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 THE FABULISTS
 
 MILLS & BOON'S 
 
 SPRING NOVELS 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 THE MUTINY OF THE ELSINORE JACK LONDON 
 ALLWARD E. S. STEVENS 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF DAWN I. A. R. WYLIE 
 
 SPRAY ON THE WINDOWS J. E. BUCKROSE 
 BIG TREMAINE MARIE VAN VORST 
 
 BEYOND THE SHADOW JOAN SUTHERLAND 
 FLOWER OF THE MOON LOUISE GERARD 
 
 CLARK'S FIELD ROBERT HERRICK 
 
 MOYLE CHURCH-TOWN JOHN TREVENA 
 
 OLGA NAZIMOV and other stories W. L. GEORGE 
 CHAPMAN'S WARES H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON 
 HIGH STAKES RUTH KAUFFMAN 
 
 WHITE HEAT PAN 
 
 THE FLAME OF DARING HAROLD SPENDER 
 THE HOUSE OF DAFFODILS LOUISE MACK 
 STRUGGLE (2s. net) CASSELS COBB 
 
 THE FABULISTS BERNARD CAPES 
 
 LONG FURROWS MRS. FRED REYNOLDS 
 
 TWO YOUNG PIGEONS MRS. H. H. PENROSE 
 
 THE NET OF CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 MR. AND MRS. O. L'ARTSAU 
 
 SKIRTS OF STRAW SOPHIE COLE 
 
 MR. LYNDON AT LIBERTY VICTOR BRIDGES
 
 THE FABULISTS 
 
 BY 
 
 BERNARD CAPES 
 
 MILLS & BOON LTD 
 
 49 RUPERT STREET 
 LONDON W
 
 Published 1915 
 
 The bulk of these little tales were first printed in " The New 
 Witness." One appeared in " The Queen," one In " The 
 New Weekly." To the Editors of these periodicals, and to the 
 Editors of " Cassell's," " The Pall Mall" and " Hulton's 
 Magazines," who gave first hospitality in their pages to some of 
 the longer stories, the author here makes his best acknowledgments.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FOREWORD . . . ; . . . 7 
 
 LIFE : Poem ....... 9 
 
 GUN PRACTICE . . ; . . . 10 
 
 THE PETROLEUSE . . -..' v . . 15 
 THE SIGN OF THE CROSS : . . 20 
 R.I.P. : Poem .... .25 
 
 A DANSE-MACABRE . . . v . . 26 
 
 THE MARBLE HANDS 30 
 
 THE SOUL OF A BOTTLE . . . . 35 
 THE DOCTOR'S INSTANCE i ' . . 40 
 
 THE GLASS BALL ...... 45 
 
 A LUCKY THRUST 50 
 
 To N. C. C. : Poem . . -. 54 
 
 WOMAN . 56 
 
 THE QUEER PICTURE ... .60 
 
 " Too TOO WILL IN Two ".-... . . 65 
 " O, NEVER A ROOM," ETC. : Poem . . 71 
 THE APOTHECARY'S REVENGE C - 72 
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS 77 
 
 A CURE FOR CONSUMPTION . . . . 82 
 AN APOSTOLIC CATSPAW . 87 
 
 THE WHITE HARE . . > . .92 
 
 DEUS EX MACHINA ... .95 
 
 THE OPERATION . . . . . 100 
 
 THE THING IN THE FOREST . . ? V 105 
 
 5
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE GUNPOWDER SHIP no 
 
 To ANEMONES : Poem 115 
 
 A MIRACLE 116 
 
 JOY-HOMICIDE 121 
 
 THE LAST DROP 127 
 
 A MATCH : Poem 132 
 
 SUB SPECIE 133 
 
 THE ACCIDENT 138 
 
 THE LOST PANACEA 143 
 
 THE "LOST CHILD : Poem .... 148 
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES : I. JAMES WEDMORE 149 
 
 THE DARK COMPARTMENT .... 154 
 
 THE BLOODHOUND 159 
 
 UNINSURED : Poem 164 
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES : II. ABEL KENT . 165 
 
 THE BLUE DRAGON 170 
 
 PROVIDENCE 176 
 
 THE BROKEN WINDOW : Poem . . .181 
 
 A PATHETIC EXPIATION .... 182 
 
 THE SHADOW-DANCE 188 
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 193 
 
 OLD HARRY 205 
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 218 
 
 Cox's PATENT . . , . . 232 
 
 To R. B. C. : Poem ..... 242 
 
 THE LADY HOPE 244 
 
 ONCE Too OFTEN . . . . . . 263 
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD . . . 278 
 
 THE MASK 288 
 
 CHIVALRY : Poem 315
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 DURING the year that is past (writes Duxbury) a 
 company of four young men essayed a new experi- 
 ment, but on old lines, in the way of itinerant enter- 
 tainment. They went from village to village telling 
 short stories. They were all men of substance, 
 ingenious, inventive and, withal, true patriots, 
 their object being to revitalise gratuitously the litera- 
 ture of the wayside, and reclaim to the wandering 
 Fabulist his romantic prerogatives, long lost to him 
 through the mechanic production and perpetuation 
 of what of its nature should be as ephemeral as a 
 tale told by a bird in a pause of the wind. 
 
 Each member of the party was equipped, for his 
 sole baggage, with a lightly-furnished knapsack 
 and a camp-stool. One carried a guitar in addition. 
 They all wore efficient waterproof suits and soft 
 hats of an impermeable material. When they 
 reached a village, they would seat themselves 
 on their camp-stools on the green, or in some be- 
 fitting leafy spot, and call upon the " Guitar " 
 to charm about them, with his melodious 
 " Ducdame," the first circle of an audience. That 
 purpose accomplished, each would then rise in 
 turn to tell his story. 
 
 7
 
 8 FOREWORD 
 
 The names of the little company were Raven, 
 Duxbury, Scarrott, and Heriot, who sang. A 
 selection from their pieces is here given. They 
 stand for the most part as written to be delivered ; 
 though, in actual process of delivery, policy had 
 occasionally to counsel the simplifying of a phrase 
 or the omission of an obscure passage. The majority 
 of the sketches are of the briefest description ; 
 but a few of greater length, designed for weather- 
 bound occasions in bar parlours, or about the post- 
 prandial fire in commercial rooms, are added for 
 ballast. Duxbury is responsible for the choice, 
 throughout.
 
 LIFE 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 VENTURE and rise, venture and fall ; 
 
 Round on the spindle comes the ball. 
 
 Life is a game of Rouge et Noir 
 
 We may chance to win whatever we are ; 
 
 We may chance to win, we may chance to lose, 
 
 Be praised for a swan or plucked for a goose. 
 
 Life is a game of Rouge et Noir ; 
 
 Nothing depends upon what we are, 
 
 Worthy a noose, 
 
 Worthy a star. 
 
 The man who has luck is the man to choose, 
 And he alone shall be god in the car.
 
 GUN PRACTICE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 PICTURE to yourself a waste of troubled sea, grey- 
 green as ploughed stubble, and sown all over with 
 white bosses like scattered stones. The wind is 
 southerly and vicious, the sky stoops torn and low. 
 Away there over the long Bill of Portland stretches 
 a tiny streak, whose ashen under-shadows half 
 obscure, half reveal, a populous city of battleships, 
 as unsubstantial in seeming as lightning-charged 
 clouds. But long ago there was one which, de- 
 taching itself from the mists, forged slowly into 
 definite being, and now rests inert, preparing for 
 gun practice, some three miles off the coast of 
 Lulworth where we stand. 
 
 To the north you can see the target, in charge of 
 an Admiralty tug. Laboriously the little vessel 
 hauls the floating mark to its ground, moors it in 
 position at a range of some 2,000 yards or 
 so, and casts off. You know the moment by 
 the sudden increase in its speed, patent even at 
 this distance. You can see it pitch and roll, 
 wallowing like a porpoise as it tears away, hidden 
 sometimes for seconds, in a manner to bring your 
 heart into your mouth, then emerging, a blink 
 
 10
 
 GUN PRACTICE 11 
 
 of sunlight firing its copper funnel, so that it looks 
 like a flaring buoy. It is in a flurry to escape. 
 
 Snap 1 As you look, a light winks from the watch- 
 ing monster, and over the stubble-field rise in 
 succession three little puffs of white dust. Not 
 till the third has sprung up does the slam reach 
 your ears, and by then the engulfed shot is wobbling 
 down to its everlasting rest on the ocean floor. 
 
 All that you can see or imagine ; but what you 
 cannot see or imagine is the tragedy that has 
 occurred between the casting-off from the target 
 and the firing of the first gun. During those 
 hurried minutes a man has fallen overboard, un- 
 noticed, from the tug, and his loss has never been 
 observed until all hope of recovering him from that 
 trackless welter is seen to be a vain thing. The 
 poor fellow has perforce to be abandoned to his 
 fate. 
 
 Years after I had the story from this man's 
 own lips. He was one of the strangest looking 
 souls I have ever seen, perfectly colourless, and with 
 his skin all over fine crackles like china. He was 
 young, and yet his hair was white. If a child 
 screamed or a boy whistled near him he would 
 involuntarily duck his head. But his manner 
 was quite quiet, and his voice low. 
 
 " It was blowing stiifish when it happened, with 
 a nasty sea. A gust took me under the oilies 
 as I was bending down and, the tug heeling at that 
 moment, lifted me clean over the side like an
 
 12 THE FABULISTS 
 
 umbrella. There was one that noticed me with 
 the tail of his eye, and thought it just a tarpaulin 
 flapping. I went down, sir, and the screw thrashed 
 at me, and missed. I had my sea-boots on, and 
 what with them and the oilies I believed I was done. 
 Somehow I came to the top, where I kicked and 
 struggled free of all. But by then, at the rate she 
 was going, and in that wind and sea, the tug was out 
 of hail, even if I'd had a voice to hail her with. 
 I swam after, desperate-like, but she ran away, 
 20 yards to my one, and it was evident that those 
 aboard hadn't missed me. My God, thought I, 
 it's all over, and I stopped, treading water. Then 
 I looked back and saw the target. With luck I 
 might reach it and what then ? But it was a 
 chance anyway and my only one. 
 
 " I wasn't a fanciful man not then. I reached 
 the target, pretty nigh spent, and clung on to the 
 raft with both hands, gasping to get back my 
 heart. And then suddenly the truth burst upon me. 
 Not that patched triangle of canvas, but I, was the 
 devil's mark for the guns pointing at us a mile and 
 a half away. 
 
 " In the first shock of the thought I was for 
 scrambling up on the raft, in the hopes that they 
 might see me and stay their hands. I was clinging 
 to its further side, and I had already got my right 
 knee and elbow hitched over, when I saw a flash in 
 front, and down I went again with a choke. It 
 was a 4-incher, and its last ricochet sent it skip-
 
 GUN PRACTICE 13 
 
 ping, with a scream like an engine-whistle, 20 ft. 
 over the target. Safe for that once ; and I 
 thanked God for the report that followed. There's 
 no thunder for the ears of the man struck and 
 killed by lightning. Well, now I was in for it the 
 4-inchers, eight of them in all, as many Hotch- 
 kiss quick-firers, and the Maxims. I knew the 
 armament, and I had to swallow the lot. Likely 
 you can imagine what I haven't the gift to describe. 
 For as long as I could I hung by my hands to the 
 raft, my head no more than above water ; but I 
 knew that couldn't last for ever. The time would 
 come when my strength would be all gone, and I 
 should have none left for emergencies. So, while 
 I could do it, I hooked my elbows over the raft 
 and, lying as low as I could, watched the shells 
 coming. Yes, sir, you may wonder at it, but I 
 watched them ; and I felt in my forehead, as each 
 flew down, the sort of crawling one gets there when 
 a pointing finger's slowly moved towards it. It 
 was a queer sensation ; and a queer sight to see 
 those specks coming out of the flash, and growing 
 from leap to leap and then over, with a screech 
 and a flop. I felt it then, all alone with the flying 
 devils, and my poor soft body their butt ; but I 
 didn't feel a thousandth part of what I felt afterwards 
 when it was finished. The raft ducked and rose 
 like a gull ; and the gunners made bad practice, 
 for which I was the only one thankful. But at 
 last it had to be neck or nothing with me. I could
 
 14 THE FABULISTS 
 
 hold on no longer ; and I had only just strength 
 left to get aboard, where I flopped down and lay 
 like a log. And it was at that moment that there 
 came a hell's crash overhead, and the water leapt 
 all round as if a shoal of mackerel had passed. 
 They had fired a charge of shrapnel, and ' My God/ 
 says I ; * but that does me 1 ' " 
 ^But the shot was already out of the muzzle as 
 he climbed from the water, and they had seen him 
 in the act. Then the tug signalled and bore down. 
 He took it coolly, they said, at the time. It was 
 during the long subsequent reaction that the man 
 bleached in that astonishing way. But to one with 
 imagination enough to read between the lines of 
 his unaffected narrative it is perhaps not so as- 
 tonishing.
 
 THE PETROLEUSE 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 THE house stood alone, and quite isolated, on the 
 edge of a piece of waste suburban ground. Magnified 
 by the dark, it was yet of proportions obviously 
 sufficient to supply a Latimer-Ridley blaze, enough, 
 to a fanatic imagination, to flood all England with 
 the fierceness of its illumination. The flat-chested, 
 hectic-cheeked young woman looking up at it felt 
 herself already an acclaimed heroine and, in some 
 fantastic way, martyr. 
 
 The gaining an entrance was a laughably easy 
 matter just the lifting of a latch in a side-door, and 
 a cautious step within. The house was simply 
 deserted, simply unoccupied a remote and life- 
 less shell. It might be unletable ; it might be 
 potentially profitable ; it might again represent a 
 chief asset in the income of a sympathiser with the 
 cause. It was convenient, that was the main 
 point. The incendiary paused, breathing hurriedly, 
 to deliver a handbag she carried of its compressed 
 load of newspapers, fire-lighters, turpentine and a 
 small dark lantern. Then, detaching from the pile, 
 for subsequent use, a copy or two of the periodical 
 which voiced her views, she stealthily kindled the 
 
 15
 
 16 THE FABULISTS 
 
 lantern, and prepared, as stealthily, to examine her 
 ground. 
 
 It gave her a little thrill and shock at the outset 
 to discover that the place was not so wholly unfur- 
 nished as she had been inclined to suppose. There 
 were signs of some late occupation, not substantial 
 or many, but enough to imply an abandonment 
 only as yet provisional. A rickety kitchen table, 
 one or two drunken chairs, a torn jack-towel behind 
 the door these and other discarded litter confessed 
 themselves leeringly to the little misty eye of the 
 lantern. But a hasty half scrutiny revealing the 
 things all thick with dust, the woman turned 
 from them, reassured, to pursue her purpose and 
 design. 
 
 Ordinarily, the mere thought of a solitary night- 
 vigil in an empty house would have been enough to 
 fill her with unspeakable terrors ; now the ecstasy 
 of the exaltie had uplifted her above all such temporal 
 weaknesses. Going forward, she saw the bare 
 hall, the white slope of the carpetless stairs and, as 
 if irresistibly impelled, mounted to the room above. 
 
 Here, also, were some attenuated relics of occupa- 
 tion tattered window curtains, a half-disembowelled 
 easy chair spilling flock, a broken packing-case or 
 two. Congratulating Providence on its foresight, 
 the intruder began at once and hastily to dispose 
 her materials in the most effective places. She went 
 round the large room by the wall, taking advantage 
 of each combustible object. When all was prepared
 
 THE PETROLEUSE 17 
 
 she would re-make the circuit, firing each little heap 
 in its turn. 
 
 Suddenly she started, and her skin crept from 
 crown to heel. What was that in the room with her ? 
 She flashed the lantern-light from wall to wall 
 over the floor even over the ceiling. No sight, 
 no sound whatever : only the constriction and ex- 
 pansion of dark palpitating emptiness. With a 
 gasp, which spoke her half-way already on the road 
 to collapse, she hurried to make an end of her task. 
 Lantern and matches in hand, she crouched to ignite 
 the first heap of inflammable rubbish. It was gone. 
 
 It was gone ; the second was gone the third 
 the fourth. More noiselessly than she had disposed 
 them, each had been removed behind her back as 
 she passed on, and carried whither ? She reeled ; 
 then made like a mad woman for the door, found it, 
 and began to descend the stairs. And instantly 
 she understood. The soaked paper, the firelighters 
 had been transferred by unseen hands to places more 
 cunningly meet than hers to produce a wholesale 
 conflagration. Fire a house from the ground floor 
 if you would wholly consume it ; it is half measures 
 to start half-way. And so the little heaps, like peer- 
 ing demons, winked up at her from hall wainscot, 
 and partition corner, and stair-foot. Yes, the dead- 
 liest there. It seemed to smoke already, emitting a 
 phosphorescent light, which was horribly contorted. 
 The woman sat down upon the stairs because her 
 knees would no longer support her. But she was
 
 18 THE FABULISTS 
 
 up again in a moment, with a screech. For in that 
 moment the smoke had burst like a shell, and the 
 whole well of the house was a storm of spouting 
 flame. She turned and fled before it up, up, while 
 it followed in crackling breakers. Was ever fire 
 so insistent and so hellish ! Up, up, until only the 
 unattainable skylight stood between her and freedom. 
 The fire was coming in at the door : a tunnel of 
 blackness seemed to open before her, and she fell 
 into it and into instant deep unconsciousness. 
 
