; left him aching as with the burden of dead 
 weight, so that, for a while, he remained inert, 
 dully acquiescing in his accumulating disquietude. 
 
 Then, in desperation, he invoked her figure,
 
 2o8 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 imagining a dozen incoherent versions of the 
 coming scene — the tense words of greeting, his 
 passionate pleading, her impulsive yielding, and 
 the acknowledgment of her trust in him. . . . 
 
 By-and-bye, Mrs. Parkin brought him his dinner. 
 He chatted to her with apparent unconcern, jested 
 regarding his appetite ; for a curious calm, the 
 lucidity evoked by suppressed elation, pervaded 
 him. 
 
 But through the night he tossed restlessly, 
 waking in the darkness to find himself throbbing 
 with triumphant exhilaration ; each time striking 
 matches to examine the face of his watch, and 
 beginning afresh to calculate the hours that separ- 
 ated him from the moment that was to bind them 
 together — the irrevocable starting towards the 
 future years. 
 
 * # * * * 
 
 She stood in the bow-window of her drawing- 
 room, arranging some cut flowers in slender pink 
 and blue vases, striped with enamel of imitation 
 gold. Behind her, the room, uncomfortably orna- 
 mental, repeated the three notes of colour — gilt 
 paper shavings filling the grate ; gilt-legged chairs 
 and tables ; stiff, shiny, pink chintzes encasing the 
 furniture ; on the wall a blue-patterned paper, all 
 speckled with stars of gold. 
 
 Outside, the little lawn, bathed in the fresh 
 morning sunlight, glowed a luscious green, and the 
 trim flower-beds swelled with heightened colours. 
 A white fox-terrier came waddling along the
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 209 
 
 garden path : she lifted the animal inside the 
 window, stroking his sleek sides with an effusive 
 demonstration of affection. Would Jim remember 
 to be home in good time ? she was idly wondering ; 
 she had forgotten to remind him before he went 
 to his office, that to-night she was to sing at a 
 local concert. 
 
 Suddenly, she caught sight 01 a man's figure 
 crossing the lawn. For an instant she thought it 
 was an old clerk, whom Jim sometimes employed 
 to carry messages. Then she saw that it was Alec 
 — coming straight towards her. Her first impulse 
 was to escape from him ; but noticing that his 
 gaze was fixed on the ground, she retreated be- 
 hind an angle of the window, and stood watching 
 him . . . Poor Alec ! He was going away on a 
 sea voyage for his health, so Jim had heard it said 
 in the town ; and she formed a hasty resolve to be 
 very kind to the poor fellow. Yet her vanity felt 
 a prick of pique, as she noticed that his gait was 
 grown more gaunt, more ungainly than ever ; and 
 she resented that his haggard face, his stubbly 
 beard, which, when he lay ill, had signified tense 
 tragedy, should now seem simply uncouth. Still, 
 she awaited his appearance excitedly ; anticipating 
 a renewed proof of his touching, dog-like devotion 
 to her, and with a fresh thrill of unconscious 
 gratitude to him for having supplied that scene to 
 which she could look back with secret, sentimental 
 pride. 
 
 The maid let him into the room. As he ad- 
 
 p
 
 210 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 vanced towards her, she saw him brush his forehead 
 with his hand impatiently, as if to rid his brain of 
 an importunate thought. He took her outstretched 
 hand : the forced cheeriness of her phrase of 
 greeting died away, as she felt his gaze searching 
 her face. 
 
 " Let us sit down," he said abruptly. 
 
 " I'm all right again, now," he began with a 
 brisk, level laugh ; and it occurred to her that 
 perhaps the illness had affected his mind. 
 
 " I'm so glad of that," she stammered in reply ; 
 " so very glad . . . And you're going away, aren't 
 you, for a long sea voyage ? That will do you 
 ever so much good " 
 
 But before she had finished speaking, he was 
 kneeling on the carpet before her, pouring out 
 incoherent phrases. Bewildered, she gazed at 
 him, only noticing the clumsy breadth of his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Listen to me, Ethel, listen," he was saying. 
 " Everything is ready — I've given it all up — my 
 living — the Church. I can't bear it any longer — 
 life without you, I mean . . . You are everything 
 to me — I only want you — I care for nothing else 
 now. I am going away to Australia. You will 
 come with me, Ethel — you said you loved me . . . 
 We love one another — come with me — let us start 
 life afresh. I can't go on living without you . . . 
 I thought it would be easy for you to come ; I see 
 now that perhaps it's difficult. You have your 
 home : I see that . . . But have trust in me — I
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 211 
 
 will make it up to you. Together we will start 
 afresh — make a new home — a new life. I will 
 give you every moment ; I will be your slave . . . 
 Listen to me, Ethel ; let us go away. Everything 
 is ready — I've got money — I've arranged every- 
 thing. We can go up to London to-morrow. The 
 steamer starts on Thursday." 
 
 The sound of his voice ceased. She was staring 
 at the door, filled with dread lest it should open, 
 and the maid should see him kneeling on the 
 carpet. 
 
 " Don't," she exclaimed, grasping his coat. " Get 
 up, quick." 
 
 He rose, awkwardly she thought, and stood 
 before her. 
 
 "We were so happy together once, dear — do 
 you remember — in the first days, when you pro- 
 mised yourself to me ? And now I know that in 
 your heart you still care for me. You said so. Say 
 you will come — say you will trust me — you will 
 start to-morrow. If you can't come so soon I will 
 wait, wait till you can come," he added, and she 
 felt the trembling touch of his hands on hers, and 
 his breath beating on her face. 
 
 " Don't, please," and she pushed back his hands. 
 " Some one might see." 
 
 " What does it matter, my darling ? We are 
 going to belong to one another for always. I am 
 going to wait for you, darling — to be your slave — 
 to give up every moment of my life to you . . . 
 It's the thought of you that's made me live, dear.
 
 212 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 . . . You brought me back to life, that day you 
 came . . . I've thought of nothing but you since. 
 I've been arranging it all " 
 
 " It's impossible," she interrupted. 
 
 " No, dear, it's not impossible," he pleaded. 
 
 " You've resigned your living — left the Church ? " 
 she asked incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, everything," he answered proudly. 
 
 " And all because you cared so for me ? " 
 
 " I can't begin to live again without you. I 
 would suffer eternal punishment gladly to win 
 you . . . You will trust yourself to me, darling ; 
 say you will trust me." 
 
 "Of course, Alec, I trust you. But you've no 
 right to " 
 
 " Oh ! because you're married, and it's a sin, and 
 I'm a clergyman. But I'm a man first. And for 
 you I've given it all up — everything. You don't 
 understand my love for you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do," she answered quickly, alarmed 
 by the earnestness of his passion, yet remembering 
 vaguely that she had read of such things in books. 
 
 " You will come to-morrow, darling — you will 
 have trust in me ? " 
 
 " You are mad, Alec. You don't know what 
 you are saying. It would be absurd." 
 
 " It's because you don't understand how I love 
 you, that you say that," he broke out fiercely. 
 " You can't understand — you can't understand." 
 
 "Yes, I can," she protested, instinctively eager 
 to vie with his display of emotion.
 
 IN CUMBERLAND 213 
 
 " Then say you will come — promise it, promise 
 it," he cried ; and his features were all distorted by 
 suspense. 
 
 But at this climax of his insistence, she lost 
 consciousness of her own attitude. She seemed 
 suddenly to see all that clumsiness which had 
 made her refuse him before. 
 
 " It's altogether ridiculous," she answered shortly. 
 
 He recoiled from her : he seemed to stiffen a 
 little all over ; and she felt rising impatience at 
 his grotesque denseness in persisting. 
 
 " You say it's altogether ridiculous ? " he repeated 
 after her slowly. 
 
 "Yes, of course it's ridiculous," she repeated 
 with uneasy emphasis. " I'm very sorry you should 
 mind — feel it so — but it isn't my fault." 
 
 " Why did you say then that before God you 
 loved me, when you came that day ? " he burst out 
 with concentrated bitterness. 
 
 " Because I thought you were dying." The bald 
 statement of the truth sprang to her lips — a spon- 
 taneous, irresistible betrayal. 
 
 " I see — I see," he muttered. His hands clenched 
 till the knuckles showed white. 
 
 " I'm very sorry," she added lamely. Her tone 
 was gentler, for his dumb suffering moved her 
 sensibilities. In her agitation, the crudity of her 
 avowal had slipped her notice. 
 
 " That's no use," he answered wearily. 
 
 "Alec, don't be angry with me. Can't we be 
 friends ? Don't you see yourself now that it was
 
 214 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 mad, absurd ? " she argued, eager to reinstate her- 
 self in his eyes. Then, as he made no answer, 
 " Let us be friends, Alec, and you will go back to 
 Scarsdale, when you are well and strong. You 
 will give up nothing for my sake. I should not 
 wish that, you know, Alec." 
 
 "Yes," he assented mechanically, "I shall go 
 back." 
 
 " I shall always think of this morning," she con- 
 tinued, growing sentimentally remorseful as the 
 sensation of rising relief pervaded her. "And you 
 will soon forget all about it," she added, with a 
 cheeriness of tone that rang false ; and paused, 
 awaiting his answer. 
 
 "And I shall forget all about it," he repeated 
 after her. 
 
 To mask her disappointment, she assumed a 
 silly, nervous gaiety. 
 
 "And I shall keep it quite secret that you were 
 so naughty as to ask me to run away with you. I 
 sha'n't even tell Jim." 
 
 He nodded stupidly. 
 
 With a thin, empty smile on her face, she was 
 debating how best to part with him, when, of a 
 sudden, he rose, and, without a word, walked out 
 of the room. 
 
 He strode away across the lawn, and, as she 
 watched his retreating figure, she felt for him a 
 shallow compassion, not unmingled with contempt.
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 
 
 The pink shade of a single lamp supplied an 
 air of subdued mystery ; the fire burned red and 
 still ; in place of door and windows hung curtains, 
 obscure, formless ; the furniture, dainty, but sparse, 
 stood detached and incoordinate like the furni- 
 ture of a stage-scene ; the atmosphere was heavy 
 with heat, and a scent of stale tobacco ; some cut 
 flowers, half-withered, tissue-paper still wrapping 
 their stalks, lay on a gilt, cane-bottomed chair. 
 
 " Will you give me a sheet of paper, please ? " 
 
 He had crossed the room, to seat himself before 
 the principal table. He wore a fur-lined overcoat, 
 and he was tall, and broad, and bald ; a sleek face, 
 made grave by gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 The other man was in evening dress ; his back 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his 
 pockets : he was moodily scraping the hearthrug 
 with his toe. Clean-shaved ; stolid and coarsely 
 regular features ; black, shiny hair, flattened on to 
 his head ; undersized eyes, moist and glistening ; 
 the tint of his face uniform, the tint of discoloured 
 ivory ; he looked a man who ate well and lived 
 hard.
 
 216 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Certainly, sir, certainly," and he started to 
 hurry about the room. 
 