 With the growth of morning came a little crowd 
 about the place. Two policemen were engaged 
 within the walls of a long-blackened ruin, endeavour- 
 ing to persuade thence a raving white-faced woman, 
 who persisted in frantically defying their efforts. 
 
 " Whoth that ? " asked a curious, thick-nosed 
 newcomer, with a pack on his back. 
 
 " One of them crazy militants," was the answer. 
 " She's been caught a trying to set fire to a burnt- 
 out house." 
 
 " Burned-out, thay ? " 
 
 " This three year and more, old man. Arson, 
 it was supposed ; and him that did it caught in 
 the trap he'd set for the insurance companies 
 caught and burnt himself, before he could make 
 his escape. A bloomin' ass, I call 'im ! " 
 
 The Jew stared, and went into a noiseless 
 chuckle. 
 
 " Thertainly, thir," he said. " The man must 
 have been a fool. But thith woman must be
 
 THE PETROLEUSE 19 
 
 a greater, thince there is no policy at all in 
 question ? " 
 
 " That's just it," answered the other ; " though 
 they call it one, poor misguided creeturs. And here 
 it is nat'rally ended in the madness it promised."
 
 THE SIGN OF THE CROSS 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 DAVY'S Aunt Sophy was not a very spoiling aunt. 
 She had not at all approved of Davy's father's 
 marriage with a pretty, penniless worldling, and 
 when Davy, through the death of first one then 
 the other of his parents came to be an enforced 
 encumbrance on her hands, she was inclined to 
 visit the sins of that connection upon its very inno- 
 cent fruits. Not that she was actively unpleasant 
 to the child and, indeed, in her inmost heart, 
 she was jealous of his affections only her way was 
 the way of the " I told you so's," and she had to 
 justify her prophecy of moral catastrophe by fitting 
 Davy into its scheme of retributions. He had to 
 be a tiresome boy, a boy of some natural depravity, 
 before she could hope to vindicate her system of 
 reforms on his small person. Therefore she often 
 made him out to be what he was not, a backward 
 and stubborn infant. 
 
 Aunt Sophy was, to begin with, a highly religious 
 woman ; and Davy, sad to say, at six years old 
 knew nothing of religion. What stories he had 
 heard tell of the Child Christ presented the little 
 Saviour in nowise as a proselytising phenomenon, 
 
 20
 
 THE SIGN OF THE CROSS 21 
 
 terribly above the heads of such small folk as 
 himself ; but rather, after his father's imaginative 
 method, as the sweetest and most natural of play- 
 mates, divinely considerate and fair, never cheating, 
 never telling tales, only illustrating the superfluity 
 of all tale-telling in his own candid and innocent 
 conduct. Aunt Sophy's presentment of this dear 
 comrade failed lamentably, on the other hand, 
 to tally with Daddy's portrait. 
 
 " At twelve years old," she would say, " He 
 argued with the learned doctors in the Temple. 
 At six you cannot even write your own name. 
 Is that to qualify yourself to be His true comrade and 
 emulator ? " 
 
 Davy's cacography was indeed sinful. Yet he 
 tried hard, with his little finger-nibs crumpled any- 
 how on the pen. This severity was amazing to him, 
 so wont to petting and indulgence ; but he really 
 did his best and for more reasons than one. He 
 wanted to please Aunt Sophy : he wanted particu- 
 larly not to be refused admission into Heaven 
 when his time came. " How would you feel," 
 she had said in a transcendent flight of fancy, " if, 
 when you presented yourself at the Celestial gate, 
 and were told to write your name in the Book, 
 you could only put a mark for it, like the poor 
 ignorant people when they sign their pension and 
 insurance papers ? A nice companion you would 
 be thought for Him who, at twelve, disputed with 
 Rabbis. They would never let you in,"
 
 22 THE FABULISTS 
 
 It was that forecast which came to haunt the 
 child's imagination. It really got upon his nerves, 
 and affected for the time his bodily constitution. 
 That he would not be able to write his name when 
 summoned to do so by the keeper of the Celestial 
 gate, and would in consequence be turned back 
 into the cold, immitigable darkness where no love 
 was, and no pity, and no dear Daddy and Mummy 
 waiting to welcome him, was a terrifying thought. 
 He felt it, not specifically, but in general terms 
 of wretchedness. And the more he felt, the more 
 he tried ; and the more he tried, the more he 
 failed. The very terror made success impossible ; 
 the way was long and difficult enough without 
 such a burden to hamper him. With Christ, the 
 Christ of his old copybookless confidence, developed 
 into a formidable Metaphysician, what hope could 
 he have of being excused his criminal childishness. 
 Presently, though no one guessed it, he was wrought 
 to that state of nervous susceptibility when any 
 wandering germ might strike favourable ground 
 in his tissues. It was measles that found him out. 
 Then Aunt Sophy was sorry ; she was quite 
 desperately sorry and alarmed, though Davy knew 
 nothing about it. He was beyond anything but 
 grievously tossing and babbling when the worst 
 time came, and he let out things enough to betray, 
 clearly and monotonously, what the trend of his 
 thoughts had been or his thought, rather, for that 
 haunting terror about the signature appeared to
 
 THE SIGN OF THE CROSS 23 
 
 possess him. How wretchedly, then, the strict 
 mind repudiated its own unwitting cruelty. She 
 would have given her soul to recall this other from 
 its torture. If he died, surely she must die too 
 of a broken heart. 
 
 Let us not dissect remorse. It is in bad taste ; 
 and Aunt Sophy was always such a stickler for 
 the proprieties. Besides it is not necessary, because 
 Davy recovered, quite orderly and sensibly. She 
 was watching him, bending as near him as allowed, 
 when the crisis came and passed, and on the top- 
 most of the mad struggle the blessed dew of life 
 broke out, and there followed a sweet exhausted 
 smile, and the profound relaxing of demon-exorcised 
 limbs. 
 
 " O, God bless you, God bless you, my baby ! " 
 she whispered, for she really believed him to be 
 her baby at last. 
 
 But what had evoked that dear revivifying 
 smile ? Not bodily ease and relief alone ? Most 
 certainly not. Davy remembered perfectly well, 
 and told her about it by and by. He had gone to 
 Heaven up a long ladder that was dreadfully 
 difficult to climb and there were clouds, and 
 music, and an old man, with a face like a dog, 
 waiting for him to sign his name in a book. And 
 then he knew that the test had come, was actually 
 upon him, and a mortal terror of his incapacity 
 seized him, and he stood unable to cry, unable 
 to move. And at that moment there had come
 
 24 THE FABULISTS 
 
 following him up the ladder such a dear little boy, 
 rosy and golden like a Cupid, and of about his own 
 age. And the boy had laughed to him as he turned 
 to the keeper so that in some wonderful way he 
 seemed to explain everything and, " I want to come 
 into Heaven," said he. Then the keeper held down 
 his book, barking, " What name, please ? You 
 must sign here first." And the boy answered, 
 " Jesus Christ but I cannot sign my name, for I 
 am only six." And instead he put a cross, shaping 
 it awkwardly, with cramped little fingers, and the 
 keeper let him through. 
 
 " So you see, Aunt " but she had seen long 
 
 ago, though she sat with her hand over her eyes.
 
 R.I.P. 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 Foolish ! Why fear you death, 
 
 That, in kind sort, 
 
 From this poor harassed isolated fort 
 This desperate hope hemmed in with dreadful 
 
 mines, 
 
 This outpost of the spheres, enwrapped in clouds 
 At each day's end like bloody shrouds 
 
 Grants at a breath 
 
 Your passport through the impenetrable lines, 
 And sends you home the way Love beckoneth ? 
 
 25
 
 A DANSE-MACABRE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 CARLEON and I had been talking fitfully, as the 
 train sped on, of things suggested, perhaps, by that 
 sense of volant instability with which a rapid 
 journey in a third-class brake-van is calculated 
 to possess one the mysteries of Life and Death, 
 and the greater mystery of Life-in-Death, to wit. 
 I had lately been reading Myers's " Human Person- 
 ality," and my mind was full of Individualism, 
 and Hypnotic Suggestion, and those fathomless 
 strata of sub-consciousness which lie under a man 
 as the forty mattresses lay under the True Princess, 
 without obliterating the sensation of the single pea 
 which, placed at the bottom, made its irritation 
 felt through all. Whence, perhaps, that state 
 of mental excitation which was responsible for the 
 illusion that followed. 
 
 Silence had fallen between us when, about sunset 
 time, the train entered into a long, deep-sunk valley. 
 I looked up, and saw the ridges all crested with a 
 running fire of rays, as in some titanic battle, 
 the drifted smoke from which hung in the hollows 
 like blue water. Carleon swept his hand through 
 
 26
 
 A DANSE-MACABRE 27 
 
 the sunbeam which came in at the window, thereby 
 setting its motes gyrating as if they boiled. 
 
 " The fourth dimension," he said, smiling 
 " imagination. We live upon it all the time, and 
 never know, except when some chance ray like 
 this reveals it to us." 
 
 I nodded indulgently, but did not answer. Some- 
 thing in the twilight peace of the valley was be- 
 ginning to hypnotise me. The slope of it on which 
 I looked went up in a luminous haze, through 
 which the purple swell of trees, the dim gold of 
 quarries, the milky greenness of the grass showed 
 all distinct, but subdued to a phantasmal loveliness. 
 Somehow there stole into my spirit a strange sense, 
 born of that dreamy mental detachment, of its 
 all being antiquely familiar to me not in the local 
 meaning alone. I might or might not have travelled 
 that way before ; the impression borrowed from 
 infinitely remoter distances. Absorbed by it, ab- 
 sorbed into it, I passed beyond my surroundings 
 forgot myself ; forgot Carleon. I was roused 
 by feeling the quick touch of his hand on my knee. 
 
 "Look!" he said. 
 
 He was gazing fixedly from his window ; I 
 followed the direction of his eyes. We were running 
 at the moment past a scattered line of trees slender 
 birches inter-thronged with darker thorns which 
 stood on the hillside ; and wreathing itself around 
 and about the congregated trunks in a glimmering 
 fantastic dance was a number of pallid forms.
 
 28 THE FABULISTS 
 
 Mystic, infinitely graceful, but at first indeterminate, 
 they took shape to my enthralled imagination as 
 I stared and were spirit girls, beckoning, alluring, 
 with white arms raised, and white robes, shot with 
 faint iridescences, clinging and floating. 
 
 I struggled to dismiss the illusion, or to seek its 
 correlation in Carleon's eves ; but my own would 
 not forego their fascination for an instant. 
 
 And still, as we passed, the white shapes wove their 
 paces in and out, in and out in silent loveliness. 
 I began, I thought, to distinguish, like roses seen 
 through mist, the unearthly sweetness of their faces 
 a gleam of smiling teeth, a least flush of pink, the 
 phantom blue of eyes that laughed and faded. But 
 as they came they went, witcheries proffered only to 
 be withdrawn. I seemed to hear old music sounding 
 in my brain ; somehow I was approaching a bourne 
 of hills and grooves long foundered in the deeps of 
 memory ; there was wonder in my heart and a 
 great ecstasy of expectation the train ran beyond 
 the trees, and in an instant the dancers were gone. 
 
 Ceased ; snatched out of being in a moment. 
 I sat as if stunned ; and then, as before, Carleon's 
 voice awakened me : 
 
 " Look there 1 " 
 
 I flung myself beside him, and stared back the way 
 we had come. 
 
 A little darkling church stood on the hillside, and 
 all between it and the lower belt of trees was a 
 crowded graveyard. The stones stood up or leaned
 
 A DANSE-MACABRE 29 
 
 awry in every arrested pose erect and sharp white, 
 or tumbled and moss-grown hundreds of them, 
 and each stiffened to " attention," after that Danse- 
 Macabre, at the ghostly word of command. It was 
 the tree trunks and those innumerable memento- 
 moris which had woven between them as we sped 
 past that fantastic optical illusion. 
 
 At least, so we were bound to suppose. 
 
 Or one may suppose, if one prefers it, that Imagina- 
 tion is the parent of being, and the true begetter 
 of all visualised Manifestation.
 
 THE MARBLE HANDS 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 WE left our bicycles by the little lych-gate and 
 entered the old churchyard. Heriot had told me 
 frankly that he did not want to come ; but at the 
 last moment, sentiment or curiosity prevailing with 
 him, he had changed his mind. I knew indefinitely 
 that there was something disagreeable to him in the 
 place's associations, though he had always referred 
 with affection to the relative with whom he had 
 stayed here as a boy. Perhaps she lay under one of 
 these greening stones. 
 
 We walked round the church, with its squat, 
 shingled spire. It was utterly peaceful, here on the 
 brow of the little town where the flowering fields 
 began. The bones of the hill were the bones of the 
 dead, and its flesh was grass. Suddenly Heriot 
 stopped me. We were standing then to the north- 
 west of the chancel, and a gloom of motionless trees 
 over-shadowed us. 
 
 " I wish you'd just look in there a moment," he 
 said, " and come back and tell me what you 
 see." 
 
 He was pointing towards a little bay made by the 
 30
 
 THE MARBLE HANDS 31 
 
 low boundary wall, the green floor of which was 
 hidden from our view by the thick branches and 
 a couple of interposing tombs, huge, coffer-shaped, 
 and shut within rails. His voice sounded odd ; 
 there was a " plunging " look in his eyes, to use a 
 gambler's phrase. I stared at him a moment, 
 followed the direction of his hand ; then, without a 
 word, stooped under the heavy, brushing boughs, 
 passed round the great tombs, and came upon a 
 solitary grave. 
 
 It lay there quite alone in the hidden bay a 
 strange thing, fantastic and gruesome. There was 
 no headstone, but a bevelled marble curb, without 
 name or epitaph, enclosed a gravelled space from 
 which projected two hands. They were of white 
 marble, very faintly touched with green, and con- 
 veyed in that still, lonely spot a most curious sense 
 of reality, as if actually thrust up, deathly and 
 alluring, from the grave beneath. The impression 
 grew upon me as I looked, until I could have 
 thought they moved stealthily, consciously, turning 
 in the soil as if to greet me. It was absurd, but 
 I turned and went rather hastily back to Heriot. 
 
 " All right. I see they are there still," he said ; 
 and that was all. Without another word we left 
 the place and, remounting, continued our way. 
 
 Miles from the spot, lying on a sunny downside, 
 with the sheep about us in hundreds cropping the 
 hot grass, he told me the story : 
 
 " She and her husband were living in the town at
 
 32 THE FABULISTS 
 
 the time of my first visit there, when I was a child of 
 seven. They were known to Aunt Caddie, who 
 disliked the woman. I did not dislike her at all, 
 because, when we met, she made a favourite of me. 
 She was a little pretty thing, frivolous and shallow ; 
 but truly, I know now, with an abominable side to 
 her. She was inordinately vain of her hands ; and 
 indeed they were the loveliest things, softer and 
 shapelier than a child's. She used to have them 
 photographed, in fifty different positions ; and once 
 they were exquisitely done in marble by a sculptor, 
 a friend of hers. Yes, those were the ones you saw. 
 But they were cruel little hands, for all their beauty. 
 There was something wicked and unclean about the 
 way in which she regarded them. 
 
 " She died while I was there, and she was commem- 
 orated by her own explicit desire after the fashion 
 you saw. The marble hands were to be her sole 
 epitaph, more eloquent than letters. They should 
 preserve her name and the tradition of her most 
 exquisite feature to remoter ages than any crumbling 
 inscription could reach. And so it was done. 
 
 " That fancy was not popular with the parish- 
 ioners, but it gave me no childish qualms. The hands 
 were really beautifully modelled on the originals, 
 and the originals had often caressed me. I was 
 never afraid to go and look at them, sprouting like 
 white celery from the ground. 
 
 " I left, and two years later was visiting Aunt 
 Caddie a second time. In the course of con versa-
 
 THE MARBLE HANDS 33 
 
 tion I learned that the husband of the woman had 
 married again a lady belonging to the place and 
 that the hands, only quite recently, had been re- 
 moved. The new wife had objected to them for 
 some reason perhaps not difficult to understand 
 and they had been uprooted by the husband's 
 order. 
 
 " I think I was a little sorry the hands had 
 always seemed somehow personal to me and, on 
 the first occasion that offered, I slipped away by 
 myself to see how the grave looked without them. 
 It was a close, lowering day, I remember, and the 
 churchyard was very still. Directly, stooping under 
 the branches, I saw the spot, I understood that 
 Aunt Caddie had spoken prematurely. The hands 
 had not been removed so far, but were extended in 
 their old place and attitude, looking as if held out 
 to welcome me. I was glad ; and I ran and knelt, 
 and put my own hands down to touch them. They 
 were soft and cold like dead meat, and they closed 
 caressingly about mine, as if inviting me to pull to 
 pull. 
 
 " I don't know what happened afterwards. Per- 
 haps I had been sickening all the time for the fever 
 which overtook me. There was a period of horror, 
 and blankness of crawling, worm-threaded im- 
 murements and heaving bones and then at last 
 the blessed daylight." 
 
 Heriot stopped, and sat plucking at the crisp 
 pasture.
 
 34 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " I never learned," he said suddenly, " what other 
 experiences synchronised with mine. But the place 
 somehow got an uncanny reputation, and the 
 marble hands were put back. Imagination, to be 
 sure, can play strange tricks with one."
 
 THE SOUL OF A BOTTLE 
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 BRicKtAYERS, for some eccentric reason, will 
 occasionally introduce the heel of a broken bottle 
 into the surface of a course. Such an one caught 
 my drowsy eye as I lay in the hammock over against 
 the walled garden. I watched it, and it watched 
 me : until presently, conscious that it was about to 
 speak, I yielded myself to its bright, hypnotic stare 
 and, closing my eyes, prepared to listen : 
 
 " There was the melting-pot, and within was 
 molten chaos lime and alkali and, most of all, sea- 
 sand. A man thrust in an iron tube, thin as a reed, 
 and detaching me, clinging to its end, placed me 
 within a brass mould, and blew with his lips, blew 
 with his soul, so that his soul entered into my being, 
 becoming one with it. Thenceforth I was a bottle, 
 an entity, imbued with the man's soul, with his 
 imagination. A crumb of vitalised chaos, I knew 
 consciousness and memory memory as a dream 
 of immemorial sands, trodden by uncouth and 
 monstrous leviathans ; consciousness, as form and 
 individuality. The man, opening the hinged mould, 
 severed me from the tube with a touch of cold iron 
 
 3d
 
 36 THE FABULISTS 
 
 as it were, cutting the umbilical cord gave me a 
 neck and a mouth, and I was complete. 
 
 " Softly translucent, aquamarine, like the sea 
 from which I drew, I believed myself to be a very 
 noble work, destined for high honours. What was 
 my sorrow upon discovering presently that I was, 
 like the man who had conceived me, a fine spirit 
 condemned to ignoble uses. I had inherited, in the 
 breath of a glass-blower, the soul of a knight- 
 errant ; and I was carried away, with a gross of 
 others, and filled with British brandy. 
 
 " No 1870 vintage, no pure, distilled grape 
 even ; but an adulteration and a fraud. That 
 British brandy was the keynote of my destiny. 
 So in this base world are the noblest spirits made 
 the fools to circumstance, and forced by it to live the 
 lie to themselves. The man blowing his bottles in 
 that sorry place had roamed meanwhile, in fancy, on 
 wide, adventurous wings. So my own imagination, 
 deriving from his, had filled me with dreams of 
 ' the blushful Hippocrene,' of rare vintages, ruby 
 or topaz, every drop of which should count to some 
 illuminated brain for its genius and inspiration. 
 And, instead, here was I deposited on a bar-shelf in 
 a low pot-house, and used to inflame the minds of 
 boors to squalid and insensate violences. 
 
 " Abortive aspiration such, it seemed, was to be 
 my eternal sentence. My last three-pennyworth, 
 before I was returned, in a mixed company, to the 
 bottlers, drove a fool to suicide. There are men
 
 THE SOUL OF A BOTTLE 37 
 
 and women suffering imprisonment because of me 
 to this day. I have divided lovers and ruined 
 whilom modest girls ; yet I never opened my mouth 
 to deliver myself but the message I sought to convey 
 to a responsive brain was all of fine thought and 
 goodly effort. O, in truth, the bottle is not answer- 
 able for its wine ! If only once I could be used to 
 some fruitful end I could die, I thought, happy. 
 
 " I was shipped at last, refilled, on board a barque 
 trading to Nova Scotia. The captain and owner 
 died, with my help, in mid-voyage, a raving maniac, 
 and the mate, conspiring with the crew, placed 
 written messages in bottles, reporting the imminent 
 sinking of the vessel after foul weather in such and 
 such a latitude, purposing to sell her all-standing in 
 some obscure port, and thereafter scatter with the 
 profits. I sailed the seas with many another, that 
 lying message in my belly. Six weeks I sailed, 
 borne merrily on the north-east drift, nosed by 
 great fish, hammered by tinkling hail-stones, buoyant 
 and alone. It was a free time, a wonderful time ; 
 I could have felt it a happy, had it not been for 
 that inner sense of abuse. But so were my lines 
 decreed : of the soul of the man was I a soul to be 
 for ever misrepresented through its deeds. 
 
 " One day I was scooped up in a bucket by a 
 lubberly deck-hand on a passing brigantine. He 
 drew the cork, cursed me for my contents, flung the 
 message into the sea and me upon his bunk below 
 for future service. So even in falsehood was I
 
 88 THE FABULISTS 
 
 denied consistency. Arrived in port, I was half- 
 filled with rum, and carried by train Londonwards 
 in the sailor's pocket. But now at last my time 
 was at hand ; and in the blow that finished me and 
 another was to be writ my triumphant epitaph. 
 The sailor emptied me and, while the train was run- 
 ning at full speed, flung me from the carriage 
 window. Perhaps you may recall the Lane-End 
 affair ? " 
 
 Recall ? To what tragic colophon had this thin, 
 flinty voice been conducting me ? Recall ? Had I 
 not witnessed the act ? Had I not been one of that 
 unsuspecting train-load whom its illegality had 
 providentially, miraculously, saved from instant 
 and terrific destruction ? I had observed how the 
 passenger, having sped his missile from the window, 
 suddenly leaned back in his seat with a very sick 
 white face ; I had observed how that garrulous, 
 somewhat aggressive jaw of his ceased in a moment 
 to work. And then had come the abrupt grinding 
 of brakes and, the train being brought to a stand- 
 still, the gruff, sharp questioning of a guard's voice 
 from door to door. Something, gathered as the 
 voice approached, some foreshadowing of the truth, 
 focused all other aghast eyes in the compartment on 
 those of the mute, livid creature ; and then came the 
 denunciation. The bottle had struck a plate-layer 
 on the temple, killing the man instantly. 
 
 " You were that bottle," I murmured luminously 
 to the glitter on the wall ; " an instrument, certainly,
 
 THE SOUL OF A BOTTLE 89 
 
 in the hands of Providence. It happened during the 
 great railway strike, and the victim, at the very 
 instant of his being killed, had had his hands upon a 
 point lever, with the purpose to send us crashing and 
 smashing into a siding fifty yards further on. The 
 truth came out at the inquest, and the sailor was 
 discharged. A savage, ghastly time ! I give you 
 my compliments." 
 
 " I was that bottle," came proudly from the wall. 
 " The bricklayer had me from the gardener, who 
 had me from his cousin the policeman, who had me 
 from the guard who picked me up on the track. A 
 hundred living to-day owe their lives to me : I died 
 to save them. If only the man my parent might 
 know ! "
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 " Do you know," said the doctor, who was in 
 some measure literary, "that painful story of 
 Hawthorne's, ' Young Goodman Brown/ in 
 which all human nature is confessed, to super- 
 naturally enlightened eyes, a lust, an hypocrisy 
 and an uncleanness ? Well, sometimes in the 
 exercise of my profession I have been sorely 
 tempted to admit a concrete truth behind that 
 intolerable generalisation. Sometimes only, mind 
 you, for the man was a morbid dreamer, and his 
 melancholy ecstasies are not to be interpreted like 
 gospels. Still they have a substratum of that truth 
 which becomes disquieting when it is too often 
 manifested. A couple of instances from my own 
 experience will serve to show what I mean. You 
 may laugh at the first, if you like : it is fair food 
 for laughter. 
 
 " I once attended an old lady, in whose mouth 
 [the man had a vulgar strain in him] teeth were 
 far less frequent than texts and godly phrases. She 
 lived alone with one deaf and dumb servant and a 
 talking parrot, who could pick up everything he was 
 
 40
 
 THE DOCTOR'S INSTANCE 41 
 
 allowed a most decorous household, and a byword 
 for exacting propriety, social and religious. Never 
 a wrong expression was permitted in that estab- 
 lishment. I have seen it bristle and stiffen over 
 a topical phrase of the mildest : to have taken the 
 Lord's name in vain would have been pronounced 
 by it tantamount to moral suicide. Even the 
 parrot a recent acquisition at the date I refer to 
 got no chance, but was forced against his will, like 
 a reluctant neophyte, to model himself on the rever- 
 ence he detested. 
 
 " Well, the old lady got asthma, and I attended 
 her for it. It would be, ' The Lord's will be done, 
 doctor ! Ugh-ugh-ugh ! O, I suffer, but must not 
 repine ! Ugh-ugh-ugh ! ' And so on. One morn- 
 ing she was particularly oppressed and wheezy, 
 and when I entered, opened upon me with her 
 cough, a little aggravated for my behoof. The 
 door into the next room stood open, and I could 
 hear the parrot there clawing and biting at his bars. 
 Somehow he sounded to me wicked and exultant. 
 ' Ugh-ugh-ugh ! ' went the old lady. She com- 
 pressed her thin chest, and put a hand on it. ' O, 
 I'm very bad this morning, doctor. Ugh-ugh-ugh 1 
 It takes me without ceasing I get no rest from it 
 ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh ! ' 
 
 " And suddenly the parrot followed suit from 
 the next room : 
 
 " ' Ugh-ugh-ugh G d d n it ! ' 
 
 " Thank you," said the doctor ; " but now my
 
 42 THE FABULISTS 
 
 second instance invites no laughter. There died 
 some time ago, at a ripe old age never mind when 
 or where a patient of mine. He was a man as full 
 of local honours as of stately years, an impeccable 
 tradesman, a trusty councillor, a churchwarden 
 and the rest of it. He had taken certificates for 
 good conduct in his youth, prizes for skilled in- 
 dustry in his prime ; his name was a text for clean- 
 dealing, and for something better than the honesty 
 which rests upon no sounder basis than policy. The 
 sort of soul, one would have thought, with his shop- 
 window, unlike Browning's tradesman, in his breast, 
 and all the goods behind it open to public inspection. 
 
 " He had been awarded prizes and testimonials 
 sufficient, I say, in his time ; but there was none of 
 them all in which he, and his family and friends, took 
 so much pride as a simple bronze medal, with the 
 inscription on it, ' Lateat scintillula forsan,' which 
 had been bestowed upon him by the Royal Humane 
 Society in his young manhood for a brave attempt 
 to save life from drowning. ' A little spark, 
 peradventure, may be hid.' It may, but in a sense 
 other than that implied by the Society's motto. 
 There is an indestructible spark of hell, perhaps, 
 in most of our breasts which many waters may not 
 quench, but rather, in some flagrant cases, inflame, 
 as with potassium, into active being. 
 
 " Well, there was the medal, for a moral passe- 
 partout. It stood him in perpetual good stead, I 
 think, for all men like bravery and to honour its
 
 THE DOCTOR'S INSTANCE 43 
 
 exhibitors. I had heard the tale more than once, as 
 he, a still stalwart figure of a man, stood modestly 
 by, not contributing to it, but wholesomely 
 conscious of his deserts. The victim had been a 
 young boon-friend, and they had gone together to 
 bathe, very foolishly, in a river in flood. The friend 
 had got into difficulties, and had been carried away, 
 and the medal-owner, after a plucky attempt at 
 rescue, had brought the body to shore ; but by then 
 life was extinct. The affair had been witnessed 
 from an adjacent bridge, and the old vicar, the 
 witness, had been instrumental in procuring the 
 award. 
 
 " Lateat scintillula forsan. Now, my old re- 
 spectability came in due course to pay the debt to 
 Nature to yield the vital spark. He died hard, 
 as the old women say ; but before he passed he 
 made a last confession to me. It was a damnable 
 confession, and it amounted to this. He had not 
 tried to save his friend, but he had wilfully and 
 deliberately drowned him under the guise of at- 
 tempted succour. ' It was just a question of a 
 girl,' he said in that exhausted voice between the 
 paroxysms, ' and he was making the running. My 
 supposed deed turned the tables finely and she took 
 me for a hero. He was as good a swimmer as I, but 
 not near so strong, and he was not really in difficulties 
 at all, until I made them for him. I took care 
 to keep his head under water all the time I was 
 towing him in. I don't think he himself knew.'
 
 44 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " And so during all these long years he had been 
 smugly pluming himself on a lying reputation 
 turning the tables on his rival, forsooth. My God, 
 he did ! and without genuine contrition at the 
 last, I do believe. There was the shadow of a 
 chuckle in him over the way he had hoodwinked 
 the Society. The medal, that ought to have been a 
 hangman's noose, had become a habit with him, 
 you see. And yet in all else he had been an upright 
 and a justly respected man. 
 
 " Can you explain such moral turpitude ? It 
 is that little hell-spark which circumstances fan. 
 And why did he confess, after all ? The ' girl,' you 
 understand, whom he had gained by that device, 
 was the ever-unsuspecting wife who had pre-deceased 
 him by a few years, and he was about, in his creed, 
 to meet her again. Perhaps that was the reason."
 
 THE GLASS BALL 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 IT happened in the winter of 1881 (said my friend). 
 You remember that winter ? It began to freeze 
 hard early in November, and the frost never fairly 
 broke until the second or third week in March. I 
 had come up to town by the South- Western Railway, 
 travelling through a white and windless country ; 
 and the cold was stupefying. I lay most of the 
 way in a sort of torpor, gelid from toe to brain, and 
 only just sensible of the still and silent flow of things 
 outside the window. A desolate day, with hardly 
 a human shape abroad to emphasise its loneliness. 
 I don't know if I slept at all. I was alone in my 
 compartment, and in a sort of mental stupor, as I 
 say. And then suddenly I was awake and staring. 
 It was snowing outside, and something had spoken 
 to me or tried to speak. There was an impression 
 in my brain as of a little, black, leaning figure, 
 infinitely small as if infinitely distant a mere 
 oblique accent on the sheeted immensity of things 
 of a staggered white face, of a loud, sub-conscious 
 voice. And here, without and within, were only 
 void and running silence. I shook, as one shakes 
 
 45
 
 46 THE FABULISTS 
 
 escaping by a hair's-breadth the insidious clutch 
 of a nightmare. It had been a nightmare, I sup- 
 posed, of the kind that discovers a minute rent in the 
 veil over the unseen, synchronously with some 
 malefic horror on the further side. And, as always, 
 the rent had been closed, only just timely for me. 
 Such dreams are momentarily demoralising : oddly 
 enough the fear of this one dwelt with me for days. 
 I could not shake off its memory, in the tremor of 
 which was mingled, nevertheless, a strange emotion 
 like pity. Imagine some lone survivor in the Arctic 
 wastes uttering instinctively, as he sinks to his 
 death, that call for human aid which none, even the 
 most daring, may forego at the last. For some 
 nameless reason that image, or its like, hung con- 
 stantly in my mind, until presently it wrought in me 
 an only half-reluctant desire to have my dream 
 again. What, I thought, if that dreadful approach- 
 ing face seen through the rent had been addressed to 
 me not in malignity, but in an agony of supplication ? 
 
 That was a morbid fancy, resolutely to be dis- 
 missed. A few strenuous days in London promised 
 to see the last of it. Christmas was near, and with 
 it an engagement to a family of young relatives, who 
 would certainly expect seasonable presents. I pre- 
 pared for the sacrifice. 
 
 It was then that the name of John Trent swam 
 suddenly into my field of mental vision, and with a 
 click, stood focused there. Who was John Trent ? 
 I knew no more than that he was a lost gentleman,
 
 THE GLASS BALL 47 
 
 whose whereabouts his family, or lawyers, or natural 
 representatives were daily seeking through advertise- 
 ment in the papers and police-stations. It was only 
 one case like fifty others, and there was no known 
 reason why it should suddenly absorb my attention. 
 Yet quite unaccountably it did. Each morning I 
 turned for first news to that reiterated paragraph in 
 the agony column offering money for whatsoever 
 information as to the movements of the vanished 
 John Trent. He had last been seen, it appeared, 
 on the afternoon of my journey to London (perhaps 
 it was that slight coincidence which attracted me), 
 when he had left his lodgings at Winchfield for a 
 walk ; and thereafter he had been seen no more. 
 Some later particulars gave his age as forty, his 
 disposition as solitary, his temper as peculiar and 
 inclined to rashness. He had been something 
 wont, in the past, to self -obliterations, it seemed ; 
 yet hardly after this senseless fashion. And there 
 the tale of him ended. 
 
 One afternoon I walked down to the Lowther 
 Arcade, then drearily existent, to effect my pur- 
 chases. It was all a long medley of toys and fancy 
 stuff from which to select ; but I chose with an eye 
 to meetness and economy, even down to the baby, 
 on whose behalf I had the inspiration to buy a glass 
 sno wing-ball. You know the sort ? I hadn't seen 
 one since I was a child myself, and I was delighted. 
 There is a man inside, with a little wintry landscape, 
 and a Swiss chalet, and when you turn the ball
 
 48 THE FABULISTS 
 
 upside down and round again, thick snow is falling. 
 That is the rule, but I observed at once that the 
 specimen I received from the superior young lady 
 was an exception to the rule. It had inside it only 
 the solitary figure of a man, and the man was skating. 
 Yes, he skated actually, moving in little swoops and 
 circles over a sheet of ice which seemed to dissect 
 the ball ; and as he skated the snow fell. 
 