 " Daisy," he exclaimed roughly, a moment later, 
 " where the deuce do you keep the note-paper ? " 
 
 " I don't know if there is any, but the girl always 
 has some." She spoke in a slow tone — insolent 
 and fatigued. 
 
 A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her 
 head, and a scarlet plush cloak, trimmed with 
 white down, was covering her feet, as she lay 
 curled on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the 
 metallic gold of her hair, which clashed with the 
 black of her eyebrows ; and the full, blue eyes, 
 wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid- 
 red lips. She drummed her fingers on the sofa- 
 edge, nervously. 
 
 " Never mind," said the bald man shortly, pro- 
 ducing a note-book from his breast-pocket, and 
 tearing a leaf from it. 
 
 He wrote, and the other two stayed silent ; the 
 man returned to the hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails 
 under his arms ; the girl went on drumming the 
 sofa-edge. 
 
 " There," sliding back his chair, and looking 
 from the one to the other, evidently uncertain 
 which of the two he should address. " Here is 
 the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table- 
 spoonful at a time, in a wine-glassful of water at 
 lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to 
 bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and " 
 (to the girl deliberately and distinctly) " you must
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 217 
 
 keep quite quiet ; avoid all sort of excitement — 
 that is extremely important. Of course you must 
 on no account go out at night. Go to bed early, 
 take regular meals, and keep always warm." 
 
 " I say," broke in the girl, " tell us, it isn't bad — 
 dangerous, I mean ? " 
 
 " Dangerous ! — no, not if you do what I tell 
 you." 
 
 He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning 
 his coat. 
 
 " Good-evening," he said gravely. 
 
 At first she paid no heed ; she was vacantly 
 staring before her : then, suddenly conscious that 
 he was waiting, she looked up at him. 
 
 " Good-night, doctor." 
 
 She held out her hand, and he took it. 
 
 "I'll get all right, won't I?" she asked, still 
 looking up at him. 
 
 " All right — of course you will — of course. But 
 remember you must do what I tell you." 
 
 The other man handed him his hat and um- 
 brella, opened the door for him, and it closed 
 behind them. 
 
 The girl remained quiet, sharply blinking her 
 eyes, her whole expression eager, intense. 
 
 A murmur of voices, a muffled tread of footsteps 
 descending the stairs — the gentle shutting of a 
 door — stillness. 
 
 She raised herself on her elbow, listening ; the 
 cloak slipped noiselessly to the floor. Quickly
 
 2i8 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 her arm shot out to the bell-rope : she pulled it 
 violently ; waited, expectant ; and pulled again. 
 
 A slatternly figureappeared — a woman of middle 
 age — her arms, bared to the elbows, smeared with 
 dirt ; a grimy apron over her knees. 
 
 " What's up ? — I was smashin' coal," she ex- 
 plained. 
 
 " Come here," hoarsely whispered the girl — " here 
 — no — nearer — quite close. Where's he gone ? " 
 
 "Gone? 'oo?" 
 
 " That man that was here." 
 
 " I s'ppose 'ee's in the down-stairs room. I ain't 
 'eard the front door slam." 
 
 " And Dick, where's he ? " 
 
 " They're both in there together, I s'ppose." 
 
 " I want you to go down — quietly — without 
 making a noise — listen at the door — come up, and 
 tell me what they're saying." 
 
 " What ? Down there ? " jerking her thumb over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, of course — at once," answered the girl, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " And if they catches me — a nice fool I looks. 
 No, I'm jest blowed if I do ! " she concluded. 
 " Whatever's up ? " 
 
 " You must," the girl broke out excitedly. " I 
 tell you, you must." 
 
 " Must— must— an' if I do, what am I goin' to 
 get out of it ? " She paused, reflecting ; then 
 added : " Look 'ere— I tell yer what— I'll do it for 
 half a quid, there ! "
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 219 
 
 " Yes — yes — all right — only make haste." 
 
 " An' 'ow d' I know as I'll git it ? " she objected 
 doggedly. " It's a jolly risk, yer know." 
 
 The girl sprang up, flushed and feverish. 
 
 " Quick — or he'll be gone. I don't know where 
 it is — but you shall have it — I promise — quick — 
 please go — quick." 
 
 The other hesitated, her lips pressed together ; 
 turned, and went out. 
 
 And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a 
 chair. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spas- 
 modically. A creak outside. She had come up. 
 But the curtains did not move. Why didn't she 
 come in ? She was going past. The girl hastened 
 across the room, the intensity of the impulse lend- 
 ing her strength. 
 
 " Come — come in," she gasped. " Quick — I'm 
 slipping." 
 
 She struck at the wall ; but with the flat of her 
 hand, for there was no grip. The woman bursting 
 in, caught her, and led her back to the sofa. 
 
 " There, there, dearie," tucking the cloak round 
 her feet. " Lift up the piller, my 'ands are that 
 mucky. Will yer 'ave anythin' ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " It's gone," she muttered. 
 " Now— tell me." 
 
 " Tell yer ? — tell yer what ? Why — why — there 
 ain't jest nothin' to tell yer." 
 
 " What were they saying ? Quick."
 
 22o SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I didn't 'ear nothin'. They was talkin' about 
 some ballet-woman." 
 
 The girl began to cry, feebly, helplessly, like a 
 child in pain. 
 
 " You might tell me, Liz. You might tell me. 
 I've been a good sort to you." 
 
 "That yer 'ave. I knows yer 'ave, dearie. There, 
 there, don't yer take on like that. Yer'll only make 
 yerself bad again." 
 
 " Tell me — tell me," she wailed. " I've been a 
 good sort to you, Liz." 
 
 " Well, they wasn't talkin' of no ballet-woman — 
 that's straight," the woman blurted out savagely. 
 
 " What did he say ? — tell me." Her voice was 
 weaker now. 
 
 " I can't tell yer — don't yer ask me — for God's 
 sake, don't yer ask me." 
 
 With a low crooning the girl cried again. 
 
 " Oh ! for God's sake, don't yer take on like 
 that— it's awful— I can't stand it. There, dearie, 
 stop that cryin' an' I'll tell yer— I will indeed. It 
 was jest this way — I slips my shoes off, an' I goes 
 down as careful — jest as careful as a cat — an' when 
 I gets to the door I crouches myself down, listenin' 
 as 'ard as ever I could. The first thing as I 'ears 
 was Mr. Dick speakin' thick- like — like as if 'ee'd 
 bin drinkin' — an' t'other chap 'ee says somethin' 
 about lungs, using some long word — I missed that 
 — there was a van or somethin' rackettin' on the 
 road. Then 'ee says • gallopin', gallopin',' jest like 
 as if 'ee was talkin' of a 'orse. An' Mr. Dick, 'ee
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 221 
 
 says, ' ain't there no chance — no'ow ? ' and 'ee give 
 a sort of a grunt. I was awful sorry for 'im, that I 
 was, 'ee must 'ave been crool bad, 'ee's mostly so 
 quiet-like, ain't 'ee ? An', in a minute, 'ee sort o' 
 groans out somethin', an' t'other chap 'ee answer 
 'im quite cool-like, that 'ee don't properly know : 
 but, anyways, it 'ud be over afore the end of 
 February. There, I've done it. Oh ! dearie, it's 
 awful, awful, that's jest what it is. An' I 'ad no 
 intention to tell yer — not a blessed word — that I 
 didn't — may God strike me blind if I did! Some- 
 'ow it all come out, seein' yer chokin' that 'ard 
 an' feelin' at the wall there. Yer 'ad no right to 
 ask me to do it — 'ow was I to know 'ee was a 
 doctor ? " 
 
 She put the two corners of her apron to her 
 eyes, gurgling loudly. 
 
 " Look 'ere, don't yer b'lieve a word of it — I 
 don't — I tell yer they're a 'umbuggin' lot, them 
 doctors, all together. I know it. Yer take my 
 word for that — yer'll git all right again. Yer'll 
 be as well as I am, afore yer've done — Oh, Lord ! — 
 it's jest awful — I feel that upset — I'd like to cut 
 my tongue out, for 'avin' told yer — but I jest 
 couldn't 'elp myself." She was retreating towards 
 the door, wiping her eyes, and snorting out loud 
 sobs — "An' don't yer offer me that half- quid — 
 I couldn't take it of yer — that I couldn't." 
 
 ***** 
 She shivered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight
 
 222 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 round her shoulders. In her desire to get warm 
 she forgot what had happened. She extended the 
 palms of her hands towards the grate : the heat 
 was delicious. A smoking lump of coal clattered 
 on to the fender : she lifted the tongs, but the 
 sickening remembrance arrested her. The things 
 in the room were receding, dancing round : the 
 fire was growing taller and taller. The woollen 
 scarf chafed her skin : she wrenched it off. Then 
 hope, keen and bitter, shot up, hurting her. " How 
 could he know ? Of course he couldn't know. 
 She'd been a lot better this last fortnight — the 
 other doctor said so — she didn't believe it — she 
 
 didn't care Anyway, it would be over before 
 
 the end of February ! " 
 
 Suddenly the crooning wail started again : next, 
 spasms of weeping, harsh and gasping. 
 
 By-and-bye she understood that she was crying 
 noisily, and that she was alone in the room : like 
 a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased. 
 
 " Let me live — let me live — I'll be straight — I'll 
 go to church — I'll do anything ! Take it away — 
 it hurts — I can't bear it ! " 
 
 Once more the sound of her own voice in the 
 empty room calmed her. But the tension of emo- 
 tion slackened, only to tighten again : immediately 
 she was jeering at herself. What was she wasting 
 her breath for ? What had Jesus ever done for 
 her ? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks 
 to Him. 
 
 " ' Dy-sy—Dy-sy ' "
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 223 
 
 From the street below, boisterous and loud, the 
 refrain came up. And, as the footsteps tramped 
 away, the words reached her once more, indistinct 
 in the distance : 
 
 " ' Fui jest cry-sy, all for the love 0' you.' " 
 
 She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a 
 play. It was as if some one was there, in the 
 room — hiding — watching her. 
 
 Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In 
 the middle, she struggled to cry for help ; she 
 thought she was going to suffocate. 
 
 Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and 
 sleepy. 
 
 The end of February — she was going to die — it 
 was important, exciting — what would it be like ? 
 Everybody else died. Midge had died in the 
 summer — but that was worry and going the pace. 
 And they said that Annie Evans was going off 
 too. Damn it ! she wasn't going to be chicken- 
 hearted. She'd face it. She had had a jolly time. 
 She'd be game till the end. Hell-fire — that was 
 all stuff and nonsense — she knew that. It would 
 be just nothing — like a sleep. Not even painful : 
 she'd be just shut down in a coffin, and she 
 wouldn't know that they were doing it. Ah ! but 
 they might do it before she was quite dead ! It 
 had happened sometimes. And she wouldn't be 
 able to get out. The lid would be nailed, and 
 there would be earth on the top. And if she 
 called no one would hear. 
 
 Ugh ! what a fit of the blues she was setting I
 
 224 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 It was beastly, being alone. Why the devil didn't 
 Dick come back ? 
 
 That noise ! What was that ? 
 