 I stood staring stupidly and, as I stared, the 
 man went through the ice and disappeared. 
 
 " That's different from the others," I said loudly 
 to the girl. I suppose my tone startled her ; I'm 
 sure it startled me. " Is it ? " she said. " I don't 
 think so." And no more it was. When I looked 
 again at the thing in my hand, there were the peasant 
 and the chalet, and the little landscape, all correct 
 and all motionless in their places. 
 
 I didn't buy the ball, but something else ; and 
 from the Arcade I went straight to the nearest 
 police-station where, among the posted bills, figured 
 that relating to the disappearance of John Trent. 
 " I think," I said to the inspector, " I can tell you 
 where he is. He is under the ice in Fleet pond." 
 
 And so he was ; and thence they dragged him 
 when the bitter frost came to an end. The little 
 oblique accent on the whirling white sheet half 
 seen, half dreamt, by me, the mortal expression, the 
 loud cry they had all represented the fate of John 
 Trent skating, like a madman, solitary and unsus- 
 pected, on that vast plane of ice beside the track.
 
 THE GLASS BALL 49 
 
 He had gone insanely to his doom, on that stark, 
 inhuman day, without a word to, and unseen by, 
 a solitary soul save myself, and by me only in 
 that exchange of sub-conscious recognitions which 
 obliterates intervening space. To mine alone, in all 
 that running, close-shut train, had his been able to 
 appeal yet with what purpose from such a man ? 
 
 I think I know. He had a young child one 
 legitimately and wholly dependent on him. Until 
 they could produce certain evidence that he, John 
 Trent, was dead and not merely disappeared, that 
 child would be a beggar. And that was why he had 
 wanted his fate to be definitely known why, to my 
 still deficient understanding, he had turned its little 
 inmates out of their glass snowing-house, and had 
 taken their place.
 
 A LUCKY THRUST 
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 IN that pedestrian proverb, " Truth is stranger than 
 fiction," the public has seized on, and converted 
 to its own pious usages, a characteristic cynicism of 
 Byron's. Thus may a brass farthing be guilelessly 
 mistaken for a gold piece, and be given the currency 
 of honest metal. The axiom, to be sure, is no less 
 respectable, as an axiom, than many another 
 which, having wandered wide of its original sig- 
 nificance, has yet acquired, even in its misapplication 
 the dignity of a tradition. But it is not justified by 
 facts. If truth were really stranger than fiction 
 which it is not, and cannot be, because it is truth 
 imagination might very well, like the divine 
 Astraea, abandon a world whose sordid realism had 
 no longer a use for her. But, fortunately, as regards 
 this proverb, " the bearings of the observation lays 
 in the application on it " and the application is all 
 wrong. Wherefore imagination shall still remain 
 with us to assert her pre-eminence in strangeness. 
 
 Truth, nevertheless, can have its fantastic 
 moments, as the following incident will serve to 
 prove. It was related to me by one who had it at 
 first hand from a living witness of the marvel. 
 
 50
 
 A LUCKY THRUST 51 
 
 Mudiford or Muddyford, as the modern maps 
 more uncompromisingly spell it is a little sea- 
 board village situated on the western curve of 
 Christchurch Bay in Hampshire, near the estuary 
 of the River Avon. It is not, in these days of swift 
 and swarming transport, a " popular holiday resort," 
 I presume, since I find it not so much as mentioned 
 in county handbooks ; but in the " forties " that 
 decade of rabid projection and cautious realisation 
 in railway enterprise it was largely affected by sea- 
 bathers, drawn for the most part, on the authority 
 of my informant, from the Wiltshire county families. 
 They would descend to it, no doubt, as to a quiet 
 haven, remote from the vulgarity of contiguous 
 watering-places, and be glad to compromise 
 with its titular disadvantages for the privilege of 
 exclusiveness which they procured them. 
 
 Among these families was one named Bolingbroke, 
 with a member of which the incident to be related 
 is concerned. We will call him, on our only historical 
 authority, Mr. Henry St. John, and picture him, if 
 you please, as a somewhat tall, slender, fastidious- 
 looking gentleman, with dark hair, brushed forward in 
 two macassar 'd locks over his temples, moustache, 
 mutton-chop whiskers, and a " Charlie " on his 
 lower lip. He wears a narrow-brimmed, glazed, 
 straw hat, a rough blue pilot- jacket with brass 
 buttons, a very ample buff waistcoat, and a Glad- 
 stone collar with a loose shepherd" s-plaid bow at 
 his throat. His trousers are white duck, his hands
 
 52 THE FABULISTS 
 
 are kid-gloved, and he carries a telescope under his 
 arm. 
 
 There were bathing-machines at Mudiford, the 
 property of a Miss West, from whom came the story. 
 Miss West, I am told by way of authenticity, was 
 a person of intelligence, of a religious education, 
 and of the strictest moral probity. She superin- 
 tended the bathing, received the money, and allotted 
 the machines. To enter or leave one of those dry- 
 shod on a rising tide necessitated the use of a 
 primitive landing-stage a mere sloping board on 
 two trestles. 
 
 Now we are to picture Mr. Henry St. John 
 approaching this gangway one day at the moment 
 that a bathing-machine, drawn up near the sands, 
 discharges from its door a couple of merry, blooming 
 girls his sister and a cousin, shall we say. They 
 trip down the boards don't we know them in 
 Leech's pictures ? their little feet in hideous 
 side-spring boots, their long, wet hair sagging from 
 under spoon-shaped hats upon the shoulders of plain 
 bodices like dressing-jackets, their tongues as 
 jocund as their eyes with the salt rapture of the sea. 
 Well, have they enjoyed their bathe ? 
 
 Enjoyed ? It was simply stunning ! 
 
 With a smiling, shocked " Tut-tut 1 " Mr. St. 
 John ascends the plank in order to pay Mrs. West, 
 who is busy within the machine. He pulls off his 
 right glove to fetch out his purse, utters an exclama- 
 tion, and stands an instant motionless. A valuable
 
 A LUCKY THRUST 53 
 
 ring has been drawn in the process from his finger, 
 and has dropped plump into the water. 
 
 There is hurry and consternation at once, wading, 
 dipping, plunging and raking of eager hands. As 
 the tide steadily rises the search grows frantic, 
 then slackens, and ceases at last in desperation. 
 The spot is marked, a reward offered ; day after 
 day avid hunters probe and claw after the foundered 
 treasure, and in vain. At length it is concluded 
 that the ebb has claimed the ring to the everlasting 
 deeps, and, any hope of recovering it being vanished, 
 the matter is forgotten. 
 
 The following " season " finds Mr. St. John again 
 at Mudiford. He walks with a friend on the sands 
 at ebb ; he meets Mrs. West airing towels ; and, 
 her presence recalling the incident to his mind, he 
 stops beside her to relate it to his companion. 
 Presently, glancing about him, with an eye to his 
 bearings, he utters an exclamation. 
 
 " Why," he says, " I believe we are standing on 
 the very spot where I lost the thing ! " 
 
 He has a cane in his hand and, to emphasise his 
 conviction of his correctness, he stabs its point 
 smartly into the sand, removes it and there is the 
 ring sticking on the ferule. 
 
 This story was told me by an old gentleman, who 
 had it in youth from the " own lips " of the unim- 
 peachable Miss West herself. But, after all, fiction 
 could add points to its strangeness.
 
 TO N.C.C. 
 
 INKING HER COPY-BOOK 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 MARCH came in storm and fled ; 
 
 In all its swelling wombs 
 The buds seemed withered 
 And now how perfected ! 
 
 Sharp frosts bring lovely blooms. 
 
 The pretty pouting rose 
 
 Shut eyes on frigid glooms. 
 How lusty now she shows, 
 For all the wintry snows ! 
 Cold frosts make lovely blooms. 
 
 Blue eyes, to window strayed 
 
 From doleful lesson-books ! 
 Remember, sweet my maid, 
 Though golden lambs their trade, 
 E'en shepherds have their crooks. 
 
 In little cloud in sky, 
 
 In little bruise on fruit 
 Life's ripeness we descry 
 Some frost on celery 
 
 A crispness gives the shoot. 
 
 54
 
 TO N.C.C. 55 
 
 Much sun makes sapless flowers, 
 Much gin makes little grooms ; 
 
 No rain brings withered bowers, 
 
 All play long peevish hours 
 Dark times bring lovely blooms.
 
 WOMAN 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 " I NEVER," said Whyte Melville, " knew but one 
 woman who understood reason ; and she wouldn't 
 listen to it." 
 
 That woman, for all the purposes of my tale, was 
 poor Cynthia Grant, and she was engaged to be 
 married to rich Neville Porson. 
 
 One day the two met, and the man was melancholy 
 and preoccupied in manner. The girl rallied him. 
 " What is the matter with you ? Are you beginning 
 to repent your bargain ? " 
 
 " Yes," he said ; and the answer took her like a 
 blow. 
 
 Then she collected herself, and spoke perfectly 
 calmly and temperately : " Tell me about it." 
 
 "It is hateful," he answered ; " but it is best 
 to be candid, is it not ? " 
 
 She nodded. " Certainly it is. Go on." 
 
 " An engagement is a time of probation," said 
 Neville. " It is designed to test the mutually suit- 
 able qualities of a couple. Those cannot be gathered 
 in a day ; certainly not in that emotional moment 
 when two people commit themselves to an ever- 
 
 56
 
 WOMAN 57 
 
 lasting bond. On the other hand, pre-committal 
 understandings would be open to the objection that 
 they might mean valuable time, especially for the 
 lady, wasted ; and, even more likely by her, re- 
 sented, to the advantage of any rival would-be suitor 
 and the discomfiture of the reasonable one. It is 
 better to accept the compromise of a probation-period, 
 and so put the matter to a fair trial. But in this wholly 
 common-sensible arrangement the Law should have 
 no right to interfere, and probably would not, save 
 for its desire to make unhappy marriages which it 
 profits by annulling. In business we do not take 
 a partner without minute investigation as to his 
 character and antecedents ; or, if we do, we are 
 permitted to insert a time-clause in the deed of 
 partnership, entitling us to a possible dissolution. 
 But in matrimony, by far the most solemn and 
 fateful of all alliances, we are allowed no such pro- 
 visional clause in case of differences ; and in this 
 respect the Law counts betrothal as matrimony. 
 That, I think, is neither right nor reason. Nor is it 
 right that the Law, having so protected betrothal, 
 should love to hold the whole business up to ridicule 
 in its Courts, and drag the name of what should be 
 a very sacred compact through the mud. Do you 
 not agree with me ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," said Cynthia ; " with every word 
 you say. Then you have tried me, and found me 
 wanting ? " 
 
 " I do not think," said Neville, " that we could be
 
 58 THE FABULISTS 
 
 permanently happy together. I do not reflect upon 
 a single one of your qualities, Cynthia, of which 
 you have an abundance that are admirable. I 
 feel only that we are unsuited to one another, and 
 that a union between us would prove disastrous. 
 Better to say that out, than to risk a lifetime of 
 misery or estrangement. That is the conclusion our 
 period of probation has forced upon me." 
 
 " Neophytes," she said, " often feel like that and 
 yet, by persisting, win to resignation and happiness." 
 
 " The neophyte in matrimony," he answered, 
 " that is to say the fiancb, cannot, if he finds on 
 probation that he has made a mistake, legally ' cry 
 off.' He must perpetuate his error, propagating the 
 very discord he would have foregone. That is the 
 curse of it. What should we think of a man who, 
 qualifying for a post of trust, and realising his utter 
 moral unfitness for it, yet persisted in submitting 
 himself to the temptation ? The fact is that, in 
 these days of earnest sexual adjustments, breach of 
 promise has become an anachronism. Fear of it 
 is a great breeder of misalliances, and, consequently, 
 of matrimonial dissension. I am sure you must see 
 that." 
 
 " Quite clearly." 
 
 " Then what do you intend doing ? " 
 
 " I intend bringing an action against you for 
 breach of promise of marriage." 
 
 The young man pressed his hand a moment to his 
 brow.
 
 WOMAN 59 
 
 " You are disappointed in me," he said. " That 
 is very natural. I have only, then, to tell you the 
 whole truth, which I had wished to spare both you 
 and myself. I have recently discovered, Cynthia, 
 that we have hereditary madness in our family, and 
 I am assured by our physician that marriage would 
 be morally certain to develop the seed in myself." 
 
 " I understand you," said Cynthia, " and our 
 responsibility to the unborn future. But a woman's 
 reason is her will, and I am not going, like clever 
 Alice with her hatchet sticking in the wall, to disturb 
 myself over problematic accidents that may never 
 come to pass." 
 
 " Then your fate be upon your own head." 
 
 " You called it once a very pretty head." 
 
 So they were married ; and a month or two after, 
 as she was standing dressing before her looking- 
 glass, Neville shot his wife. He had been lusting 
 to do the deed, but, the thing done, the mist of 
 madness cleared from his eyes and he was seized with 
 an agony of compunction. 
 
 " Admit only that I warned you," he said, as he 
 held her in his arms. " But you would not listen to 
 reason." 
 
 " O ! I listened," she whispered, " and agreed 
 with everything you said. But what had I to do 
 with reason ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because," she said, " I loved you " and 
 
 died.
 
 THE QUEER PICTURE 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 IT was standing with its face to the wall in a dark 
 corner of the dingy old shop in Beak Street, whose 
 miscellaneous litter had peered at me through a 
 window so dirty as to make its owner appear rather 
 to wish to baffle custom than to court it. Nor in 
 that respect was its owner's manner reassuring. 
 His eyes peered dimly out of an unwashed face, 
 like the pale blue oriental saucers through the 
 window. He seemed to regard me with indifference 
 and a little weariness, as if the profit of chaffering 
 were hardly worth its trouble. " O, yes I " he 
 said, in a weak, hoarse voice, to my appreciations 
 of this or that, as I edged my way through the 
 labyrinth of Chippendale chairs, bureaux, coffin- 
 stools, and gate-legged tables piled with Stafford- 
 shire figures, brass door-knockers, candlesticks, and 
 "genuine antiques " of every sort, description and 
 plausibility. 
 
 A little nettled by the creature's apathy, I stooped, 
 somewhat truculently, and turned the picture round 
 for myself. It showed a landscape, pretty dark 
 and mellow in tone, of, I fancied, the Crome or 
 
 60
 
 THE QUEER PICTURE 61 
 
 Nasmyth period. A woodland road, receding from 
 the middle foreground of the canvas, presently 
 took a curve round some palings to the left, and 
 disappeared into greenery. Prominent over the 
 near palings towered a huge oak ; on the other side 
 was a close medley of foliage gradually dimming 
 into blue distances. The whole was feelingly 
 painted and composed, the large oak tree, quite 
 superbly rendered, forming its predominant feature. 
 It all only suffered slightly to my mind as a com- 
 position from the white emptiness of the road 
 and the absence of figures. I said so to the dealer. 
 " O yes ! " he answered, with a dry cough, and I 
 shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 I have had one or two " finds " in my time enough 
 to stimulate my adventurous nerve. This thing 
 seemed to me good : there was power in it, and know- 
 ledge. The time was evidently near twilight, still 
 and darkling a lonely, solemn place. The atmos- 
 phere was unmistakably suggested. Its canvas 
 measurement was some 34 by 28 inches, and it 
 possessed a frame, a little dingy and battered, but 
 of the right sort. " Whom is it by ? " I said. 
 
 The dealer made as if to bend, cleared his thin 
 old throat and stood up again. " It's unsigned," 
 he said. 
 
 " But don't you know ? " 
 
 " If you were to ask me," he answered, " I should 
 say no more than that, mind you that it was 
 Urquhart's work." Then, in response to my mute
 
 62 THE FABULISTS 
 
 inquiry, " He was a follower of John Constable, 
 you know." 
 
 I didn't know ; I knew nothing about the man ; 
 but, whoever he was, his capacity was plain. I 
 decided to risk it. " Well, how much ? " I said. 
 
 " Twenty pounds," said the dealer. 
 
 As a matter of principle I protested " Unsigned ; 
 of disputable origin ; preposterous I " " O yes I " 
 he said, in his indifferent way. " Twenty pounds is 
 the price. It's a greatly admired piece. If you 
 change your mind, I will take it back any time 
 within a week, less ten per cent." 
 
 That seemed a fair offer, and I ended by carrying 
 the picture home with me in a cab. Alone, I cleared 
 the mantelpiece of my sitting-room, and stood the 
 treasure up on it. I thought it distinctly an admir- 
 able piece of work, and so far rejoiced in my bargain. 
 It seemed to reflect the very spirit of the twilight 
 which was even now creeping over my room, to 
 assimilate and conform to it. As I gazed I grew 
 penetrated, possessed, by what I gazed on. I was 
 on the wide, white road, standing or crouching 
 somewhere down here out of the picture, and 
 staring into its diminishing distances. The great 
 oak was motionlessly alive ; there seemed " a 
 listening fear in its regard." An expectation, an 
 indescribable awe, held me amazedly entranced. 
 And then my breath caught in a quick gasp. Round 
 by the bend of the road, far away, there occurred 
 a minute stirring, and something came into the
 
 THE QUEER PICTURE 63 
 
 picture that was not there before. The thing came 
 on, increasing in regular progression as it advanced 
 and it was the figure of a young man, in a bygone 
 costume, swinging airily towards me. I sat petri- 
 fied, dumb-stricken ; and all in an instant there 
 arose between me and the illusion, blotting it out, 
 a vague, shadowy shape. That receded quickly, 
 shrinking as it withdrew, until it also was the figure 
 of a man going away from me along the road to 
 meet the other. The two encountered, and had 
 passed, when the second wheeled suddenly in his 
 tracks, and struck the first on the neck, so that the 
 young man fell into the road. I saw something a 
 running stain of red, and simultaneously broke, 
 with a cry, from my stupefaction and, leaping to 
 the mantelpiece, turned the horror with its face to 
 the wall. As I did so I saw that the canvas was 
 empty of figures. 
 