 Bah ! only some one in the street. What a fool 
 she was ! 
 
 She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt 
 swept through her, the wild longing to fight. It 
 was damned rough — four months ! A year, six 
 months even, was a long time. The pain grew 
 acute, different from anything she had felt before, 
 
 " Good Lord ! what am I maundering on about ? 
 Four months — I'll go out with a fizzle like a fire- 
 work. Why the devil doesn't Dick come ? — or 
 Liz — or somebody ? What do they leave me alone 
 like this for ? " 
 
 She dragged at the bell-rope. 
 
 ***** 
 
 He came in, white and blear-eyed. 
 
 " Whatever have you been doing all this time ? " 
 she began angrily. 
 
 " I've been chatting with the doctor." He was 
 pretending to read a newspaper : there was some- 
 thing funny about his voice. 
 
 " It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, 
 as long as you don't get colds, or that sort of 
 thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit again " — a 
 quick, crackling noise — he had gripped the news- 
 paper in his fist. 
 
 She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. 
 She would never have thought he'd have done it
 
 MODERN MELODRAMA 225 
 
 like that. He was a good sort, after all. But — 
 she didn't know why — she broke out furiously : 
 
 " You infernal liar ! — I know. I shall be done 
 for by the end of February — ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the 
 grate. The crash and the shrivelling of the leaves 
 in the flames brought her an instant's relief. Then 
 she said quietly : 
 
 " There — I've made an idiot of myself ; but " 
 (weakly) "I didn't know— I didn't know — I thought 
 it was different." 
 
 He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. 
 Presently he went up to her and put his hands 
 round her cheeks. 
 
 "No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want 
 that. Get me something to drink. I feel bad." 
 
 He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with 
 the cork of a champagne bottle. It flew out with 
 a bang. She started violently. 
 
 " You clumsy fool ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 She drank off the wine at a gulp. 
 
 " Daisy," he began. 
 
 She was staring stonily at the empty glass. 
 
 " Daisy," he repeated. 
 
 She tapped her toe against the fender-rail. 
 
 At this sign, he went on — 
 
 " How did you know ? " 
 
 " I sent Liz to listen," she answered mechanically. 
 
 He looked about him, helpless. 
 
 " I think I'll smoke," he said feebly. 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 Q
 
 226 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " Here, put the glass down," she said. 
 He obeyed. 
 
 He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down 
 opposite her, puffing dense clouds of smoke. 
 And, for a long while, neither spoke. 
 " Is that doctor a good man ? " 
 " I don't know. People say so," he answered.
 
 YEW-TREES AND PEACOCKS 
 
 A SUMMER stillness, redolent of stately leisure, 
 floated over all things. An indolent assemblage of 
 huge clouds, milk-white and swelling, filled the sky ; 
 portly, sober-toned oaks stood grouped at decorous 
 intervals across the broad, undulating park ; and 
 in the distance grazed a herd of deer — a hesitating 
 streak of delicate brown. The lawn lay spread 
 faultlessly as a costly carpet : beyond its further 
 edge rose a sudden blaze of pompous colour — 
 purple sweet-william, giant fox-gloves and holly- 
 oakes, bed upon bed of damask roses, dying in 
 gorgeous disorder — a tangle of old-world flowers, 
 lavender, dull gold, and faded magenta, clambering 
 and twining, overhanging the grass in drooping, 
 crowding clusters. And the great, rectangular 
 house, built of rich-red sandstone, and surmounted 
 by the effigy of a monstrous lion, seemed, with its 
 luxurious windows, and massive colonnade empha- 
 sizing the entrance, by reason of its spacious solidity, 
 at once to complete and to justify the opulent 
 dignity of the landscape. 
 
 A pair of peacocks, insolently gaudy, were strut- 
 ting about the grass ; two boarhounds were gam-
 
 228 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 boiling over the trim gravel sweep : presently a 
 footman came out of the house, carrying a silver 
 tray loaded with afternoon tea-things, which he 
 proceeded to arrange on a table already laid 
 beneath the shadow of the two twin yew-trees. 
 
 And then, from behind the border of tall flowers, 
 she appeared. The boarhounds ceased their clumsy 
 play, and galloped to meet her. And she came 
 across the lawn with a leisurely and consummate 
 grace, dreamily swinging by its ribands a large- 
 brimmed garden-hat. 
 
 " Has Colonel Hallam come ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; he's with his lordship in the 
 library," the man answered. 
 
 " Will you tell them, please, that tea is ready ? " 
 
 She sat down in a low basket-chair by the tea- 
 table ; her fine, white hand toyed listlessly with 
 her chatelaine ; her lips parted, and through her 
 half-closed eyelids she looked out across the park, 
 dreamily — dreamily as in an old portrait you some- 
 times catch a woman's wandering gaze. Her face 
 was still reminiscent of that sumptuous beauty 
 which it had once possessed ; but time had faded 
 its former richness to an exquisite paleness, a 
 subtle harmony of tired colour. Her dress, the 
 colour of old-gold, drifted in clinging folds on to 
 the grass, and the sunlight played gently with the 
 crispness of her hair, vaguely powdered with grey, 
 yet artlessly abundant as a young girl's. And from 
 the fragility of her worn loveliness, there emanated 
 an air of delicate, subdued sadness, as if the sensi-
 
 YEW-TREES AND PEACOCKS 229 
 
 tive beauty of her soul had constrained her to long, 
 intimate renouncements, as if she had elected to 
 live isolated from the crudity of the world. 
 
 Yet, presently, as the boarhounds started to 
 chase one another across the lawn, the far-away 
 look left her eyes, and a faint smile of amusement 
 flickered about her mouth. 
 
 The two men for whom she was waiting came 
 out of the house. As they strolled towards her, 
 across the gravel, the elder of the two, Lord Sheire, 
 said hurriedly — 
 
 "This will be a great blow to Constance, 
 Hallam." 
 
 " I will tell her about it after tea," the other 
 answered quietly. 
 
 Lady Sheire gave her hand to Colonel Hallam 
 with an artless simplicity, which might have seemed 
 studied had they not been old friends. And the 
 two men sat down beneath the yew-trees. 
 
 They talked of the English summer ; Lord Sheire 
 hinting at the quality of the hay-crop ; Hallam 
 grumbling good-humouredly over the jaded dusti- 
 ness of London, while Constance smiled vaguely 
 as she poured out the tea. 
 
 Lord Sheire's appearance at once suggested that 
 conventional comeliness, that sleek, trim-whiskered 
 middle-age, so frequent in certain old-fashioned 
 London clubs. Every detail of his person — the 
 sparse, silvery hair, carefully parted ; the unobtru- 
 sive, town-made country clothes ; the dapper, 
 Russia leather boots ; the bland lethargy of ex-
 
 230 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 pression ; the trivial precision of voice — all be- 
 tokened a lengthy routine of convenient and gentle- 
 manly ease. 
 
 Hallam sat with his legs crossed, stroking his 
 coarse-grained, iron-grey moustache. At a first 
 glance, perhaps, he seemed physically unremark- 
 able ; but his open face, typical, soldierly ; rugged, 
 yet suffused with ascetic refinement, soon seemed 
 to reveal a convincing personality ; reticent, sure 
 of itself ; quick of resolve, strong in quiet purpose ; 
 drilled to discipline, accustomed to command. 
 
 Just now, while he chatted to Constance of the 
 Italian opera season, alluding vigorously to his 
 antipathy against the uncouthness of Wagner, his 
 present preoccupation was almost imperceptible. 
 Yet she had already detected it ; her husband's 
 tentative and persevering participation in the topic 
 had surprised her. 
 
 So she encouraged the conversation thoughtfully, 
 discreetly glancing from the one to the other, giving 
 free play to her prompt, womanly instincts. 
 
 By-and-bye she let the talk languish ; and Hallam 
 began familiarly to coax the peacocks with crumbs 
 of cake. 
 
 Lord Sheire rose. 
 
 " I have two or three letters to write before 
 dinner," he began diffidently. " You'll excuse me, 
 Hallam, I know. Constance will look after you." 
 
 And he turned abruptly towards the house. 
 
 Hallam continued to coax the peacocks ; but his 
 simulation of indifference grew all at once mala-
 
 YEW-TREES AND PEACOCKS 231 
 
 droit. And Constance sat watching him, and 
 wondering. After a while he seemed to become 
 suddenly conscious of her silence ; for he emptied 
 his palm of the crumbs hastily. 
 
 " What gorgeous creatures they are ! " he re- 
 marked, half-apologetically. 
 
 She nodded gravely, holding his gaze in hers, 
 while a quick, apprehensive smile flitted across her 
 face. 
 
 So accustomed were they, in their intimacy, to 
 the reposeful enjoyment of their familiar friendship, 
 that his embarrassment disturbed her strangely ; 
 from her habit of him, she divined that it sprang 
 from no trival cause. 
 
 " What is it, Colonel Hallam ? " she asked 
 abruptly. Her tremulousness was obvious, like 
 the tremulousness of an actress on the stage ; but 
 with her it was a simple expression of impulsive 
 sincerity, amply warranted by her knowledge of 
 him. 
 
 " Cathcart is invalided home," he answered. 
 
 " Well ? " she exclaimed anxiously. The signifi- 
 cance of his words had flashed across her mind ; 
 but, for the moment, she had not the courage to 
 inflict the pain upon herself. So she waited for 
 him to continue. 
 
 " I have been asked to succeed him." 
 
 She winced, a little proudly; and lifting her 
 chatelaine, fingered it slowly. She was thinking 
 of all that this meant to him, not of all that it 
 would mean to her. And that was very character-
 
 232 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 istic of her. That old longing of his for active 
 service, disappointed during so many years ; and 
 now, of a sudden, unexpectedly granted — granted 
 together with great responsibilities, with great 
 chances of distinction ; granted now that he was 
 already on the return of life. He was thinking of 
 them too, she guessed — of those responsibilities, of 
 those chances of distinction ; thinking of them with 
 an almost boyish quickening of pulse, that carried 
 him back to the days when he was a subaltern ; 
 longing for the thrill of command, after the pro- 
 tracted monotony of official routine, against which, 
 of late, he had discovered himself impatiently 
 chafing. . . . 
 
 " When do you start ? " she asked. 
 
 " To-morrow night." 
 
 " But you said that Colonel Kenneth was to be 
 appointed," she resisted weakly. 
 
 " I intimated that I would be glad to go." He 
 spoke almost inaudibly. The admission — it almost 
 amounted to a confession — cost him no slight effort ; 
 but he made it loyally. 
 
 And then, all at once, she understood the 
 significance of the moment. It was good-bye 
 between them. . . . 
 
 .... And he had done this himself, chosen of his 
 own wish to cut himself adrift from the old ties, to 
 begin life again, out there in the Far East, in a 
 strange land, amid strange faces. Her glance fell 
 on his grey hair, and on his worn, white face : she 
 wondered hurriedly if she had comprehended him
 
 YEW-TREES AND PEACOCKS 233 
 
 aright ; and a tragic admiration for him welled up 
 in her heart. 
 