 The old dealer made no demur whatever about 
 my returning the picture. " It always comes back,'* 
 he said impassively, as he paid me in cash eighteen 
 pounds out of the twenty I had given for it. "It 
 stands me in well, you see, as an investment. It's 
 a fine work. I dare say you'll be the dozenth or 
 more who's been struck by it, and carried it away 
 with the same result. Twilight's the time, they say." 
 
 " Don't you know it is ? " I responded warmly. 
 " Haven't you seen it yourself ? " 
 
 " No," he said, with a thin cough, "no." (He 
 had returned the picture to its former place and
 
 64 THE FABULISTS 
 
 position.) " I don't bother to look. It wouldn't 
 be policy, and it wouldn't be fair, you know, for me 
 to sell it if I had. I'm not bound to go upon hear- 
 say ; and it doesn't trouble me where it stands." 
 
 " But " I turned on my heel indignantly, and 
 came back " you said it was an Urquhart." 
 
 " On its intrinsic evidences," he responded ; " not 
 in the least because it happens that Urquhart was 
 hanged for the murder of his wife's paramour on a 
 country road he was engaged in painting at the 
 time. He stuck him in the neck with a palette- 
 knife. That may have been the very picture or it 
 may not before the figures were filled in. Urquhart 
 generally used sheep and countrymen. But all 
 that's no concern of mine. I say it's an Urquhart 
 because of the style. No one but him, in my 
 opinion, could have painted that oak."
 
 "TOO TOO WILL IN TWO" 
 
 (Cheshire Proverb); 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 JOHN Eyre sat alone with the dead man and his own 
 ripening purpose. He knew what he was going to 
 do, what nothing should prevent him from doing, 
 even while he debated the risks and profits in his 
 mind. 
 
 The room was in melancholy shadow, for, although 
 it was hot noon, the blinds were down. That 
 silence, unbroken, unbreakable, which reigns only in 
 the presence of Death, immured and half petrified 
 him. He rose in a sudden instinct to recover his 
 circulation, and stood, stiff and motionless, gazing 
 down on the bed and the dehumanised caricature of 
 its occupant hidden rigid beneath the sheets. Yet 
 all the lesson of pitiful mortality which the grotesque 
 shape conveyed had no power to affect the current 
 of his thoughts, or to divert his mind for one moment 
 from the purpose which was constantly maturing 
 in it. 
 
 The young man was in black clothes, which he had 
 ferreted out from his uncle's wardrobe. They were 
 worn and ungainly, but they were sufficient. His 
 uncle, his only relative, his rich benefactor it was 
 
 E 65
 
 66 THE FABULISTS 
 
 who lay under the white pall, his face, his folded 
 hands, his feet alone indicated, as if the thing were 
 some rough draught of mortality sketched in stone 
 by a sculptor. Yet, formless as it lay, it was more 
 potential in the ordering of futurity than the living 
 force had ever been. The will of the dead shapes the 
 destinies of the quick to the ultimate generation. 
 
 No soul could have realised this truism more 
 completely than John Eyre. It was the Will of the 
 dead for which he had been grubbing and hunting 
 these two days past, and on which he had at length 
 alighted, hidden away in a disused bureau. The 
 document was complete, of recent date, and satis- 
 factory in all respects save one. It bequeathed the 
 whole of the testator's considerable fortune to his 
 nephew, saving a single legacy of 500, which was to 
 go to a certain clergyman, a former dear friend of the 
 deceased. Barring this latter bequest, barring any 
 Will at all, the nephew, as heir-at-law, would have 
 inherited the entire property. 
 
 And therein, to the soul of inborn covetousness, 
 lay the gall. 
 
 John Eyre had, in these two days, wholly satisfied 
 himself as to the singleness of the document and his 
 own sole possession of its secret. He had ransacked 
 every hole and corner of the house ; had instituted 
 cautious inquiries ; had made an exhaustive investi- 
 gation into the matter and all without result. There 
 was no record anywhere of a later Will, or of so much 
 as a codicil to the other. Proverbially rich men
 
 "TOO TOO WILL IN TWO" 67 
 
 were reluctant testators, and his uncle had been no 
 exception to the rule. Save for the 500 he, the 
 nephew, was heir to the whole estate. 
 
 Save for the 500 ! It stuck in his throat like a 
 bone. The thought of the bequest haunted, had 
 haunted, him day and night ever since he had 
 discovered the Will. // his uncle had died intestate, 
 the entire fortune would be his. 
 
 If ? He might have, for all practical purposes, 
 since only one other, and he the most interested, 
 possessed the secret. What if he, that other, were 
 to destroy the Will, of whose existence he alone was 
 cognisant ? 
 
 He knew, I say, what he was going to do, what 
 nothing should prevent him from doing, even while 
 he temporised with his own depravity. The dead 
 had no moral terrors for him ; he felt towards the 
 kind, foolish old man little but a tolerant contempt, 
 and not least because it had been so easy to gull him 
 with a pretence of disinterested devotion. He re- 
 called his own first acquaintance with his benefactor, 
 and how he had been summoned to fill the gap in 
 a lonely life caused by the departure of the clerical 
 intimate and confidant. He had made good hypo- 
 critical use of his time during the interval since, and 
 the rich fruits were to show. Only they might be 
 richer yet. It depended upon himself, and himself 
 alone. 
 
 Quite suddenly he came to his decision. It was 
 offered to the manes of the departed as representing
 
 68 THE FABULISTS 
 
 their common view, reached after reasoning and 
 discussion. That was why he had come into the 
 death-chamber, since a certain order of meanness 
 always seeks uneasily to justify itself in the eyes of 
 its presumptive contemners. The dead man, he 
 pretended, quite agreed with him that the bequest 
 had been unnecessary, that his once friend neither 
 expected nor needed it, and that the shortest way to 
 rectify a momentary weakness was by destroying 
 its evidences. Straight downstairs he stole on the 
 thought to burn the Will. 
 
 He had to light some paper in the grate with flint 
 and steel before he could effect his purpose. The 
 roar of the chimney terrified him like a voice of 
 hidden discovery ; even when it was subdued it 
 angered him by its low persistence, while he strained 
 his ears to listen through it for imagined whispers and 
 footfalls outside the locked door. The preternatural 
 silence of the house seemed to have discovered new 
 sounds and undertones ordinarily inaudible. He 
 stared over his shoulder. 
 
 But at length the document was consumed, the 
 flame expired, and he rose to his feet sole heir at 
 last to all the coveted thousands. And at that 
 moment a loud knock sounded through the hall. 
 
 Visitors ! He stood aghast and petrified an 
 instant ; then, in a hurrying panic, stamped out the 
 last lingering sparks, and, stepping softly to the door, 
 softly unlocked it. As he did so, his nerve returned 
 to him. What had he to fear, now or evermore ?
 
 "TOO TOO WILL IN TWO" 69 
 
 Two gentlemen were ushered in, in one of whom 
 Eyre recognised his uncle's former intimate, the 
 just disinherited clergyman. A suspicion that this 
 man had come to prey upon the dead filled him 
 from the outset with a sort of triumphant insolence 
 He showed his mood, no doubt, for the covetous 
 possess no manners. His lack of them probably 
 brought the visitors, for their part, to an early 
 explanation. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said John Eyre ; "an ill- 
 timed visit, you must confess. You are bound to 
 state its purport with all despatch." 
 
 The lay stranger, forceful and composed, took the 
 answer upon himself. 
 
 " I am an attorney, Mr. Eyre, and acting for my 
 friend here. I am to ask you on his behalf if your 
 uncle made any testamentary disposition before his 
 death ? " 
 
 " If you mean a Will, sir," answered Eyre rudely, 
 " no, he did not. The fact is ascertained beyond 
 dispute, and your friend must swallow his disappoint- 
 ment without sauce. My uncle died intestate." 
 
 " That is not so," said the lawyer drily ; and he 
 produced a document from his pocket. " This, 
 Mr. Eyre," he said, " is a Will made by your uncle 
 three years ago in favour of this his old friend and my 
 client, to whose custody he forthwith committed it. 
 Its provisions are simple, comprising a legacy of 500 
 to the testator's nephew, John Eyre, with residue 
 of the estate to my client. If no subsequent Will
 
 70 THE FABULISTS 
 
 exists, the disappointment, I am afraid, will be 
 yours." 
 
 " Qui trop embrasse you know the proverb ? 
 Was mere mortification the word ? Tongue-tied 
 from any possibility of remonstrance, John Eyre 
 glanced distractedly towards the grate in which 
 crumbled the ashes of his hopes. 
 
 But was it strange that such a man should come 
 ultimately to amass a fortune of 30,000, or that, 
 possessing it, he should be convicted and transported 
 for stealing a few paltry quires of note-paper ? 
 You will find his case in Junius.
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 O, NEVER a room in a strait, dull house 
 
 But has its thrill, if no more than a mouse ! 
 
 O, never a heart, dull, formal and blind 
 
 But has its closed door, and a ghost behind ! 
 
 A whisk, or a flash, or a laugh, or a prayer 
 
 And you enter and look and there's nothing there. 
 
 71
 
 THE APOTHECARY'S REVENGE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 PROMINENT, under the shadow of the projecting gablei 
 the little gilded bason and lancet above the door 
 reflected back the light from a single dismal lantern, 
 burning a cotton wick, which hung from a bracket 
 over the archway opposite. It was nearing sundown, 
 and the few pedestrians abroad walked hurriedly 
 and stealthily, keeping in the middle of the street as 
 if they feared some lurking ambush. One of these, a 
 tall, muffled figure of a man, with a drawn, agitated 
 countenance, wheeled suddenly, and, pushing with- 
 out a pause through the unlocked doorway under the 
 gilded sign, mounted the flight of complaining stairs 
 which rose before him in the gloom beyond. Evi- 
 dently familiar with the place, the visitor, on reach- 
 ing the landing, knocked fearfully but resolutely 
 on a dark oblong in the obscurity which betokened 
 where a closed door broke the panelled surface of the 
 wall. 
 
 A groan or sigh, some sound indefinite but suffi- 
 cient, responding, he turned the handle, his long 
 fingers clouding it with a clammy moisture, and, 
 edging round the door, closed it softly behind him 
 
 72
 
 THE APOTHECARY'S REVENGE 73 
 
 and stood looking eagerly towards the end of the 
 room. Its sole occupant, the learned Quinones, 
 that miserly apothecary whose wisdom, nevertheless, 
 served him for a perennial harvest, was, he knew 
 well enough, notoriously chary of speech, grudging 
 it to others as though, like the fairy-gifted maiden's, 
 there were a present of a jewel in every word he let 
 drop. Saturnine, austere, caustic in his few utter- 
 ances, he was wont to vouchsafe small comment on 
 the catalogues of ills and vapours that were per- 
 petually laid before him ; but a phrase with him, so 
 famous was he, took all the force of a prescription. 
 Thus regarded, it was little likely that he would 
 forego the principles of a lifetime for the sake of 
 him who had now broken in upon his solitude. 
 
 He was seated at a table in the window opposite 
 the door, his back to the intruder, his left ear turned 
 a little, as if in some listening irascibility over the 
 interruption. The fading alchemy of the sunset, 
 dropping in flakes and dust through the diamond- 
 paned casement, rimmed the hunched silhouette of 
 him with a faint aura, and made an amber mist of the 
 dry thin hair on his scalp, and turned the narrow 
 section of cheek visible from lead to gold It was to 
 this strangely-crowned and indeterminate shadow 
 that the visitor addressed himself, in hurried, 
 fluttering speech, the true purport of which only 
 gathered form as desperation lent it eloquence : 
 
 " You know me, Quinones yes, you know me, 
 learned master as I know you. No need to waste
 
 74 THE FABULISTS 
 
 a look on recognition. My voice is stored in your 
 memory, with other debts to be liquidated. You 
 do not forget these things." 
 
 He took an impulsive step forward, and the 
 board creaked and jumped under his foot. It 
 seemed as if the figure in the chair started slightly, 
 and then settled again to its listening. The visitor 
 held out his hands with an imploring gesture. 
 
 " I did you an ill deed in the past, Quinones, and 
 it is written against me in your books. What is the 
 use to tell you that I have repented it since in sack- 
 cloth and ashes ? And yet let it be of use. O, 
 in these mortal times, when all the world should be 
 in one brotherhood of help and sympathy, let your 
 resentment sleep forgive, and prove by that 
 nobility your true title to the greatness that all men 
 allow you. I have bitten the hand, I confess it, 
 that cherished me : let that hand retaliate in the 
 finest spirit by ministering to the wound I inflicted, 
 not first on you, but on my own miserable nature. 
 Be generous to me, Quinones, for I have lived to 
 know and suffer." 
 
 He paused ; and in the pause there rose a melan- 
 choly cry from the darkening street : " Bring out 
 your dead ; bring out your dead ! " The sound 
 seemed to goad him to a frenzy. 
 
 " Listen, Quinones ; I have learned to know, I 
 say. Love, that in its purity can redeem the worst, 
 has been my teacher. For love I would live I, 
 who until it transformed me, feared no death,
 
 THE APOTHECARY'S REVENGE 75 
 
 refused no risks. Now, for its sake, I am a coward ; 
 I shrink in terror that this mortality may claim me 
 me, who have learned at last the glory and the 
 fruitfulness of life. O save me, Quinones ! You 
 alone among all the Galenical masters can do so, if 
 you will. Fortify my blood ; render me immune ; 
 give me the secret of your plague-water, the one 
 specific, as all admit, quite certain in its results. 
 Give it to me and mine, and earn for evermore 
 the name of saint, the gratitude of hearts that wait 
 upon your bounty not to break." 
 
 The seated figure seemed, in the uncertain light, 
 to stir and chuckle or was it a sound of water 
 gurgling in the basement. Still no response came 
 from it ; and, hearkening vainly through the 
 thick silence, the mood of the man roared 
 up in a moment from submission to deadly 
 fury : 
 
 " Inhuman, unforgiving ! Not for you to forget, 
 in your God-feigned aloofness, the least, the most 
 paltry hurt to your vanity. You hear, but you 
 will not answer. Answer to this, then. I came 
 to appeal to the great in you, as other blind fools 
 have certified it ; but I came prepared with sharper 
 weapons than entreaty, should, as I foresaw in my 
 heart, the fools prove fools indeed. I am a desperate 
 man, Quinones, and you are alone quite alone with 
 me, I do believe. It is either the secret yielded, 
 or your life. Make your choice, and quickly. A 
 poor revenge, will you not think it, to lie there
 
 76 THE FABULISTS 
 
 in your blood while I am ranging free and un- 
 suspected in this welter ! " 
 
 He half crouched, peering through the deepening 
 twilight, a sudden blade in his hand, the tumult 
 in his brain grown rabid then, with a shriek, 
 " Let your plague- water save you now 1 " leapt 
 on the unresponsive figure. 
 
 It swayed, swung, and rolled stiffly to the floor, 
 revealing a livid face, blotched and plague-stricken, 
 and fangs good Lord, they grinned ! 
 
 Quinones mortal had not half the sinister sig- 
 nificance of Quinones dead and rigid. He had sat 
 there, waiting his age-delayed but never-forgotten 
 revenge sat there a stiffening corpse, long after 
 the rest of his household had fled. 
 
 With a scream, the other rushed from the room, 
 into the street and so in a little for the cart and the 
 plague-pit. Quinones was quits with him at last.
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 TWICE she had heard them, she told me, and on 
 each occasion with indescribable terror : if she were 
 to hear them a third time, it must surely mean 
 death. 
 
 It was this way. Like some other people, she 
 had her dream-house a place which she was 
 convinced existed in fact, and which some day 
 she would chance upon and instantly recognise. 
 She was able to describe it to me minutely with 
 an exactness of detail which I cannot aim at re- 
 producing. It was a Victorian house, substantial, 
 standing in its own grounds, and with nothing 
 in the least ghostly about its aspect. Entering 
 up the drive, one passed a block of blind-fronted 
 stables to reach a long conservatory, by way of 
 which, for no explained reason, one entered the 
 building. A large drawing-room, sumptuously furn- 
 ished and carpeted, succeeded ; and thence one 
 passed up a couple of shallow steps, extending 
 almost the width of the room, into a second con- 
 siderable chamber, crowded this one with china, 
 having all an odd suggestion of something wrong 
 
 77
 
 78 THE FABULISTS 
 
 and rather horrible about it, and leading in its turn 
 into yet a third room, which was peculiar only for 
 its gloomy panelling and the door fast shut at its 
 further end. She knew that the whole vast house 
 was empty of life ; that its chambers and corridors 
 throughout were open, if she wished it, to her 
 inspection. Only this one closed door was forbidden 
 impossible. She had an awful desire to penetrate 
 its secret ; and yet with a sickness of terror for 
 what it might reveal to her should she succeed. 
 But she dared not try. And then came the footsteps 
 of some one, of something, moving within the 
 hidden room. They rustled and spoke, now reced- 
 ing, now approaching ; and suddenly they stopped, 
 while horror breathed through the keyhole, as if 
 in the very crisis of some terrific decision. And at 
 that she woke. 
 