 " Then it is good-bye," she stammered. 
 
 He sent her a sudden, appealing look, a look of 
 pleading pain, so foreign to his face that she was 
 scared, as at some strange apparition. But she did 
 not misunderstand him ; only felt that many things 
 — the common incidents, the trivial interests, that 
 marked the flow of her life — were all drifting past 
 her, that, suddenly, for her, they had become devoid 
 of sense. And she felt too, that he had done what 
 was right, because he could not have known how 
 she wanted to keep him, how his friendship had 
 come to fill her life. So before what seemed to her 
 the fatalistic twisting of destiny, she made meekly 
 ready to bow in resignation. . . . He was troubled 
 now ; and she was grieved for him, impatient to 
 reassure him, lest he should divine the loneliness 
 that lay ahead of her. 
 
 " Tell me," she began bravely, " about your life 
 out there — what it will be like ? " 
 
 " There will be marching, probably some fighting 
 — but most of all organizing of native troops .... 
 there will be plenty of emergencies to cope with out 
 there. You remember our talk about emergencies 
 .... it was just three weeks ago. ... I never 
 thought to get this chance then." 
 
 " You will do well out there," she continued. 
 
 " Yes," he answered steadily, stroking the boar- 
 hound's head meditatively. 
 
 She was grateful to him for that.
 
 234 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 " I want you so to do well," she said impulsively. 
 
 He looked up at her again, but he did not 
 smile. 
 
 " I did not think it would be so hard to go — to 
 part with old friends — with Sheire, and with you." 
 
 " But it will only be for a while." 
 
 " Yes," he repeated after her dully, " it will only 
 be for a while." 
 
 JjC 5js *}C ^ *t* 
 
 " I want you to let me talk to you about some- 
 thing — now that I am going," he began with a 
 grave hesitation — a hesitation that was prompted 
 less by irresolution than by the sensibility of 
 intuitive tact. 
 
 And she seemed in no way surprised, only 
 listlessly expectant. 
 
 "You remember .... here .... under these 
 yew-trees .... it was fifteen years ago yesterday. 
 ... It was just such an afternoon as this. . . ." 
 
 She was looking at him absently, through her 
 half-closed eyelids. 
 
 " We chose the better part then." 
 
 She assented dreamily. 
 
 " But you have been everything to me," he con- 
 tinued. " You know that, I think." 
 
 " Have I ? " she queried vaguely. 
 
 " Because I am going, you will not let our friend- 
 ship fade ? " 
 
 He was scanning her steadfastly now. Her eyes 
 filled with tears, slowly ; but they did not shrink
 
 YEW-TREES AND rEACOCKS 235 
 
 from his. She was quite unconscious of her 
 emotion. 
 
 And he said eagerly — 
 
 " Would it help you if I were to stay ? ... It is 
 not too late." 
 
 She stretched her hand towards him impulsively. 
 He took it in simple reverence, of a sudden com- 
 prehending her. 
 
 " No .... it is too late .... you must go. . . . 
 I want you to go ... . only promise me that you 
 will come back." 
 
 " Yes," he said steadily, " I shall come back." 
 
 And he felt instinctively, with a fierce, unreason- 
 ing bitterness, that there was nothing more to be 
 said. 
 
 Lord Sheire came across the lawn. 
 
 " Will you take a turn with me, Hallam, before 
 dinner ? " 
 
 And the two men sauntered away together, arm 
 
 in arm. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Behind the oaks the red sun dropped ; creeping 
 up from the west, a tiny breeze rustled past, and 
 was gone, and the glare of the afternoon gave 
 place to the soft cool of evening. The snow-capped 
 cloud-mountains glowed pink ; slowly the hues 
 deepened, pouring themselves in a gorgeous flood 
 over the sky — cornelian, saffron, gold — gradually, 
 in flawless transition, cooling to thin yellow, and 
 far away, across the park, dusky and indefinite, to 
 chilly grey.
 
 236 SENTIMENTAL STUDIES 
 
 And there, where the furnace flared fiercest, 
 straight across its pulsing heart, twisted and 
 shrivelled, stiffened as if its life had been taken 
 from it in the climax of its agony, lay the black, 
 burnt carcase of a tortured cloud. The foliage of 
 the yew-trees turned dark as pitch ; from across 
 the great park, all flushed, floated a faint lowing of 
 cattle. And then there was no more sound, for 
 the day was dead. . . . 
 
 Constance rose, shivering a little, and moved 
 across the lawn towards the house.
 
 A Set of 
 
 Village Tales
 
 LISA-LA-FOLLE 
 
 Up on the top of the hill she lived alone, in the 
 shed with the peaked roof. No one could tell you 
 how old she was ; and only old Cauhape knew 
 how long she had been there. Old Cauhape's legs 
 were paralyzed, and when the sun shone, he used 
 to sit, wrapped in sacking, before the debit de tabac 
 which his little great-niece kept for him. And if 
 you could but get him to talk, he would narrate to 
 you, in his stumbling, jerky fashion, how many, 
 many years ago, when Lisa-la-folle was black- 
 haired, and handsome, and devilish proud, the 
 soldiers had come one day to gallop about the 
 valley, and how another day they were all gone 
 back to Paris, they and the officers, in their great 
 plumed hats, and red cloaks reaching below the 
 heels, and Lisa-la-folle with them. 
 
 It was a glamorous, sinful life she had led there, 
 with carriages and horses and servants, and a 
 gorgeous mansion, where the nobles played with 
 dice, and sang ribald songs all the night long, till 
 the candles sputtered low in their sockets — at least,
 
 240 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 so old Cauhape had heard tell. And many a 
 shameful deed was done in that gorgeous mansion 
 of hers — deeds over which old Cauhape wagged 
 his head solemnly. 
 
 Then, one sweltering Sunday afternoon, she had 
 come back. Everywhere the land was cracking 
 with thirst; for there had fallen no rain through 
 the summer, old Cauhape remembered. 
 
 All the village was going in to vespers as she 
 tottered past the church door, white-haired, bare- 
 footed, and ragged, grimed with much travelling, 
 chattering and laughing to herself the while about 
 things which had no sense. And some of the 
 lads had jeered at her, and one or two had thrown 
 stones, and the young women had run screaming 
 into the church. But she took no notice of any 
 one : just went by, chattering and laughing to 
 herself. (All the way from Paris she had come 
 so ; nearly a thousand kilometres Monsieur le cure 
 had reckoned it.) 
 
 That evening the rain had come — a noisy, 
 battering rain, and Monsieur le cure had found 
 her in the lane behind his house, sitting drenched 
 to the skin, still laughing to herself at her own 
 thoughts. And Monsieur le cure had taken her 
 inside, and given her food and wine, and had 
 talked to her softly in good French — she had 
 forgotten the language of the pays — and by-and- 
 bye she grew to be quiet and reasonable, and used 
 to work for Monsieur le cure, hoeing and digging 
 in his garden. And when Monsieur le cure died,
 
 LISA-LA-FOLLE 241 
 
 out of charity, they set her to mend the roads ; 
 for she was strong and a brave worker, and cared 
 nothing; for wind or rain. Four kilometres of the 
 road to Hagetmau they allotted her, between the 
 crucifix and the thirteenth milestone ; and for 
 thirty-eight years she had tended those four kilo- 
 metres of road, in rain, sunshine, and storm, and 
 had never missed a day. And she had gone to 
 live, up on the hill, in the shed with the peaked 
 roof; and in the evenings the Annous, who were 
 neighbours, could see her digging her bit of garden, 
 and hanging her rags to dry before the door. 
 
 But she was still mad, old Cauhape asserted ; 
 for she had never again remembered the language 
 of the pays ; but always spoke French — the strange 
 French of the people of Paris, with words that even 
 Monsieur le cure did not know ; and sometimes, 
 still, as you passed along the road, you might hear 
 her laughing and chattering to herself, just as she 
 had done that Sunday afternoon, when she had 
 first come back to the village. 
 
 All the same she was a brave worker, and never 
 did harm to any one, and so now no one paid 
 much heed to her. Only she was getting broken 
 at last, and the inspector had grumbled, saying 
 that her time was almost done. 
 
 R
 
 242 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 II 
 
 Every morning at half-past seven, and every 
 evening at half-past six, Lisa-la-folle, carrying her 
 big blue umbrella and bundle of provisions, used 
 to pass my gate. For a whole fortnight after my 
 talk with old Cauhape, I never missed wishing her 
 good-morning and good-night. At first she would 
 pretend not to hear me ; by-and-bye she took to 
 sending me a quick, suspicious glance, like the 
 start of a frightened animal ; last of all, she gave 
 me a mumbling answer. 
 
 A little while later, as I rode by her at work, I 
 stopped to speak to her. She stepped forward, 
 laid her hand on the mare's bridle, and motioned 
 me to dismount. I did as she bid me, and we sat 
 down side by side on a grass-grown mud-heap. 
 
 " You are a stranger : you are not of the country," 
 she said. " You are young, and you have a beauti- 
 ful wife. Stay a moment, and I will tell you some- 
 thing, something that I have never told to any of 
 them," and she pointed up the road towards the 
 village. " You shall hear it, and then you can tell 
 it to the people of the land from which you come. 
 
 " You do not know the great sun. No, how can 
 you ? You are young, and I am old. I have lived 
 with him ; I have waited on him many a long, long
 
 LISA-LA-FOLLE 243 
 
 year. I know him ; I know the great sun ; I have 
 talked with him : when he is glad and rollicking ; 
 when he is sulky and shuts his face ; when he is 
 angry and rages over the heavens ; when he is 
 sorrowful and drips blood-red tears on to the earth. 
 Yes, I have talked with him ; in the old time, 
 before the great sun's life was all changed ; in the 
 old time, when he and the moon were happy all the 
 day's length, wandering about the cloud-mountains ; 
 and at night-fall they slept side by side beneath 
 the shadow of the earth. The moon loved him 
 with a clinging love — a love surpassing the deepest 
 love of woman — a love that you cannot understand, 
 and she was ever joyous and rosy, and they were 
 never apart, neither day nor night. Then, one hot 
 summer evening, the spirit of wantonness clipped 
 the moon, and she slipped from the great sun as 
 he slept, and did him a foul wrong. And in the 
 morning he awoke, full of red wrath to find the 
 moon gone from his side, and that day he put her 
 away from him, for ever and ever. 
 
 "And now, while the great sun sleeps, down there, 
 beneath the shadow of the earth, the moon walks 
 the heavens alone, wan and thin and wasted, and 
 when he returns with the day, she flees to hide her 
 white face for shame."
 
 THE WHITE MAIZE 
 
 Old Cauhape said it was the end of the world. 
 
 For eight days and eight nights the ceaseless 
 hiss of the rain. During the day-time, neither sky 
 nor sun, nor breath of wind — only the grey veil of 
 mist, enshrouding all things. The nights were 
 dark as pitch, and full of the hiss of the rain ; and 
 from sunset to sunrise the frogs chanted their long, 
 dismal mass. 
 
 On the eighth day of the rain, about six o'clock 
 in the afternoon, I went out. A sickly glimmer of 
 muddy light flickered from the west ; a breeze was 
 shaking the drops from the trees ; the road was 
 powdered with acacia-bloom, lying thick like 
 sodden snow ; great pools of yellow water were 
 in possession of the lanes ; and new-born streams, 
 bubbling of their own importance, trickled, sleek 
 and swollen, across the fields and under the hedges. 
 
 Eudore stood in his doorway : inside the house 
 I could hear the clattering of Anna's sabots. He 
 looked up at me, as I trudged towards him, across 
 the spongy ox-bedding ; but he gave me no greet- 
 ing, nor moved his hand to his beret, military-
 
 THE WHITE MAIZE 245 
 
 wise, as was his habit. In an instant, it flashed 
 upon me that some great trouble had come to 
 Eudore, and I hesitated whether to go forward or 
 to go back. 
 
 Eudore was young and brawny and obstinate : 
 but, as I had reason to know, he had been hard put 
 to it these last months. And the third baby was 
 on its way. 
 
 I came close up to him ; but still he said nothing, 
 just held his open palm towards me. In it lay a 
 young maize-sprout, fresh-plucked. 
 
 I understood. My gaze met his, and there was 
 the stolidness of despair in his dull face. 
 
 The maize had come up white. 
 
 We went inside without speaking, and Anna 
 bustled about to make me welcome, and knelt on 
 the hearth to blow up the fire. Marcellin, the little 
 boy, lay on the floor, playing with a cockchafer. 
 He had tied a thread to its hind legs, and was try- 
 ing to persuade the creature to fly. But the cock- 
 chafer was lazy with the damp, and refused to do 
 more than crawl. Whereupon Marcellin dumped 
 his podgy fist on the floor, and threw the cock- 
 chafer, thread and all, into the yard. 
 
 Eudore took him by the hand, and the two 
 went out to bring in the geese. And when they 
 were gone there was an end of Anna's cheeriness. 
 She began to grumble, pursing her dark-red lips, 
 dilating her round, black eyes, scattering her words, 
 as it were, all over the room. 
 
 It was while Eudore was with the regiment at
 
 246 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 Mont-de-Monsan that he had courted her. She 
 was a bonne-a-tout-faire in those days. And now 
 that the luck was dead against Eudore, that every 
 year things went worse and worse with them, and 
 that most of the place was mortgaged to Etienne 
 Mattou, the money-lender, she grumbled whenever 
 she could find a listener, and when there was no 
 one she emptied her heart to little Marcellin, 
 concerning the dreariness of life in the country, 
 the cursed greed of the land which devoured every- 
 thing, and grudged even a tainted fruit, concerning 
 the spitefulness of God in Heaven. 
 
 Then Eudore returned, and little Marcellin drove 
 the young geese towards the fire, and Anna's 
 grumbling ceased. 
 
 Eudore pulled the maize-sprout from his pocket, 
 and turned it over once more in his hand, looking 
 stolidly across at Anna. Then he threw it among 
 the fizzling logs. 
 
 The maize had come up white. The fields were 
 all dotted with thousands and thousands of rotten 
 sprouts, and Eudore was altogether ruined. 
 
 At the Toussaint he was sold up, and the great 
 tragedy of his life started to drag its course.
 
 SAINT-PE 
 
 REGULARLY, three times a week, every Tuesday, 
 Thursday, and Saturday, he and his dog came to 
 
 beg. 
 
 He was very tall and very gaunt, and his clothes 
 were all plastered with quaint patches, and ravelled 
 along the hems. But he was always scrupulously 
 clean. His flowing grey beard was silky and 
 well-combed, and the red skin of his hands 
 glistened, as with much polishing. And his sabots, 
 which were many sizes too large, were stuffed with 
 clean straw ; and he always left them on the door- 
 step, and came into the house bare-footed. 
 
 He called himself Saint-Pe — why I could never 
 discover — for one day he admitted to me that he 
 had been baptized altogether differently. He and 
 the cure, and the officier de sante and I represented 
 the classes at Sallespisse ; but Saint-Pe alone vivait 
 en rentier. For from sunrise to sunset he was 
 idle ; he had not done a day's work since the war. 
 He lived in a ramshackle, one-roomed, mud-floored 
 building, from one corner of which at night, through
 
 248 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 the broken tiles he could lie and watch the stars. 
 But the house was his own property, and every 
 Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday morning he 
 shuffled out of it in his clumsy sabots to beg 
 around the neighbourhood. 
 
 Saint-Pe's dog was named Pluton. Once upon 
 a time he had been of the race of St. Hubert ; and 
 Saint-Pe when he learned my name hastened to 
 recommend the animal to my special attention. 
 Whatever Pluton had been once in the distant 
 days of his youth, he was now but a wriggling 
 collection of bones, encased in a worn-out skin. I 
 never knew him venture to carry his tail otherwise 
 than tight under his belly ; and whenever I met 
 him alone, or skulking along behind his master, he 
 never failed to greet me with an interminable, 
 complicated series of grovelling, Japanese-like 
 obeisances. 
 
 And, as I have said, the two came to the house 
 every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and while 
 Pluton sneaked off to rummage obsequiously for 
 refuse in the scullery, Saint-Pe mumbled out the 
 whole lamentation of his woes, as lugubriously, as 
 elaborately, as if he were a complete stranger. Four 
 sous per visit was my allowance to Saint-Pe ; and 
 when he had pocketed them somewhere amid those 
 mysterious patches of his coat he would clump 
 away down the drive, noisily praying to the Virgin 
 for the future repose of my soul. 
 
 Eudore and Saint-Pe were neighbours, and 
 Eudore hated Saint-Pe after his obstinate, uncom-
 
 SAINT-PE 249 
 
 promising fashion, and never altogether forgave me 
 for encouraging the old impostor. " C'est de la 
 canaille," he would repeat sullenly, when, to tease 
 him, I related Saint-Pe's doings, " c'est comme des 
 lagas ; qa vit sur les gens." 
 
 But if, in Eudore's opinion, Saint-Pe was a 
 worthless parasite, Pluton was a cursed thief. One 
 night Eudore had missed five of his young ducks, 
 and he had shouted across the hedge to Saint-Pe 
 that the very next time he would shoot that cur of 
 his dead on the spot. At which threat Saint-Pe 
 shrugged his bony shoulders, and Pluton retreated 
 inside the house, grovelling more obsequiously 
 than ever. 
 
 "II est malin," Saint-Pe confided to me the 
 next morning. " II trouve . . . . ce qu'il trouve — 
 et ga ne parait point — regardez." And, indeed, 
 despite the five young ducks, Pluton looked more 
 starved than before.
 
 250 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 II 
 
 One Tuesday, about the time of the sowing of 
 the maize, Saint-Pe never appeared, and on the 
 Thursday I missed him again. So at sunset, when 
 I had done my work, I strolled up to his house, 
 wondering what could have happened to him. 
 The door was open ; a half-cut loaf of maize- 
 bread stood on the table, but there was no sign 
 of Saint-Pe. Then I heard the scraping of a spade. 
 Saint-Pe was behind the house, digging. 
 
 He put down his spade and shuffled up to me. 
 And he began to repeat the whole of his elaborate 
 lamentation — he was miserable ; he was poor ; life 
 was hard ; he had no one to look after him ; he 
 appealed to good, charitable folks to help him in 
 his old age ; " and now," he concluded, " my dog, 
 the old Pluton, the only thing that the good God 
 had left to me, my dog, my dog, he is dead." He 
 led me behind his house, and lifting his coat, all 
 plastered with patches, uncovered poor Pluton's 
 corpse, with his tail stretched behind him, stark 
 and straight, as I had never seen it while he lived. 
 " Et maintenant," said Saint-Pe proudly, pointing 
 to the half-dug grave, "et maintenant, monsieur, 
 je travaille." And once more, from the very 
 beginning, he went through his lamentation, con-
 
 SAINT-PE 251 
 
 eluding with the appeal to the good, charitable 
 folks to help him. 
 
 I asked him how it had happened. He jerked 
 his head towards the hedge, beyond which stood 
 Eudore's house. " It was this morning, at day-break. 
 A shot — paf!" (And he imitated, dramatically, 
 the gesture of shooting.) " And it was only one 
 that he had taken — just one miserable little duck. 
 Only one. I assure you, monsieur, he hadn't had 
 time to take more than one." And for the third 
 time he repeated his lamentation. 
 
 Eudore came out of his house, and, seeing us, 
 strolled up to the hedge and looked over. 
 Saint-Pe went back to his digging. Eudore stood 
 silent for several minutes ; presently he said, half 
 to himself — 
 
 " Ca faisait pitie de voir une bete affamee 
 comme ca." 
 
 Then, turning to Saint-Pe, he called in patois — 
 " Stop a minute ; I will dig for you." 
 He pushed his way through a gap in the hedge, 
 and taking the spade, dug out the grave. And 
 when he had finished, Saint-Pe lifted the stiff 
 carcass tenderly and placed it inside ; then shovelled 
 the earth over it with his clumsy sabots.
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 
 
 I 
 
 IT was the fair at Amou. On the ox-market, 
 under the plane-trees, a sea of blue berets ; an 
 incoherent waving of ox-goads ; hundreds of sleek, 
 fawn-coloured backs and curved, bristling horns. 
 
 Etienne Mattou had been found murdered. 
 
 A boy from Baigts had just brought the news, 
 as I drove into the town, and the murmur of it 
 had started to run like wild-fire through the throng. 
 For in those parts they all knew Etienne Mattou ; 
 and so every one could feel an eager, personal 
 interest in the crime. 
 
 The boy had soon related all he knew. The 
 express from Toulouse pulled up, close to the 
 level crossing which his mother kept. The chef- 
 de-train and three other officials between them 
 carried the body into his mother's house and laid 
 it on the kitchen table. And the blood trickled 
 all down their trousers, and reddened the cloth 
 which they spread over the face. The chef-de- 
 train went back to the train and walked along 
 the foot-board, asking at every window for a
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 
 
 doctor, till at last a stout gentleman in a tall hat 
 clambered down from a first-class carriage. 
 
 Then the gendarmes came, and the engine- 
 driver, who related how he had seen something 
 lying across the rails, but had not been able to 
 stop the train in time. The stout gentleman 
 explained that Etienne Mattou had been dead for 
 some time before the wheels had crushed his 
 head, and showed some wounds on his chest, 
 which, he said, had been done with a knife. 
 After which they all went away together, and the 
 train from Toulouse steamed off again. And 
 the gendarmes found from some papers in the 
 dead man's pockets, and from the marking on his 
 clothes, that he was Etienne Mattou, and the 
 marechal des logis said it was quite clear that he had 
 been murdered in the night, and that the assassin 
 had placed the body across the rails, that people 
 might think it was the train that had done it. 
 
 " And Jeanne ? She's in the market. I saw her 
 just now, bargaining for some chickens. Some 
 one must tell her." 
 