 Such was her dream the paralysing nightmare 
 which she had twice experienced, and lived in 
 mortal fear of suffering for a third, and final, time. 
 
 She was young, and she spoke her fancy playfully, 
 as if to deprecate any serious acceptance of her 
 mock-heroics. Yet I could see plainly enough 
 that a real apprehension lay behind her pretence. 
 
 " Take it this way," I said. " You feel positively 
 convinced that that house exists in fact some- 
 where ? " 
 
 " Yes, positively," she answered. 
 
 " Well, I don't doubt it. Too many authentic 
 instances of dream-houses proving real are on
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS 79 
 
 record to permit me to. And you haunt it in 
 some astral or sub-conscious form. Well, how are 
 you to know that that other sub-conscious form, 
 represented by the footsteps, is not as terrified about 
 you as you are about it ? You may be the walking 
 ghost in its fancy." 
 
 " O, I hope not ! " she said. But it was evident 
 that my suggestion had opened up in her a train of 
 reflection unmorbid, by contrast with the other, 
 and even, strangely, a little pitiful and emotional. 
 
 Well, I did not re-encounter my young lady for 
 years after that ; and, when I did meet her again, 
 she was a mature lady, married and with children. 
 But she knew me at once, and greeted me with a 
 fervour which I hardly understood until, chancing 
 on one occasion to be alone with her, she opened 
 out her heart to me. 
 
 " I have always so wished to renew our acquaint- 
 ance. Do you remember that time we met when 
 I told you about my dream-house ? " 
 
 " Certainly I do ; and about my own efforts to 
 reassure you." 
 
 " I wanted to tell you I have always wanted to ; 
 and you have the best right to know, because 
 you gave me the true clue to my riddle. The 
 footsteps I heard were the footsteps of fear, and / 
 was the unconscious ghost that caused it." 
 
 I nodded, in no whit surprised. " Go on, if 
 you will," I said. 
 
 " You must keep my confidence," she answered ;
 
 80 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " but I want you to know you alone of all people. 
 It was so very strange, so very tragic. He, the owner 
 of the house, used to dream that he was down in 
 that room, his own study, and that silence and an 
 awful emptiness closed him in, so that he had to 
 walk, walk, to forget. And then came the footsteps 
 in the panelled room right up to the door ; 
 and horror would seize him horror of the thing 
 that waited there outside it might be death, or 
 something unspeakable, but he had not the courage 
 to open and face it. 
 
 " We had not met then, he and I ; and when at 
 last we did, in another place, it was the familiar 
 story of a spoilt girl, and slanderous tongues, and 
 a great heart slighted and abused. I am not going 
 to palliate or defend, but only to relate. He was 
 wounded to the soul ; he was alone in the world, 
 and his life was his own. There came a time at 
 last when he stood in that room and his hand 
 was not empty " 
 
 I begged her not to go on ; but she was resolved. 
 
 " The girl, the wretched girl, had learned the 
 truth late the vindication of the name she had 
 loved and honoured in her heart before all the 
 world. She was passionate and wilful, and she flew 
 at once to make atonement " 
 
 She stopped. " You must not," I said. " Be- 
 sides, it is unnecessary ; I can guess the sequel. 
 You saw it, with your living eyes, for the first time 
 the house of your dreams."
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS 81 
 
 " Yes, I saw it : it was all exactly as I had 
 pictured the silence, the emptiness, for the house- 
 hold had long been dismissed. And I knew where 
 I had to go ; what I had to do. At the last it was 
 opened, and and it was not Death." 
 
 She ended, gave a little sigh, as of a soul un- 
 burdened, and after that a little laugh. 
 
 " It is the children's play-room now," she said j 
 " and is not that wonderful ? Not many people, 
 I expect, come to be the mistresses of their own 
 dream-houses."
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 UNCLE JOHN was very poorly ; and poorly in a new 
 way for him. Being an ex-civil servant, Anglo- 
 Indian, he was accustomed to regard his liver as 
 a captious quantity, to be reckoned with on all 
 occasions of festivity. But this chest trouble, with 
 its continuous nausea and hacking cough, was 
 something out of his experience, and frightening 
 because of its novelty. There was consternation 
 in the house, too, because Uncle John was a favour- 
 ite, and had only recently, during the Christmas 
 Day jollifications, proved his full claim to the title. 
 If it had been the turkey, or the plum-pudding, 
 or the champagne-punch, he would have known 
 how to meet it with philosophy ; a perpetual cough, 
 to one of his generally sound constitution, was 
 another matter, and one that, morally, rather 
 " floored " him. He stayed in bed, and meditated 
 somewhat funereally on the proverbial fatness 
 of churchyards during green winters. There had 
 been a good deal of rain in this, and he had shown, 
 perhaps, some recklessness in his careless exposure 
 of himself to conditions of damp and sopping feet. 
 
 82
 
 A CURE FOR CONSUMPTION 83 
 
 A man, especially of his age, had to learn not to 
 presume upon his long immunities. He was, secretly, 
 considerably disturbed about his condition. 
 
 His married sister, with whom he was staying, 
 pooh-pooh'd his fears ; but he seemed conscious 
 of something significant in the assiduity of her 
 attentions. " Saucy," his pet niece, stared at 
 him, when she was allowed to minister, with preter- 
 naturally solemn eyes, in which was evident the 
 instinctive estrangement of health from sickness. 
 The old family doctor, moreover, gave him no real 
 comfort, but was elusive about his state, in a pomp- 
 ous, fatherly, and entirely non-committal way. 
 Altogether, Uncle John, disquieted and a little 
 shocked, as all men must be over their first real 
 encounter with the shadows, was beginning to turn 
 his thoughts to the dismalest of contingencies. 
 The thing, after all, always most difficult to teach 
 the individual man is his excessive proneness to 
 death. 
 
 It was the night-sweats which finally gave some 
 direction to the doctor's genial speculations. Uncle 
 John did not know when or how the word con- 
 sumption first sounded in his mental auricula. 
 It seemed impossible, preposterous. That he could 
 have developed consumption, and on such ridicu- 
 lously trifling provocation ! Still, assuredly, there 
 was the pain in his chest, the temperature and, 
 above all, the incessant, worrying cough. He could 
 force no appetite, and began to take on something
 
 84 THE FABULISTS 
 
 the aspect of the disease professionally imposed upon 
 him. By the end of the fourth day, dating from 
 the first symptoms, things were beginning to look 
 bad. 
 
 On the morning of the fifth, his sister coming to 
 visit him, with " Saucy " obligato, proposed with 
 some diffidence a remedy. 
 
 " You may as well try it," she said, " pending the 
 arrival of the London specialist. These old recipes 
 can at least do no one any harm, and at most may 
 give real relief. They were the sum of much simple 
 wisdom. If it was only effective in easing your 
 cough a little ! Phillida, if you giggle I shall send 
 you out of the room." 
 
 " What old recipe ? " asked the invalid queru- 
 lously. 
 
 " It is called ' A good water for consumption,' ' 
 answered his sister, " and comes out of an ancient 
 recipe book possessed by Martha Gamage. The 
 good old creature was up nearly all the night before 
 last preparing it for you. Come, take it, to reward 
 her." 
 
 Uncle John made a wry face. " I don't fancy 
 these rustic medicaments. Where did she get the 
 book from ? " 
 
 " O, it's been in her family for generations, she 
 says. Of course, you haven't got consumption ; 
 but at least your cough can't be made worse by it. 
 Come." 
 
 Uncle John, with a melancholy resignation,
 
 A CURE FOR CONSUMPTION 85 
 
 sat up in his bed. His cough was really racking 
 him. He was given two large dessertspoonfuls of 
 a mucilaginous fluid from a bottle, Phillida looking 
 on curiously and expectantly the while. 
 
 "There," said the lady. "It wasn't so bad, 
 was it ? " 
 
 The invalid shuddered, with a decidedly queer 
 look. " No," he whispered heroically. 
 
 At that instant the mistress was called away, 
 and Phillida, being bidden to be very careful not 
 to upset her uncle, was left alone with the invalid. 
 She opened upon him with a gleeful precipitancy, 
 producing something from behind her back. " Uncle 
 John ! I've got it ! " 
 
 " Got what ? " 
 
 " The book that that that was taken from 
 what mother gave you. Shall I read it to you ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? Yes, go ahead." 
 
 And Phillida began to read hurriedly : 
 
 " ' A good water for consumption. Take a peck 
 of garden snails ' ' (she glanced tentatively at the 
 patient), " ' wash them in beer, put them in an 
 oven, and let them stay till they've done crying. 
 Then, with a knife and fork, prick the green from 
 them, and beat the snails, shells and all, in a stone 
 mortar. Then take a quart of green earth worms ' 
 (she looked up, the wings of her little nose quivering : 
 " There were simply millions of them in the garden 
 that night," she said), " ' slice them through the 
 middle, and straw them with salt. Then wash them
 
 86 THE FABULISTS 
 
 and beat them, the pot being first put into the still 
 with two handfuls of angelico, a quart of rosemary 
 flowers, then the snails and worms ' " she broke 
 off, and hurriedly removing the basin from the 
 washhand-stand, put it on the floor, and shoved it 
 with her foot towards the bed Then she backed. 
 " There's lots to come," she said. 
 
 " Thank you," said Uncle John, after an interval, 
 " I think not ; I think that does me, I'm obliged 
 to you." 
 
 He was leaning over. He uttered a sudden 
 exclamation, and sank back upon his pillows. 
 " Sixpence, by Jove ! " he said. 
 
 The young lady gave a shriek, dropped the book, 
 and clapped her hands 
 
 " There ! " she cried, " I knew you'd swallowed it 
 in the pudding. And now all the money's accounted 
 for."
 
 -. 
 
 AN APOSTOLIC CATSPAW 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 SIMON PATRICK episcopus, expository theologian, 
 practical divine, and, since the nonjuring clearance 
 of 1690, Bishop of Ely, came rolling in his great 
 strap-hung coach towards the gates of his town- 
 house in Holborn. It was not the Holborn of to-day, 
 by any means. The cluster of streets encroaching 
 on the episcopal preserves, and dating from but 
 a few years back, though already a lusty earnest 
 of the life to come, still left to Ely Place something 
 of its pleasant aspect of rural isolation. If the 
 palace no longer stood, as in Tudor times, in the 
 midst of " vineyards, meadows, kitchen-garden 
 and orchard," there was yet enough grass and 
 timber about its shorn splendours to dispute very 
 rustically the increasing impositions of the town. 
 Indeed, it resisted those so stubbornly that almost 
 into our own times there survived some fragments 
 of the ancient buildings, to testify to the enduring 
 nature of the struggle carried on in that district 
 between rus and urbs. 
 
 Grave, kindly, human if a little pompous, as 
 befitted his office Bishop Patrick stood well for 
 
 87
 
 88 THE FABULISTS 
 
 that period of moral transition when the Church, 
 free, and finally, from a degrading coercion, was 
 beginning to look to its own unfettered responsi- 
 bilities. He was a scrupulous pastor, a voluminous 
 pamphleteer, he loved nothing better than to meet 
 and defeat a waverer on his own grounds of schism. 
 And no doubt that weakness of his was well known 
 to an irreverent scamp who here appears upon the 
 scene. 
 
 The Bishop's coach, turning into Hatton Garden 
 one of the then newly constituted streets found 
 itself held up for a few minutes by the press of the 
 throng, and the Bishop, in order to ascertain the 
 cause of the stoppage, put his venerable head, 
 bonnetted in a wig like a fat puff-ball, out of the 
 window. Beyond the ordinary congestion of traffic 
 there appeared to be nothing to account for the 
 delay, unless it might be the local interest concen- 
 trated on a little group of men at altercation hard 
 by. These men were three in number, two of them 
 rough and illkempt fellows of a dubious aspect, 
 the third, of a disputative cast, being a rather 
 overdressed macaroni, displaying, through a wide- 
 flung waistcoat, a lavish bosom of lace, and wearing, 
 tilted back on his head, a rich three-cornered hat 
 with feathered edges. This was in fact, though 
 quite unknown to the Bishop, no less a person than 
 Mr. Joseph Haines, playwright and comedian, 
 one-time keeper of a droll-booth at Bartholomew 
 Fair, Pepys's " incomparable dancer," and in
 
 AN APOSTOLIC CATSPAW 89 
 
 general popular scapegrace and daredevil wag. 
 He was very red and voluble, appearing to expostu- 
 late with the others in a manner marked by much 
 vehement emphasis and gesticulation, while the 
 two stood stolidly listening but unconvinced. 
 
 " Bustle about, bustle about ! " cried the coach- 
 man from his box. " Way for his Lordship of 
 Ely there ! " " Way for his Lordship of Ely ! " 
 bawled the footman over the coach roof. 
 
 The voluble disputant turned sharply round, 
 took in the situation, re-faced his recalcitrants, 
 appeared to persuade them to something, and came 
 hurriedly towards the carriage, the others following 
 pretty closely at his heels. 
 
 " My lord," he said, putting his head in at the 
 window ; " my lord " in a confidential undertone. 
 " I presume upon your lordship's well-known 
 disposition to proffer a request. Here are two 
 poor fellows of my acquaintance, more waverers 
 than sinners, who are so tormented between truth 
 and disbelief, so torn by scruples and racked by 
 despair, that, if nothing intervenes, they are like 
 to make an end of themselves. I have wrestled 
 with them to no purpose ; but if your lord- 
 ship " 
 
 It was to touch the pious soul on his tenderest, 
 and perhaps vainest nerve. Certainly there seemed 
 something in the face addressed to him not all 
 compatible with the godly purposes the lips conveyed. 
 Yet who was he to judge of a Christian by his
 
 90 THE FABULISTS 
 
 exterior ? He looked very kindly towards the 
 two hovering in the background : 
 
 " Very well," he said, and called to the pair of 
 doubters : 
 
 " You men, come to me at ten o'clock to-morrow 
 morning and I will satisfy you." 
 
 The fellows pulled a forelock apiece to his lordship, 
 the coach rolled on, and Mr. Haines, turning trium- 
 phant, swept off his hat with ironical unction. 
 
 " You saw and heard, bully-huffs ? " said he. 
 " So God and my cousin quit ye" ; and with that he 
 swaggered away. 
 
 Punctual to their appointment, the men came 
 to be shown in to his lordship on the following day. 
 He had his pamphlets " Parable of the Pilgrim," 
 " The Friendly Debate " and another, on the table 
 before him. He was a busy man, and he lost no 
 time over preliminaries. " Now, my friends," 
 said he, " what are your difficulties, your scruples 
 of conscience ? State them as clearly and briefly 
 as you may." 
 
 The fellows gaped, and one of them pulled a paper 
 from his hat. 
 
 " Scruples be blowed ! " he said. " This here's 
 the writ, and this here the amount of debt and costs 
 suit of Sampson and Lilly that your lordship 
 engaged to pay on behalf of your cousin." 
 
 " My cousin ! " exclaimed the astounded Bishop : 
 " what cousin ? " 
 
 " What cousin ? " said the man. " Why Joe
 
 AN APOSTOLIC CATSPAW 91 
 
 Haines, to be sure him that we'd arrested yesterday 
 for a debt of twenty odd pound, when your lordship 
 came by and offered to settle the bill." 
 
 "7 offered?" 
 
 " Didn't your lordship say, ' Call to-morrow at 
 ten o'clock and I'll satisfy ye' ? " 
 
 " I never meant it not in that way ! " 
 
 " Zounds, then ! In what way ? Sure your 
 lordship's not going back on your word, and the 
 gentleman your own cousin ! " 
 
 "He is not. I don't know him from Adam. 
 I had never to my knowledge seen him in my life 
 before." 
 
 " Never seen him not Count Joe ? Phew ! " 
 The bailiffs bandogs in popular parlance looked 
 at one another in dismay. " Another of his tricks, 
 Jimmy," says one " He's been and sharped us 
 again." Then he turned on the cleric : " ' There's 
 my cousin/ he says to us ' the Bishop of Ely. Let 
 me but speak to him, and I lay he'll go bail for me.' ' 
 
 The Bishop's hand dropped rigid on the third 
 pamphlet lying before him " The Christian Sacri- 
 fice" it was entitled. 
 
 " Well," he said, with a sigh. " It is an un- 
 scrupulous rogue ; but if it appeared that my word 
 was pledged before witnesses sooner than inno- 
 cently propagate a scandal " 
 
 He rose, and went reluctantly towards a locked 
 armory in the wall.
 