 But as the old man spoke, she came in sight, 
 walking alone in the middle of the road, with a 
 straggling, gaping crowd behind her. Up there in 
 the fruit-market, she had heard the news, and she 
 had come straight away like that, looking neither 
 to the right nor to the left, with a wild, scared 
 gaze in her dry eyes. She had taken it so strangely 
 that the women were afraid of her, and no one had 
 dared to speak to her.
 
 254 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 " Some one must see to her," the old man 
 muttered. 
 
 I went up to her, and said, pointing to the dog- 
 cart — 
 
 " I will drive you, Jeanne. The mare is fresh." 
 
 " Thank you," she answered in a hard voice, 
 keeping her gaze fixed on the ground before 
 her. 
 
 We got into the cart together, and the peasants 
 all crowded round to see us start, and the old man 
 swore at the boys and drove them away. 
 
 " Will you go home, or to Baigts ? " I asked 
 when we had crossed the river. 
 
 " Home, if you please. Shall I have to recognize 
 the body ? " 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 I busied myself with driving the mare as fast as 
 she would go. The road was crowded with flocks 
 of sheep, droves of young horses, ox-carts filled 
 with calves and pigs and poultry, peasant men and 
 peasant women, all on their way to the fair. They 
 stood aside as we rattled past, and several bid me 
 good-morning. But none of them had as yet heard 
 the news. A chilly breeze blew in our faces, and 
 the day was draped with heavy folds of lowering 
 clouds. Jeanne never spoke a word ; she sat quite 
 still, her hands folded loosely on her lap. Was it 
 the stoniness of compressed anguish, or the stolidity 
 of indifference ? 
 
 I recalled Etienne's polled, conical-shaped skull, 
 his furtive, sunken eyes, his thin, hooked nose, his
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 255 
 
 egg-coloured moustache and imperial ; and now 
 the engine-wheels had smashed it all hideously, and 
 before that, in the dark of the night — I remembered 
 how the lashing of the wind against the window- 
 pane had awoken me — some one had set upon him 
 savagely, and stabbed him again and again. . . . 
 And Jeanne was beside me, dry-eyed and motion- 
 less. . . . There was something brutal about the 
 silence of this drive. For the mere sake of speaking, 
 I struggled to find some ordinary phrase of con- 
 solation, some good word for the dead man. But 
 I could not ; for Jeanne was aware that I had had 
 cause to hate him, as much as any one in the 
 country. So nothing passed between us ; there 
 was only the monotonous clatter of the mare's 
 swinging trot. 
 
 A fierce haggler, a man of many wiles, a man of 
 stubborn greed, a man without pity, a bully, an 
 evil-natured cheat — Etienne Mattou had been all 
 that. Ostensibly, he had carried on an extensive 
 trade in ham-curing, buying the pigs from the 
 peasants, and sending the meat to Bayonne and to 
 Bordeaux ; but he had a multitude of other occu- 
 pations — he was a money-lender, a horse-dealer, a 
 wine-merchant, a road-contractor, and a speculator 
 in land. And many a tale of his ruthlessness in 
 each of these capacities was told about the country. 
 
 Jeanne was yet young, and I had often wondered 
 what her life must have been, in that dank, dilapi- 
 dated chateau of theirs. People said that she had 
 grown evil-hearted too, and that it was she who
 
 256 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 had turned the cask-binder out into the road, 
 because he had become slow and infirm. 
 
 The rain came before we reached the house — a 
 listless, silently flowing rain. The sky descended 
 like a low ceiling ; the breath of the breeze dropped, 
 and a heavy odour of sodden soil came from the land. 
 
 " You'll get wet," I said to Jeanne. 
 
 She gave me no answer. 
 
 . . . And all the past month Etienne had been 
 busier than ever — he had sold everything — his 
 lands, his ham-trade, his horses ; he had dismissed 
 his men. The lease of the chateau was almost at 
 an end. Etienne was going to retire. In another 
 fortnight he would have been gone — back to the 
 Tarn-et-Garonne, his own country — gone with all 
 his ill-gotten riches. 
 
 That the vengeance of some poor devil whom he 
 had out-witted — it must have been that, I thought 
 — should have fallen upon him at that moment, 
 seemed like an awful judgment of God. 
 
 We turned within the old stone gateway, all 
 yellow with moss. Inside, as we drove noiselessly 
 over the grass-grown drive, under the thick-leafed 
 trees, the air tasted hot and rank. The house, 
 every shutter closed and the stucco peeling from 
 the walls, stood desolate, rotting, dead-looking. 
 
 Jeanne got down, mounted the flight of green, 
 cracked steps, pulled a key from her pocket, and 
 pushed open the great, creaking door. Then, sud- 
 denly remembering me, she turned and nodded 
 curtly.
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 257 
 
 " Thank you ! " 
 
 " No one has come," I said. And, as she did not 
 speak, I asked — " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 " I shall wait." She still stood half inside the 
 house. 
 
 " Can I do anything ? " 
 
 " No, nothing," she interrupted. She went inside, 
 and the door closed behind her with a heavy noise.
 
 258 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 II 
 
 Since our strange drive together that drizzling 
 April morning, I have never seen Jeanne again. 
 And to this day the gendarmes have not discovered 
 Etienne Mattou's murderer. Old Cauhape, I 
 remember, for a whole week, grew quite garrulous 
 over the mysterious crime, propounded half-a- 
 dozen theories concerning it, and came to the 
 brutal conclusion that, after all, the rascal only got 
 what he deserved. Jeanne lived on in the dilapi- 
 dated chateau, she and an old serving-woman. 
 She was richer than ever now ; for Etienne's life 
 had been insured for eighty thousand francs. And 
 people began to speak of her more kindly, and 
 reminded one another that her parents had forced 
 her into marrying Etienne, because he was a man 
 of great fortune.
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 259 
 
 III 
 
 Truth is stranger than fiction ; and so it proved 
 in the matter of Etienne Mattou. 
 
 One night towards the end of the year, I was at 
 Havre, awaiting the Southampton steamer. When 
 I entered the Cafe du Port, a flaccid-faced man 
 stood on the platform, chanting a comic song. 
 
 " Brunes et blondes, brunes et blondes, 
 Les p'tites cocottes, les p'tites cocottes," 
 
 went the refrain. 
 
 " Une cannette de Strasbourg ! " called a voice — 
 a rasping, deep-toned voice — a voice that I knew. 
 Those furtive, sunken eyes, that thin, hooked nose 
 — where had I seen them before ? The man sat 
 alone, smoking a cigarette, moodily contemplating 
 his glass. 
 
 In a flash it came upon me. It was Etienne 
 Mattou. He wore a beard, and a workman's 
 blouse. But it was him — that trick of blinking 
 his eyes, of pressing the ball of his thumb under 
 his nose, as he meditated. 
 
 The resemblance was extraordinary, yet the 
 thing was impossible ; Etienne had been dead 
 nearly a year. 
 
 Fascinated, I watched the man. Presently he
 
 260 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 began to drum his finger on the marble table. 
 " Les pioupious d'Auvergne," — I had heard Etienne 
 drum that tune in Eudore's house, the day after 
 the sale. 
 
 With an irresistible impulse, I rose and sat down 
 opposite him. His drumming ceased at once, and 
 he fixed his gaze on me, violently blinking his 
 small, sunken eyes. I sat there, as if hypnotized, 
 unable to take my eyes off him. The singer came 
 and jingled his plate-full of coppers between us. I 
 let him pass. I felt that to move would break the 
 spell. Then a reckless longing to make the man 
 speak, to hear that rasping, deep-pitched voice, 
 seized me — 
 
 " Vous etes ici depuis longtemps, monsieur ? " I 
 began. 
 
 " Mais foutez-moi la paix. Je ne vous connais 
 pas." 
 
 It was the voice — Etienne's voice. And all at 
 once my courage came back. 
 
 " Pardon," I said, " mais vous me connaissez 
 parfaitement. Vous vous appelez Etienne Mattou." 
 
 Yes, it was he. Under the eyes he had turned 
 all white. 
 
 " Voulez-vous me laissez tranquille ? " 
 
 " I want to know why you are not dead ? " My 
 heart was thumping with excitement ; I never 
 heeded the grotesqueness of the question. 
 
 " You are mad, I think." 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " 
 
 He struck a match, and, as he steadied the
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 261 
 
 flame, while the sulphur sputtered, his hand shook, 
 rattling the stud of his shirt-cuff. 
 
 " I work here. I am a porter on the quay." 
 
 " But you are Etienne Mattou. I know you 
 perfectly well now." 
 
 He dropped the lighted match on the table, and, 
 leaning across, said in a low voice — 
 
 " Come outside." 
 
 We went into the street. 
 
 " And Jeanne ? Where is Jeanne ? " he asked. 
 
 " Jeanne believes you are dead — murdered by the 
 railway." 
 
 " Is she still there — in the country ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and you ? " 
 
 « And I ? " 
 
 " They suppose it was your body that was found 
 by the railway. How was that ? " 
 
 " I can't tell," he replied sullenly. Then 
 added — " Are you staying long here ? " 
 
 " No, I go to-night, at half-past eleven — to 
 England, by the steamer." 
 
 We were walking along the quay : a few passers 
 were hurrying by, and the water was licking the 
 harbour-wall. 
 
 " You are starting without fail to-night then ? " 
 
 " Yes, without fail." 
 
 " You must tell no one that you have seen me." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I am going back there to-morrow — to 
 see after Jeanne — to give her a little surprise." 
 
 The light from a cafe illuminated his face. We
 
 262 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 had stopped, and he held out two fingers of his 
 right hand. 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 I watched him walk rapidly away. Then I 
 went on board. 
 
 Later in the night, as we were ploughing across 
 the Channel, I remembered the look on his face as 
 he had bid me good-bye, and I understood how it 
 had all happened. Etienne had met some beggar 
 in the dark, had changed clothes with him, killed 
 him, and placed the body across the rails, so that it 
 might never be recognized. Afterwards he had 
 escaped to Havre, and had been waiting there for 
 Jeanne to join him with the insurance-money. But 
 Jeanne had never come.
 
 ETIENNE MATTOU 263 
 
 IV 
 
 I do not think he ever returned to give Jeanne 
 that little surprise. At least, no one out there ever 
 saw him. Jeanne still lives in the country. She 
 has made over all her money to the convent of 
 the Sacre-cceur at Navarreux, and now she is a 
 cloistered nun, and will never come out till the 
 end of her days.
 
 THE LITTLE PRIEST 
 
 The new cure had come. It was the event of 
 the week at Sallespisse. So, on the Sunday morn- 
 ing, I called for Eudore and Anna, and we all three 
 trudged up the hill together to matins. Outside 
 the white-washed church they were all assembled, 
 Gaston Lalanne and his sister-in-law Marthe, 
 Beyris the baker, Dutihl the blacksmith, old Marcel 
 Seris, with his bent back and rosy, infantile face, 
 Saint-Pe and the rest, and a giggling group of 
 girls. 
 
 Presently little Maria, old Cauhape s great-niece, 
 came running towards me down the village street. 
 