 THE WHITE HARE 
 
 Raven Speaks 
 
 You know the Mendips or you don't know them 
 their beauty, their savagery, their wide-flung loneli- 
 ness sweeping miles down into the haunted valley 
 called the moors, where, in the moonlit nights, 
 strange craft come floating from Glastonbury on 
 mystic waters long since sunk and lost. There 
 may be trippers in this place and that to 
 vulgarise the brooding hours, and if you see with 
 their eyes you see nothing ; but they are local, 
 after all mere profaners of places already profaned 
 to show. One may leave them behind, to resettle 
 like flies disturbed from carrion, and, entering into 
 the fastnesses of the hills, forget them in a moment. 
 The place belongs to legend and the past ; it 
 murmurs with inarticulate voices, drums and 
 rustles under visionary footfalls. Once, long ago 
 there stood a little ruined church, difficult to strangars 
 to find, among the high, far thickets, and there 
 the dead lay tumbled and neglected, because 
 the building had been desecrated of old, and never 
 since reconsecrated ; so that it was avoided by 
 the people, and the fence surrounding the grave- 
 
 92
 
 THE WHITE HARE 93 
 
 yard rotted piecemeal and grew choked with fungus 
 and brier. 
 
 There was an evening when young Modred, 
 abroad with his gun, found himself benighted, a 
 little cold, but curious, near that thicket and 
 suddenly a white hare slipped from the palings, 
 and ran before him like a jumping snowball. He 
 fired on the instant, and could have sworn his 
 unerring eye had not failed him ; but the hare ran 
 on and melted, verily like snow, into the glooms. 
 He was startled, awed, but not to be browbeaten 
 by puss or devil. Another evening he sought the 
 place, sighted his quarry, and again failed inex- 
 plicably to bring her down. Then he remembered 
 white hare, white witch silver alone could prevail 
 against the cursed thing. On the third evening 
 therefore he loaded with a silver button from his 
 coat, a keepsake from his maiden love, and, biding 
 his time, let fly at the loping succuba. There was 
 a scream like a woman's and the hare sped on and 
 vanished. But she was hit at last. 
 
 The next day Modred learned that his love was 
 dead. She had taken down her father's gun, not 
 knowing it was loaded, to clean, and by some means 
 the charge had been exploded into her breast. 
 
 Hideous the tragedy ; hideous the moral to be 
 drawn from it. From that time the man went like 
 a mad thing, his heart broken, his soul an alien 
 from earth and heaven. That it should have been 
 she, and her gift to him her death ! But most he
 
 94 THE FABULISTS 
 
 raved against the cynic God, who might have ordered 
 things differently, but would have them thus and 
 thus to make sport for himself. 
 
 And then the dead girl's mother came to die ; 
 but she could not die ; and she screamed and 
 stormed on life to let her go ; but life held her still 
 fast in her agony. Then one day she sent for 
 Modred. 
 
 " Cut the cursed thing from my shoulder," she 
 said, " and let me pass." 
 
 " What thing ? " he asked stupefied. 
 
 " Your silver button," she said, " that mauled, 
 but could not end me. It has lain there ever since, 
 keeping me from the churchyard and my friends 
 the outlawed dead. I killed the innocent girl myself 
 to mislead you, and I bore the pain of this, until now 
 I cannot bear it. Cut it out." 
 
 Her shoulder was bare, and the button stood 
 under the skin of it like a little blue plum. Modred, 
 with a howl of fury, took it in his fingers and tore 
 it away. 
 
 At that the woman screeched and fell, and out 
 of the window leapt a white hare and vanished up 
 the hill.
 
 DEUS EX MACHINA 
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 " IT is simply amazing, "ejaculated Strype, lowering 
 his morning paper, like a window, for a breath of 
 fresh air " Sim-ply amazing ! " He was of a 
 gaunt, cavernous constitution, bony, prematurely 
 bald, and almost as fleshless as a ladder. 
 
 Pouncey, seated at the breakfast table, just 
 glanced at the speaker, and back to his scrambled 
 eggs. A cherubic man he, with a tiny mouth 
 which he fed lusciously, like a crab. This was at 
 Welcome's boarding-house, where the two were 
 long acquaintances. 
 
 " This ineradicable belief of man in his creative 
 power ! " continued Strype, desperately apostro- 
 phising space, his paper held down to his knees. 
 
 " I came across a lovely instance of that yester- 
 day," said Pouncey. 
 
 " Surely," said Strype, with a glassy eye fixed 
 on the invisible, " the world, until our incredible 
 age, has never known so preposterous a misuse of 
 a term." 
 
 " Don't let it affect your health," said Pouncey. 
 " What I was going to say "
 
 96 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " jfVo-creative, if you like," said Strype. " That 
 was a reasonable and sufficient word for our ancestors. 
 It is too impersonal for us too impersonal for these 
 days of individualism run mad when we confidently 
 discuss the origin of life, and challenge the Almighty 
 on his own ground." 
 
 " What I was going to say " 
 
 " We have dispensed, in our insane arrogance, 
 with the prefix altogether : we create. The poet 
 creates, the novelist creates, the artist, the modiste, 
 the actor he, of all performing apes, the most 
 imitative and insufferable." 
 
 " It was this way " 
 
 " Does any one of the gibbering maniacs who use 
 this term so loosely and so flagrantly consider for 
 a moment its meaning and significance ? To 
 create is to beget out of nothing." 
 
 " Well, that's to say an empty head ; and very 
 modest of the novelist to admit it. What I was 
 going to say " 
 
 " To create is the sole province of the One, of 
 the Omnipotent. It is a term single to Him and 
 totally inapplicable to any creature deriving, in 
 spirit and substance, from the work of His hands. 
 Put any one of you scientists, who talk so glibly 
 and so smugly of the near-discovered secret of the 
 principle of life, into an air-pump " 
 
 " There's not one of 'em would go in not even 
 
 into a vacuum-cleaner. But what I was going to 
 
 
 say
 
 DEUS EX MACHINA 97 
 
 " Let him create there. Let him first produce 
 out of Nothingness his life-jelly, or whatever 
 the precious rubbish is called, and then out of 
 Nothingness impregnate it. Stuff ! pernicious, 
 outrageous and impossible stuff ! He knows he 
 couldn't do it : he knows that every one of his 
 experiments is based upon given and existing facts, 
 and dependent upon certain laws of chemical 
 combinations, which he accepts as if he himself 
 originated them. Given your materials, you 
 can apply them ; but, if the faculty of creation 
 were man's, he should be able to produce actually 
 new materials, and not be dependent on those 
 to whose uses, or possible uses, he was born. His 
 capacity is not to create, but to discover to ring 
 some new change upon the myriad conceivable 
 changes that matter presents to him." 
 
 " Yes, that's true. But to mention my in- 
 stance " 
 
 " Your poet create your novelist bah ! He 
 takes what he finds about him, either in character, 
 nature, or idiosyncrasy there's plenty of choice 
 in a world where no two are, or ever have been, in 
 facsimile makes a blend after his individual taste, 
 and presents a figure. He has not created it : he 
 has produced a new result out of a novel combina- 
 tion, that is all. And as to your actor " Strype 
 lifted his Daily Mail in his left hand, and smacked 
 it violently with the knuckles of his right " Listen 
 to this, if you please : ' Mr. Lawrence Theobald, who 
 o
 
 98 THE FABULISTS 
 
 created the part of Dewbury in Playful Fanny' " 
 he paused, looking towards the other with a 
 grin of fury " Created ! " he whispered hoarsely 
 "created!" 
 
 " Of course," said Pouncey emolliently, helping 
 himself to marmalade, " your play : you wrote 
 it. It was you who created Dewbury." 
 
 " These fools would never admit it," said Strype. 
 " It is always the monkey actor who gets the credit 
 for the feat." 
 
 " I know. It's infamous. What I was going to 
 say " 
 
 " Well, what ? " 
 
 " Only a. propos what was it ? ' the ineradicable 
 belief of man in his creative power.' It extends, it 
 seems, to grocers. I found one out in it yester- 
 day." 
 
 " Found one out ? How do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, I was buying sardines, and a lady 
 came into the shop to give an order. ' By 
 the way,' said she, ' two of those eggs you 
 sent yesterday were bad.' ' Indeed, madam,' 
 answered the man ; ' then we'll make them 
 good. 1 " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " That's all." 
 
 " Have you really been interrupting me all this 
 
 time to " Strype got up, paused, looked as if 
 
 about to do something dangerous and stalked 
 rigidly out of the room. Pouncey, his eyes agape,
 
 DEUS EX MACHINA 99 
 
 his cheek bulged motionless on a piece of toast, 
 watched him go. 
 
 " I didn't know," he murmured, " I really didn't 
 know that when he talked about the Almighty he 
 meant himself."
 
 THE OPERATION 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 " THE question is," said Carleon, " whether the 
 absence of one or more senses in a subject is a sign 
 of that subject's mental deficiency or of his subnormal 
 intelligence. I will put it figuratively. Imagine 
 a living human entity submerged in fluid all but 
 its eyes it will see only ; release its nostrils it will 
 see and smell ; its ears it will see, smell and hear ; 
 its mouth it will see, smell, hear and taste. But 
 supposing, for some inexplicable reason, the process 
 of emergence never to have extended beyond its 
 eyes, or its nostrils, or its ears ; will, then, that 
 entity smell, hear and taste, or hear and taste, or 
 taste alone, subconsciously ? That is my point. 
 Because a sense or a faculty is wanting, does it 
 follow that that sense or faculty is not active in 
 the antecedent and subliminal state from which 
 it has failed to emerge and materialise ? In other 
 words, does not a blind man see sub-consciously, a 
 deaf man hear and speak sub-consciously ; and are 
 we not often inclined to regard such as ' wanting 
 when in fact it is ourselves who are the real defici- 
 ents ? Granting such to be the case, a blind man, 
 
 100
 
 THE OPERATION 101 
 
 or a deaf-mute, or one who is both, must be so infin- 
 itely our sensory superior as to be unintelligible to 
 us in his sensory manifestations, since those are re- 
 cording things unknown to us, while they themselves 
 are perhaps as much out of sympathy with his 
 positive and material senses as they are with all 
 ours." 
 
 " You mean, in short it amounts to it that the 
 sillier we appear, the wiser we may really be." 
 
 " I mean that marred or unperfected entities 
 may possibly have failed to make good their succes- 
 sion to certain material faculties, but that those 
 faculties may exist to them sub-consciously as 
 their finest possessions, and, in their self-manifes- 
 tations as such, may appear to us monstrous by 
 very reason of their subliminal perfection. Very 
 well : now imagine the case of a stone-blind person 
 unexpectedly given its sight ; what would be the 
 result as regarded the transformation of its vision 
 from a spiritual to a material standpoint ? " 
 
 " I haven't an idea." 
 
 " Well, I have ; and perhaps just that and no 
 more. I will tell you on what based. A great 
 many years ago I happened to be interested in a 
 case of ophthalmics at Minneapolis, Minnesota. The 
 patient, a prematurely aged woman, respectably 
 connected, had been blind from birth congenital 
 opacity of the membrane of both eyes. There was 
 a fellow there called Buckmaster, rabid on theories 
 of transfusion and transplantation, which were
 
 102 THE FABULISTS 
 
 going to revolutionise surgery and cut a way at 
 last into our long-suffered-for Millennium ; and this 
 chap got hold of the old lady and her responsible 
 relatives, and persuaded them all to the experiment 
 of trying the effect of ingrafting freshly-killed 
 rabbit's cornese on the sightless optics. They 
 agreed, and the operation was performed ; and sight, 
 for a quite appreciable time, was actually bestowed 
 on the patient." 
 
 " You don't mean it ! Well ? " 
 
 " Just so. The point was this. I knew something 
 of the ' case,' as, professionally, they dub the 
 subject of one. She was a harmless, gentle-minded 
 soul, who had always been regarded by her be- 
 longings as ' queer ' difficult to understand, and 
 prone to eccentricities of speech and act. A great 
 deal of her profitless time she had been wont to 
 devote to drawing with a pencil on paper things 
 and people familiar to her by touch, but quite 
 unrecognisable for themselves in her fantastic present- 
 ments of their features. To the unsophisticated folk 
 about her these curious concepts, designs I don't 
 know how to describe them had figured for the 
 very extremes of grotesque uncanny, almost inde- 
 cent ; for me, on the other hand, they possessed 
 a quite extraordinary attraction. I made great 
 friends with the old lady, and used to sit with her, 
 and ' draw ' her, in a different sense from the other. 
 I found, as I had suspected, that she was quite the 
 brightest and most intelligent spirit of her small
 
 THE OPERATION 103 
 
 circle ; only she had learned to hug her own in- 
 explicability as something it were fruitless, and a 
 little perilous, to air. Her drawings, she said, 
 represented the characters and objects about her as 
 she saw them. I found them what shall I say ? 
 geometrical rhapsodies, without visible relation to 
 realities, yet somehow intimately expressive of 
 reality's informing spirit. In then* labyrinthine 
 complexities there were motive, purpose, vision 
 and there was a marvellous beauty, whether of 
 symmetry or deformation, of love or horror. It is 
 all difficult to express. It was the sub-conscious 
 interpretation, the sub-conscious portrayal of mind 
 by mind. I tell you for a fact that, after a while, I 
 could identify the subjects of those apparently 
 meaningless scrawls and patternless patterns, and that 
 from a mere knowledge acquired of then* subjects' 
 inherent characteristics. It was a new language to 
 me, in which recognised form played no part, 
 and I learned, though imperfectly, to read it. 
 
 " Well, after the operation, her vision having 
 temporarily materialised out of the depths, a start- 
 ling change took place in my old lady. At first, 
 lying with bandaged eyes, she called for her usual 
 implements with which to while away the hours ; 
 but, lo and behold ! her strange faculty had deserted 
 her. Instead, her hand wandered into the feeblest, 
 most childlike caricatures of actualities the persons 
 of her friends, the face of her sister, and so forth 
 undistinguished, unremarkable things, suggesting
 
 104 THE FABULISTS 
 
 nothing but incompetence, but quite understandable 
 in the common view. 
 
 " And then one day she, whose eyes had never 
 looked on living form, saw for the first time and in 
 glimmering revelation, the face of her lifelong com- 
 panion ; and the shock killed her killed her with 
 sheer and actual horror. The reality the fantasy, 
 as we must call it, to her was so hideously remote 
 from the spiritual truth she had always been 
 accustomed to regard, and to trace as it were in 
 facsimile, with her sub-conscious hands." 
 
 " H'mph ! Then we are all really mad except 
 the mad ?" 
 
 " They would say so, anyhow ; and they very 
 often do. Certainly the young surgeon showed no 
 supreme intelligence in boasting transatlantic orig- 
 inality for an operation long known, and long ruled 
 out as profitless, by his European confreres."
 
 THE THING IN THE FOREST 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 INTO the snow-locked forests of Upper Hungary steal 
 wolves in winter ; but there is a footfall worse than 
 theirs to knock upon the heart of the lonely traveller. 
 
 One December evening Elspet, the young, newly- 
 wedded wife of the woodman Stefan, came hurrying 
 over the lower slopes of the White Mountains from the 
 town where she had been all day marketing. She 
 carried a basket with provisions on her arm ; her 
 plump cheeks were like a couple of cold apples ; 
 her breath spoke short, but more from nervousness 
 than exhaustion. It was nearing dusk, and she was 
 glad to see the little lonely church in the hollow 
 below, the hub, as it were, of many radiating paths 
 through the trees, one of which was the road to her 
 own warm cottage yet a half-mile away. 
 
 She paused a moment at the foot of the slope, 
 undecided about entering the little chill, silent 
 building and making her plea for protection to the 
 great battered stone image of Our Lady of Succour 
 which stood within by the confessional box ; but 
 the stillness and the growing darkness decided her, 
 and she went on. A spark of fire glowing through 
 
 105
 
 106 THE FABULISTS 
 
 the presbytery window seemed to repel rather than 
 attract her, and she was glad when the convolutions 
 of the path hid it from her sight. Being new to the 
 district, she had seen very little of Father Ruhl as 
 . yet, and somehow the penetrating knowledge and 
 burning eyes of the pastor made her feel uncomfort- 
 able. 
 
 The soft drift, the lane of tall, motionless pines, 
 stretched on in a quiet like death. Somewhere 
 the sun, like a dead fire, had fallen into opalescent 
 embers faintly luminous : they were enough only 
 to touch the shadows with a ghastlier pallor. It 
 was so still that the light crunch in the snow of the 
 girl's own footfalls trod on her heart like a dese- 
 cration. 
 
 Suddenly there was something near her that 
 had not been before. It had come like a shadow, 
 without more sound or warning. It was here 
 there, behind her. She turned, in mortal panic, 
 and saw a wolf. With a strangled cry and trem- 
 bling limbs she strove to hurry on her way ; and 
 always she knew, though there was no whisper of 
 pursuit, that the gliding shadow followed in her 
 wake. Desperate in her terror, she stopped once 
 more and faced it. 
 
 A wolf ! was it a wolf ? O who could doubt it ! 
 Yet the wild expression in those famished eyes, so 
 lost, so pitiful, so mingled of insatiable hunger and 
 human need ! Condemned, for its unspeakable sins, 
 to take this form with sunset, and so howl and snuffle
 
 THE THING IN THE FOREST 107 
 
 about the doors of men until the blessed day re- 
 leased it. A werewolf not a wolf. 
 