 " Monsieur," she cried breathlessly, " mon oncle 
 vous souhait le bonjour." It was the old man's 
 way of intimating that he wished me to come to 
 hear him chatter. 
 
 I found him sitting as usual, full in the morning 
 sun, with his useless legs swathed in sacking, and I 
 perceived at once that his humour, though gar- 
 rulous, was not unruffled.
 
 THE LITTLE PRIEST 265 
 
 " What are you doing up here so early ? " he 
 asked sharply. 
 
 " I came to see the new cure," I answered. 
 
 " Why should you climb the hill just to look at 
 the cure ? " he retorted. " How can that possibly 
 interest you ? I have seen him, and I can tell you 
 that he is just the same as any other priest." 
 
 I laughed. There were moments when old 
 Cauhape's speech was very dictatorial, and now he 
 was exasperated against all this commotion in 
 which he was not concerned. 
 
 " Vous etes trop intransigeant, Cauhape," I said. 
 " Les cures font beaucoup de bien." 
 
 " Parbleu ! c'est leur metier," he replied sullenly 
 in patois. " Sit down ; light your cigarette ; and 
 let us talk." 
 
 " But," I remonstrated, " look, they are all going 
 into church." 
 
 " I tell you he is just the same as all the rest," 
 the old man objected testily. " You have the 
 curiosity of a woman, I think, sometimes. Come 
 now, will you not sit and stay ? " 
 
 Maria brought me a chair from inside, and the 
 old man continued — 
 
 " It is a strange whim that makes you come to 
 live amongst us here. We were discussing it, 
 Dutihl, Beyris, and I, yesterday evening. We 
 like you, but especially we like your madame. 
 She is good and true, and has a brave heart — one 
 can see that at once in the glance of her eyes. 
 And we were hoping that you would be with us a
 
 266 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 long while yet, and come back every spring-time. 
 But Beyris thought you must be lonely here, away 
 from your friends ; and it is a trouble to Dutihl 
 that you will always send your little mares in to 
 the smithy at Orthez." 
 
 Old Cauhape stopped, looking up at me inquisi- 
 tively ; for Dutihl was his nephew, and that I did 
 not employ him he took as a personal slight. 
 
 " But you know why it is, Cauhape. We have 
 talked of it before." 
 
 " I know, I know. . . . You think he does not 
 work cleverly. . . . You are wrong. Dutihl is a 
 brave fellow. Will you not give him a chance the 
 next time ? " 
 
 " Is he young, the new cure ? " I interrupted. 
 
 " Ah ! you will not listen to me, and I am an old 
 man. You are no different from all the other 
 young men. What a pity it is that you are so 
 obstinate. . . . The new cure, you ask ? Yes, he 
 is young. He is small of stature, too ; he resembles 
 the little priest who was at the chateau some years 
 ago. . . . No, do not get up. I was just going to 
 tell you the story. Dubois, M. le Baron's valet, 
 told it me himself: it is a very strange story, and 
 Dubois knew all about it. . . . 
 
 " It was from the seminary at Bayonne that M. 
 le Baron brought the little priest, to teach young 
 M. Paul Latin and Greek, and the other languages 
 that people speak outside the frontier. He was 
 quite small of stature, as I told you, and quite 
 young, for his beard had not yet started to grow.
 
 THE LITTLE PRIEST 267 
 
 I remember he had a grave look on his little face, 
 and large, dark eyes. They were queer sort of 
 eyes. I never liked the look of them ; it seemed 
 as if it was with them that he did all his thinking. 
 He used to go by this door every morning on his 
 way to matins, and in the afternoons, when M. le 
 Baron and M. Paul were out riding, he used to 
 walk for many kilometres along the road, reading 
 studiously as he went. Dubois said that up at 
 the chateau he was very timid, and spoke but 
 seldom, and that in the evenings he would gener- 
 ally sit alone, in a corner, reading. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Claire used to tease him, and 
 call him her petit cure, and then he would grow all 
 red in the face, and Mile. Claire would laugh at 
 him. One evening, though, Madame la Baronne 
 overheard her, and scolded her before every one, 
 and after that, Mile. Claire left him in peace ; 
 but she would never speak to him or take any 
 notice of him. But when Madame la Baronne's 
 sister in Paris fell ill, and Madame la Baronne went 
 away, and Mile, de Castelner came to keep Mile. 
 Claire company, it all began over again. 
 
 " Perhaps Mile. Claire meant no harm ; but Mile. 
 de Castelner was gay-hearted and very full of mis- 
 chief, and, out of thoughtlessness, she set to work 
 to make the little priest in love with her. Mon 
 Dieu ! it was no difficult task, for she was beautiful 
 as an angel ; her hair was golden like a new louis, 
 and she always wore dazzling dresses like a great
 
 268 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 lady. M. le Baron never noticed anything, for 
 every day he was busy with his books ; but all 
 the household knew of it. And no one dared 
 presume to open his eyes. Soon the little priest 
 took to writing long letters to Mile, de Castelner, 
 and in the afternoons, while he was walking along 
 the roads by himself, Mile. Claire and Mile, de 
 Castelner would sit under the big lime-tree in the 
 garden, reading them, and making fun of them 
 with peals of laughter. 
 
 " One day the little priest went out for his walk 
 as usual, and when the dinner-hour came he never 
 returned. And the next morning the postman 
 brought M. le Baron a letter from him, saying that 
 he was gone away, and could never come back 
 again. There was a great upsetting of all the 
 household, for M. le Baron is terrible when he is 
 angry. He found out everything, and stormed 
 much at Mile, de Castelner, and sent her away out 
 of the house. And he himself went by the morn- 
 ing train to Bayonne to look for the little priest. 
 The next day the directeur of the seminary, as he 
 was taking the young men for the promenade, met 
 the little priest, dressed in ordinary clothes, like a 
 young man of the town. And the little priest, 
 when he saw the whole seminary coming towards 
 him, ran under a doorway as if he were frightened. 
 The directeur found him lying on the ground, 
 crying for shame. And the directeur soothed him, 
 and made him promise to come back to the
 
 THE LITTLE PRIEST 269 
 
 seminary in the evening. But the little priest 
 broke his word ; and M. le Baron does not know 
 to-day what has become of him. 
 
 " That is why I always say," old Cauhape con- 
 cluded, " that none but old men should be priests. 
 A young man in the soutane is an abomination."
 
 GASTON LALANNE'S CHILD 
 
 As usual, before the coming of the spring, 
 Francois Alivon left the country ; this time to 
 make a road over at Hopital d' Orion. He was to 
 remain there two months, Marthe said, till the 
 sowing of the maize, and then he would be gone 
 to Mont-de-Marsan in the Landes, to help to build 
 the new stone bull-ring, that was to cost a hundred 
 thousand francs. 
 
 He was a rolling-stone, was Francois Alivon. 
 In his time (though he was not an old man yet) 
 he had seen much life and many cities. Years 
 ago he had worked at the railway laying in Spain 
 and Portugal, and afterwards he had become 
 stoker of an express train, which crossed every 
 night from Santander to Valladolid. In those 
 days he had earned much money, and spent it too, 
 in the gay Spanish towns. 
 
 But one night the express train ran over a bank, 
 and many of the passengers were maimed and 
 killed. And though Francois was in nowise to 
 blame, the company judged that he had not suffi-
 
 GASTON LA L ANNE'S CHILD 271 
 
 cient learning for a stoker's work. So he came 
 back to Sallespisse, the commune where he was 
 born. He was a shrewd fellow was Frangois 
 Alivon, and within the year he had married 
 Marthe Durand, whose father was a rich peasant, 
 and whose portion amounted to three thousand 
 francs. 
 
 It was with her money that he had bought sixty 
 arpents of land — fruitful, well-moistened land — 
 down by the banks of the Luys, and upon it, with 
 his own hands (for he was mighty skilful with his 
 hands), he had built a house, he and Gaston Lalanne 
 from Sault-de-Navailles, whom he had taken to 
 work with him. 
 
 Marthe had given him three children — two boys, 
 who were already at school, and a baby girl, and 
 once more Frangois Alivon earned much money, 
 making roads for different communes, all over the 
 department. 
 
 And at the Toussaint Gaston Lalanne had 
 married Jacqueline, Marthe's sister, and with his 
 savings, and her portion, he had taken a large 
 metairie adjoining Francois' property. Every one 
 agreed that it was a very pleasant arrangement 
 for Marthe to have her sister settled so close to 
 her own door, and Gaston to help her with the 
 work ; for Francois Alivon was a rolling-stone, 
 and away during many months of the year. 
 
 Between Marthe and Jacqueline there was eight 
 years disparity of age : they were very different to
 
 272 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 look upon, yet, almost at the first glance, one 
 could guess that they were sisters. 
 
 Marthe had turned thirty the summer before 
 Gaston married. She was small and slim, brown- 
 faced and flat-waisted, as are the peasant women 
 of that country ; quick of gesture, with a sharp 
 intensity of speech. Before Jacqueline came to 
 live in the commune, I had heard Anna, Eudore's 
 wife, hint more than once that Marthe was over- 
 fond of Gaston Lalanne, and that Francois Alivon 
 was perhaps not so clever after all. But Anna 
 was an arrant scandal-monger, and now Gaston 
 was married to Marthe's young sister. 
 
 They were a fine couple. Gaston had the 
 strength of a heifer, and the burliest shoulders in 
 all the village ; and Jacqueline was so tall that 
 she seemed made to match him. " Saperlotte ! 
 ils auront de beaux mioches!" Dutihl jested to 
 Beyris the first Sunday that the Lalannes went up 
 the hill together to mass. 
 
 Gaston, now that he was married, did things in 
 a grand manner — kept two pairs of oxen and a 
 servant, and every Tuesday drove his wife to the 
 market at Orthez in a newly-varnished cart, with 
 a fast-trotting chestnut mare. And if they asked 
 him for news of little ones, he would smile and 
 wink, and looking proudly at his wife, would 
 answer, " Nous en ferons des tambour-majors." 
 
 But about the time that Francois Alivon left 
 the commune to go to Hopital d'Orion, Jacqueline
 
 GASTON LALANNE' S CHILD 273 
 
 went less frequently into the town on market-days, 
 for the first baby was on its way, and Gaston 
 drove so fast that she feared the jolting of the cart. 
 So it was Marthe who took her place by Gaston's 
 side. 
 
 Gaston Lalanne was a fine fellow, and he was well 
 aware of it. " Faux et courtois," runs the Bearnais 
 maxim, and Gaston Lalanne, underneath his burly 
 good-humour, knew that he was a bargainer, and 
 a close man of business with the best of them. 
 And if the women were ready with sly smiles for 
 him, it was not his fault, he would say with a 
 shrug of his heavy shoulders. Ever since he was 
 a boy — the biggest boy in the communale school, 
 of course — it had been his habit to do things better, 
 on a bigger scale, than the rest, and so it was but 
 natural that his wife should be the finest woman 
 in the neighbourhood, that he should drive the 
 smartest cart, and a mare whose trot the peasants 
 turned to watch. And if Marthe was over-fond of 
 him, that was not his fault either ; for though no 
 harm had ever passed between them, Gaston was 
 quite aware how things stood with her. It was 
 hard on her, certainly, he thought with easy pity, 
 that she was left so much alone, and that he could 
 not console her, being under obligations to her 
 husband. Likewise, he accepted from her as 
 natural all the little attentions which made his 
 life agreeable during the time that he worked for 
 Francois Alivon, and when Jacqueline came up
 
 274 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 to Sallespisse, he courted her tranquilly under 
 Marthe's eyes. But during the latter days of his 
 courtship, there were not a few storms in the 
 house, and Marthe grew full of ill-temper and 
 bursts of rage, so that Gaston was heartily relieved 
 when everything was satisfactorily settled. 
 
 Now that he had been married six months, and 
 that the course of his life ran smoothly and alto- 
 gether untroubled, he thought it good that Marthe 
 should come often to help Jacqueline with the work ; 
 for he was very eager that the baby should be 
 fine and strong. And hence it was only natural 
 that, in return, he should take her into Orthez on 
 market-days, and no one could say there was harm 
 in it now, for she was the sister of his wife. 
 
 Every Tuesday morning, then, they rattled along 
 the road, and after they had done their business, they 
 met at the Cafe Laborde, off the ox-market, and 
 came home together in the cool of the late afternoon. 
 Marthe was smartly dressed in a flaming red dress, 
 and a silk handkerchief to match, around the coil 
 of her hair, and the red looked beautiful against 
 the brown of her skin. Gaston was often merry on 
 these returns from the market, and would tell her 
 long tales of the regiment and of his garrison days. 
 
 Anna, Eudore's wife, began to hint again that 
 Jacqueline had better look to that hulking husband 
 of hers ; but no one else thought there could be 
 wrong between them, because Gaston was married 
 to Marthe's sister.
 
 GASTON LA L ANNE'S CHILD 275 
 
 One broiling July day, they were all splashing 
 the vine-leaves with phosphate, and Jacqueline came 
 out to tell them that the dinner was ready. Gaston 
 shouted to her that they would be done directly ; 
 that there remained only three furrows to finish, 
 and turned to go into the house. All at once they 
 heard her cry out, and Gaston called to her, but no 
 answer came. They found her lying moaning by 
 the hedge side : her foot had caught in a vine-wire. 
 They carried her inside, and all the while she 
 screamed with pain, so that the neighbours all came 
 in to see what it was. Gaston hastened up to the 
 village for the officier de sante, but before he could 
 come the baby was born — a wailing, weakling of a 
 child. The officier de sante said it could not live, 
 and Marthe proposed sending for Monsieur le cure 
 to baptize it. But Gaston grew all at once very 
 angry with her, and swore he would shut his door in 
 Monsieur le cure's face ; for the baby would live. 
 
 But the officier de sante was right after all, and 
 it died before sundown. And Jacqueline's blood 
 grew hotter and hotter, and she began to gibber 
 about things which no one understood, like a 
 woman talking in her sleep. Gaston sent the 
 servant into Orthez to fetch out the doctor ; and 
 then went out alone into the vineyard, leaving the 
 women with Jacqueline in the house. 
 
 About ten o'clock Jacqueline grew worse, and 
 the doctor said that Gaston must be fetched inside. 
 It was Marthe who went for him : she found him
 
 276 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 in the stable, sitting on a heap of ox-bedding, with 
 his lantern all guttering on to the floor. 
 
 He came and followed her, though he looked as 
 if he had not heard. 
 
 The clock had struck twelve for the second time 
 when Jacqueline died. Gaston had gone to the 
 well for a canful of fresh water, and when he came 
 back she was lying all stiff and still. 
 
 He said not a word ; just stood by the door and 
 let the can fall to the ground, so that the water all 
 trickled in a stream under the bed. Then all the 
 others went away, and Gaston and Marthe were 
 left alone. Marthe knelt down by the bed and 
 sobbed. 
 
 " Come," Gaston said roughly, " do not cry so 
 loudly." 
 
 " It is terrible," Marthe went on sobbing .... 
 " Poor Jacqueline .... poor Jacqueline .... she 
 was so good, poor Jacqueline." 
 
 Gaston paid no further heed to her ; he sat down 
 by the dead body, staring at it stupidly. 
 
 "It is terrible," Marthe began again. "And 
 I am a wicked woman. We have deceived her, 
 poor Jacqueline .... who was so good .... What 
 shall we do ? what shall we do ? " 
 
 "And the child .... the child .... the child 
 is dead too .... I shall have no child " Gaston 
 muttered to himself. 
 
 Marthe ceased her sobbing, so that there was a 
 sudden stillness in the room.
 
 GASTON LALANNE'S CHILD 277 
 
 "The child .... the child is dead also," Gaston 
 repeated. " It is all gone .... I have nothing." 
 
 Marthe rose to her feet, and came close to him, 
 and clutched the edge of his blouse so tight that 
 the stitches tore. 
 
 " Gaston," she gasped, " Jacqueline's child is dead 
 — but mine, I tell you, mine will live." 
 
 He remained still a moment, as if he had not 
 understood ; at last he stammered — 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Then it dawned upon him. 
 
 " It is not true. You lie, Marthe. Say that you 
 lie." 
 
 " Before the Virgin, it is true." 
 
 He sank forward limply, and covered his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 " Marthe," he said presently, in a whisper, " it is 
 you that have killed Jacqueline ; it is you that 
 have killed my child. This is a judgment for our 
 
 sin. The good God in heaven is revenged upon 
 
 )> 
 
 me. 
 
 After a while he added — 
 
 " Marthe, you have no right to be here. Quick, 
 I say, get out of the house — quick — the sight of 
 you makes me mad." 
 
 He gripped her wrist and threw her towards 
 the door. She went out, crouching like a beaten 
 animal. 
 
 And Gaston Lalanne was left alone to watch the 
 body of his dead wife. Twenty minutes later he
 
 278 A SET OF VILLAGE TALES 
 
 went down-stairs, and finding Marthe standing in 
 the doorway, gazing stupidly before her, touched 
 her shoulder, saying — 
 
 " Come and hold the lantern for me, I must see 
 to the Breton cow, who is in calf." 
 
 1893— 1895. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Richard Clay &> Sons, Limited, London &° Bungay.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 WRECKAGE, 
 
 and other Stories. 
 
 By HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE. 
 
 Second Edition, price y. 6d. 
 
 The Athenaeum. — " The author's method indicates a 
 careful study of the best school of French realism, which 
 consists not in a merely photographic reproduction of nature, 
 but in so accurate and forcible a representation of the salient 
 details that an exact picture is disengaged from the irrelevant 
 mass of details presented by life. The details chosen may 
 be all hideous in themselves, but the result, as in all true art, 
 is beautiful, because of the satisfaction derived from the 
 coherent unity of the picture. Balzac in literature, Degas 
 in pictorial art, are the best exponents of this method in 
 France. While not approximating Mr. Crackanthorpe to 
 these remarkable men, it may safely be said that he has 
 taken them as his models. There is a directness in his 
 manner of telling a story and a sharpness in his brief delinea- 
 tions of character rarely found in English novel writers, and 
 therewith an absence of all personal feeling which emphasizes 
 the distinctness of the portraits. The little sketch, barely 
 covering six pages, called ' The Struggle for Life,' exemplifies 
 the last point best. . . . But the best story in the book is 
 ' Profiles,' which deserves to live for its admirable portrait of 
 Radford. . . . The card-sharper Simon is a character worth 
 knowing." 
 
 The World. — " Mr. Heinemann seems to have a talent for 
 discovering new and original writers ; and the number of young 
 authors of ability whom he has brought to the fore in the last 
 few years form a record of which any publisher might be 
 proud. Amongst all of them, however, none has shown more 
 signs of power, as well as unconventionality, than Mr. Hubert 
 Crackanthorpe, whose volume of short stories entitled 
 Wreckage is one of the best little works of fiction that have 
 seen the light in this country for many a day. Mr. Crackan- 
 thorpe has formed himself on the great master of the noicvelle, 
 Maupassant himself ; in fact, one of these ' studies,' as the 
 author calls his stories — ' The Dead Woman ' — is only a slight 
 variation on a theme which Maupassant has already treated 
 in Inconsolablcs. But as regards two other of the studies — 
 ' The Conflict of Egoisms ' and ' The Struggle for Life ' — it 
 would be hard to speak too highly, especially of the former
 
 with its inevitable tragedy. They are both most remarkable 
 sketches to have come from the pen of so young a writer, and 
 there is a quality of reticence in them, even when the author 
 is most outspoken, which argues well for his capacity as an 
 artist." 
 
 The Lady's Pictorial. — " The author of Wreckage either 
 calls himself, or has been called, the English Guy de Mau- 
 passant. He certainly has as keen an eye for a dramatic 
 situation as the great French writer, and his style has 
 nothing of the ponderosity of some of our English novelists 
 when they attempt to tell a short story. His sketches .... 
 are bold and vigorous. . . . ' The Conflict of Egoisms,' ' The 
 Struggle for Life,' and ' When Greek meets Greek,' are, I 
 think, the best of the seven studies in the volume. . . . The 
 gambling story, ' When Greek meets Greek,' haunts one for 
 days. . . . The admirable workmanship is fascinating." 
 
 The Sketch.. — " There are seven stories in the volume, of 
 which the four I have quoted are the most powerful. But 
 all have the same admirably proportioned strength, restraint, 
 and sombre distinction. As an example of that impersonal 
 art, so striking in French fiction, so rare in English, Mr. 
 Crackanthorpe's work will be gratefully remembered when 
 cartloads from Mudie's have gone the way of all rubbish." 
 
 The Speaker. — "Mr. Crackanthorpe is, we believe, a young 
 writer, but he is one who will probably ' go far.' Meanwhile 
 the really remarkable talent displayed in Wreckage estab- 
 lishes the author's claim to serious regard. ... A series of 
 sketches of high literary value." 
 
 The Daily Chronicle. — " Mr. Crackanthorpe takes an 
 ethical or emotional situation, studiously ignores its most 
 obvious features, and by concentrating his attention upon it 
 as a pictorial subject, produces effects which absolutely bite 
 themselves into our perceptive sensibilities. In this respect 
 the briefest of the studies, ' The Struggle for Life,' which 
 barely occupies six pages, is perhaps the masterpiece, but in 
 the vivid rendering of the significant external features of his 
 themes Mr. Crackanthorpe never falls below distinction. 
 Words from his pen have the visual effect of lines from the 
 etching needle, and yet there is none of the crude Dickens- 
 like striving after pictorialism ; rather, one would say, an 
 avoidance of it, for this art is not in one respect merely, but 
 in all, the art of restraint, of reticence, of abstinence. . . . 
 Of the cleverness of the book there can be no question." 
 
 Black and White. — " Mr. Crackanthorpe has seen and 
 observed for himself, and serves up the results of his observ- 
 ation with considerable success." 
 
 London : WM. HEINEMANN, 21, Bedford Street, W.C.
 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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