 That terrific realisation of the truth smote the 
 girl as with a knife out of darkness : for an instant 
 she came near fainting. And then a low moan 
 broke into her heart and flooded it with pity. So 
 lost, so infinitely hopeless. And so pitiful yes, in 
 spite of all, so pitiful. It had sinned, beyond any 
 sinning that her innocence knew or her experience 
 could gauge ; but she was a woman, very blest, very 
 happy, in her store of comforts and her surety of 
 love. She knew that it was forbidden to succour 
 these damned and nameless outcasts, to help or 
 sympathise with them in any way. But 
 
 There was good store of meat in her basket, and 
 who need ever know or tell ? With shaking hands 
 she found and threw a sop to the desolate brute 
 then, turning, sped upon her way. 
 
 But at home her secret sin stood up before her, 
 and, interposing between her husband and herself, 
 threw its shadow upon both their faces. What 
 had she dared what done ? By her own act 
 forfeited her birthright of innocence ; by her own 
 act placed herself in the power of the evil to which 
 she had ministered. All that night she lay in shame 
 and horror, and all the next day, until Stefan had 
 come about his dinner and gone again, she moved 
 in a dumb agony. Then, driven unendurably by 
 the memory of his troubled, bewildered face, as 
 twilight threatened she put on her cloak and went
 
 108 THE FABULISTS 
 
 down to the little church in the hollow to confess 
 her sin. 
 
 " Mother, forgive, and save me," she whispered, 
 as she passed the statue. 
 
 After ringing the bell for the confessor, she had 
 not knelt long at the confessional box in the dim 
 chapel, cold and empty as a waiting vault, when the 
 chancel rail clicked, and the footsteps of Father 
 Ruhl were heard rustling over the stones. He came, 
 he took his seat behind the grating ; and, with 
 many sighs and falterings, Elspet avowed her guilt. 
 And as, with bowed head, she ended, a strange 
 sound answered her it was like a little laugh, 
 and yet not so much like a laugh as a snarl. With 
 a shock as of death she raised her face. It 
 was Father Ruhl who sat there and yet it was not 
 Father Ruhl. In that time of twilight his face 
 was already changing, narrowing, becoming wolfish 
 the eyes rounded and the jaw slavered. She gasped, 
 and shrunk back ; and at that, barking and snapping 
 at the grating, with a wicked look he dropped 
 and she heard him coming. Sheer horror lent her 
 wings. With a scream she sprang to her feet and 
 fled. Her cloak caught in something there was a 
 wrench and crash and, like a flood, oblivion over- 
 swept her. 
 
 It was the old deaf and near senile sacristan who 
 found them lying there, the woman unhurt but 
 insensible, the priest crushed out of life by the fall 
 of the ancient statue, long tottering to its collapse.
 
 THE THING IN THE FOREST 109 
 
 She recovered, for her part : for his, no one knows 
 where he lies buried. But there were dark stories 
 of a baying pack that night, and of an empty, 
 bloodstained pavement when they came to seek it 
 for the body.
 
 THE GUNPOWDER SHIP 
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 SUPPOSING yourself to be cast away on a desert 
 island, with a choice of a single book for company, 
 what book would you choose ? The question, you 
 know, has been mooted. The Bible, says one, and 
 very resourcefully more than appears on the face 
 of it ; Shakespeare, says another ; a Scrap-book, 
 says a third (myself, I have written a little article 
 to explain why, which no editor will accept) ; a 
 Dictionary, decides a fourth. Well, for the sake 
 of illumination, I have opened each one of these at 
 random and taken from it the first phrase which 
 my eyes encountered, with the following result : 
 The Bible : "On that day the Lord magnified 
 Joshua in the sight of all Israel " ; Shakespeare : 
 " Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd ? " 
 The Scrap-book : " The Persians, as we are told 
 by Posidonius, chose their King by his quantity of 
 nose ... at the present day the form of 
 salutation universally used by educated persons is, 
 ' Is your nose very fat ? ' " ; The Dictionary : 
 " Levulose a sugar isomeric with dextrose, but 
 turning the plane of polarisation to the left." There 
 
 110
 
 THE GUNPOWDER SHIP 111 
 
 it is. Chambers's English Dictionary, at the very 
 top of page 529 ; there they all are ; only I am as 
 remote as ever from a decision. 
 
 But at least the last, if not instructive, is sug- 
 gestive. How many dictionary words are there 
 which are fain to interpret themselves through 
 inadequate alternatives ! Inadequate, because the 
 substitute is often no more than a compromise 
 with the truth frequently not even an actual shade 
 of the same colour. Take, for instance, a word on 
 the Levulose page Liberal. " Liberal," says the 
 Dictionary, is " becoming a gentleman ; generous- 
 minded ; candid ; free." Well, so I used to think, 
 for I was bred a Liberal. Only one's pause comes 
 with the next definition, " free from restraint." 
 There is the compromise, you see, which ex- 
 plains the value of dictionaries to politicians. To 
 be a Liberal is to be free from restraint to be 
 free, if you wish it, from the duties becoming a 
 gentleman. 
 
 And so with other words. Here, for example, 
 is " Folly," with its definitions, " silliness, or weak- 
 ness of mind." I reject them utterly. One may be 
 foolish without being weak, and indeed through 
 misapplied mental strength. Folly is a perverse 
 flying in the face of reason ; silliness is acting with- 
 out any reason at all ; the former is mostly an 
 exacerbating manifestation ; the latter often a 
 loveable. As a supreme example of the first I 
 should quote militant suffragettism ; the Irish
 
 112 THE FABULISTS 
 
 servant who, being prescribed Seidlitz powders, and 
 reading in the directions that she was to take one 
 blue and one white paper, obeyed literally, throwing 
 away the powders, may serve for an instance of the 
 second. It seems impossible, but it is true an 
 illustration of the silliness, with a half-grain of 
 intention in it, which conciously laughs at itself. 
 Or would appear to ? One doubts, but does not 
 know ; and that is the fun. 
 
 Hogarth's man sitting on the projecting signboard 
 which he is sawing away from under himself repre- 
 sents the silliness so silly as almost to achieve the 
 sublime. I know, nevertheless, by hearsay, of an 
 instance to equal it. It was told me or rather us, 
 for we were several together by Verity, who owns 
 a seven-ton yawl, The Flapper, in which he and 
 his friends have made some adventurous voyagings. 
 Here is his description : 
 
 " We were cruising in the Irish Channel, some- 
 where off Holyhead, when we sighted her at dawn. 
 It was a dirtyish morning, with an ash-coloured sea, 
 and the lid of the day just lifted to it like a dead eye. 
 And there against the white streak she drifted under 
 bare poles, and with every look of the abandoned 
 derelict about her. 
 
 " As we neared her we could make out her name 
 and character. She was a two-masted ketch, The 
 Ruby, hailing from Milford, and there was some- 
 thing odd about the look of her forward. Not a 
 soul appeared on board ; our hail remained un-
 
 THE GUNPOWDER SHIP 113 
 
 answered as we rounded under her stern and brought 
 up alongside. 
 
 " Reaching her deck, we saw what had been the 
 matter. She had been on fire ; the forecastle 
 was near burnt out ; the butt of the mainmast was 
 charred, and the gear and rigging hanging in black 
 cobwebs. It was evident that her crew had deserted 
 her. 
 
 " And then suddenly a sailor-man came out of 
 a little cabin aft. He had a sixpenny novel in his 
 hand. I can tell you its name " (Verity gave it). 
 " Do any of you know that picture of Millais', 
 ' Cymon and Iphigenia ? ' Well, he was the double 
 of that Cymon red-haired, gawky, a grinning, half- 
 satyrish loon tickled and abashed at once, through 
 the dawning consciousness of a soul within himself. 
 
 " We put a leading question or two which he 
 answered. The ship had caught fire from an 
 overturned stove, and the crew of seven, barring one, 
 had bolted, after a brief, ineffectual attempt to douse 
 the flames. Why so hurriedly ? Why, simply for 
 the reason that the ketch carried a cargo of twenty 
 tons of gunpowder in her hold. 
 
 " We tumbled into The Flapper without cere- 
 mony, carrying the castaway, rather against his 
 will, with us. We needn't be in such an incarnadined 
 hurry, he said : the fire was out long ago. Neverthe- 
 less we waited to put a mile or two between us and 
 The Ruby before we questioned the man again. 
 
 " Now this is offered merely as an illustration 
 
 H
 
 114 THE FABULISTS 
 
 of the silliness which verges on sublimity ; where- 
 fore I give no more than the sum of that inquisi- 
 tion. I wonder if you will believe it ? It was a 
 case of Cymon's soul-awakening, only per a sixpenny 
 novel in place of a nymph. He had brought the 
 treasure aboard from Britonferry, where he had 
 shipped, and, becoming absorbed in it to the 
 neglect of his duty, had had it confiscated by the 
 skipper at an intense moment. The fire gave him 
 his opportunity to retrieve his property ; he had 
 seized it, sat himself down in the captain's cabin, 
 and incontinently lost himself in the mystery now so 
 happily resumed at the very moment that his 
 panic-struck fellows above were lowering the boat 
 to escape. They went, without bothering about a 
 roll-call ! and he sat on tight, reading his book. 
 It was the chance of his life. And while he sat 
 the fire had burned itself out, quite naturally and 
 unharmfully ; and there he was ! " 
 
 Verity, I say, told this story to several of us ; 
 and one of us rose. 
 
 " What did you say was the title of that book,? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Verity told him. 
 
 " And you can say," responded the author of the 
 book itself, " that the man was a loon ! To me he 
 was the one of them all who showed real presence 
 of mind. The soul's awakening, in good sooth ! 
 He ought to be a critic. I shall send, by your leave, 
 that story to the papers."
 
 TO ANEMONES 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 I saw the moon in white Selene's form 
 
 Bathing her tired feet within a storm ; 
 
 And thick, next day, beneath where she had stood, 
 
 Pale shaken drops of windflower starred the wood. 
 
 115
 
 A MIRACLE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 THE Law, as represented by its executive, does not 
 concern itself much with the emotional side of 
 religion, save in its obstructive, or brawling, or 
 sacrilegeous aspects. I have a fancy, indeed, that 
 it never goes to church, in the sense that a master- 
 editor does not go to schools of journalism, of 
 whatever denomination, to learn his business, 
 that is to say ; but there I may be wrong. In any 
 case I never met, or heard of, but one policeman who 
 was converted out of the ranks by what he chose 
 to consider a miracle experienced by him in the 
 ordinary exercise of his duty. 
 
 He was a very commonplace policeman, too, 
 having black, rather pantomimic, side- whiskers and 
 a professional fixity of gaze. He had been in the 
 detective force at the time of his secession, and 
 was afterwards, to the date of his death, a valued and 
 influential visiting officer to a charitable Society, 
 largely devoting itself to the reclaiming of so-called 
 fallen women. He told me the story in a spasm of 
 confidence, induced by but all that it is essential 
 to relate here is the story. I will give it in, 
 ostensibly, his own words : 
 
 116
 
 A MIRACLE 117 
 
 " What I saw happen, sir, I saw happen with 
 these eyes, and there was another present to corrob- 
 orate their evidence. It was in a certain church in 
 London Roman Catholic I dare say you know it 
 by name. Some especial occasion had been bring- 
 ing crowds of visitors, and, as the congregation was 
 a fashionable and wealthy one, the offertory boxes 
 filled. I only mention that fact because it brought 
 me on to the scene through frequent robberies of 
 their contents. There was evidently some clever 
 thief about, and I was put on to watch. I was up 
 in the organ-gallery one dull afternoon plain 
 clothes, of course when the first and only reward of 
 my observation was granted me, and that in a differ- 
 ent direction from what I'd expected. From where 
 I sat I could pretty well rake the building, which 
 was empty at the time. It was a darkish place 
 gloomy you might call it ; and yet something 
 about it always gave me a queer sensation, friendly 
 in a way, and yet solemn. However much alone, 
 I never felt that I was alone there ; which may 
 have been due to that sense of the true Presence the 
 Romans believe in. Whatever many people believe 
 sort of gets into one's blood, I think, and makes 
 one anyhow for the time believe it too. 
 
 " Well, the Church was gloomy, and what made it 
 gloomier, though it sounds odd, was the lights. 
 Three little stars there were, twinkling before as 
 many altars ; but the brightest spot of all was what 
 they called the shrine of the Sacred Heart. That was
 
 118 THE FABULISTS 
 
 set against a pillar nigh the chancel, and it fair 
 blazed with candles. In the midst stood a painted 
 statue of the Virgin, carrying the Babe on her arm, 
 and between the extended hands of the infant was 
 held a silver heart, that shone and glittered like a 
 jewel. It all made such a fire in the emptiness did 
 that shrine that, what with the dusk and the hang- 
 ing incense, the place looked as if filled with the 
 smoke of it. 
 
 " Sudden, as I was watching, I heard a step below 
 and I saw that a woman had come in. She was a 
 low-class young woman, and I understood at once, 
 from the knowledge I'd gained, no Roman. She 
 never kneeled or crossed herself ; but she went 
 straight up to that shrine and she stood before it. 
 I heard her muttering ; and then in a moment she'd 
 stretched out her hands and there was the silver 
 heart gone. I can't say I saw her take it the 
 dazzle was in my eyes but I was as sure as sure, 
 as she turned, that it was gone and that she had 
 got it. 
 
 " She was out of the building before I could get 
 down ; but I was on her heels, soon as the sacristan 
 would let me. He had seen it, too, from the sacristy 
 door, and, being an old, palsied fellow, could do 
 nothing but gasp to me to follow. I did, and more 
 from luck than cleverness caught her and brought 
 her back. 
 
 " She showed some fight at first, but not long. 
 And then she took to pleading her kid was sick,
 
 A MIRACLE 119 
 
 and all that. She'd got the thing in one of them 
 cheap rush baskets, and I took the basket from her 
 and marched her in. The sacristan was waiting 
 us, all of a cold sweat, and ' Have you got it ? ' says 
 he. ' Now, then/ says I, holding up the basket. 
 ' What have you to say about what's in here, my 
 lady ? ' She shrugged her shoulders, and her breath 
 kind of caught. ' It was Mrs. O'Flynn told me to 
 come,' says she. ' She said if I awsked the bloomin' 
 himage for what I wanted, it'd be sure to give it me.' 
 ' O indeed ! ' says I. ' And so you asked and took the 
 silver heart.' ' No, I didn't,' she says. ' S'elp 
 me Gawd, I never touched it. I just held out 
 my 'ands, a-begging, as she'd told me, and there it 
 was.' 
 
 " I didn't laugh ; no self-respecting officer would ; 
 and, besides, the place was sacred. But I'd heard 
 enough. The poor critter stood sniffing and wiping 
 her eyes. ' You can put me in the jug/ she says ; 
 ' and then the bloody kid'll starve, and there'll 
 be an end of it/ ' What made you do it ? ' says I. 
 ' The doctor/ she answers. ' It was always jelly and 
 'ot-'ouse grapes with 'im the hon'y things what 
 'is pore stomach could stand. My Gawd grapes 
 for the likes o' we ! Tain't in reason, is it ? But 
 Mrs. O'Flynn she says, " Go and awsk the himage," 
 she says, " and if you say what for, bein' a Child 
 Hisself, his blessed little 'art will go out to you." ' " 
 
 " Plausible ? Well, sir, I'll tell you. She'd just 
 spoken, when the sacristan he gave a cry ; and I
 
 120 THE FABULISTS 
 
 followed the direction of his eyes and there was the 
 heart in its proper place between the little hands. 
 It must have been there all the time, and we two 
 blind fools, you'll say. But that isn't all. Listen to 
 this. As I stood gaping, the basket still held up, 
 something a knowledge, a weight, a fragrance 
 came upon me, and I looked. Yes, sir, it was full 
 to the brim- great clusters of them lovely, life- 
 bringing things. You may believe me or not as 
 you like. O no ! they hadn't been there from the 
 first ; you may take my professional word for that. 
 Life-giving, I say, and that's the truth. I could 
 point him out to you at this day a stout, hard- 
 working fellow, and his mother's blessing and 
 support. 
 
 " Why did I never testify ? Well, you see, 
 professional habits was against it ; and then my 
 other witness was no good senile, as they call it, 
 and not to be credited. But, for myself, nothing 
 will ever convince me that what I saw that day was 
 not a miracle."
 
 JOY-HOMICIDE 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 HIGH up in the building Valmy sat writing his weekly 
 " turnover " for a paper to which he contributed. 
 He had a good subject, "Joy-Homicide " (vide the 
 " Joy-rides " of transatlantic motor Thugs), suggested 
 by a recent crime, whose mystery and apparent 
 motivelessness appeared likely to place it within the 
 category, already uncomfortably extended, of 
 insoluble murder problems. An errand boy, of 
 thirteen or fourteen years of age, had been found 
 done to death on one of the seats of the Victoria 
 Embankment, his neck broken and his face smashed 
 to a pulp. The night preceding the discovery of 
 the body had been frosty and foggy, and no clue of 
 any sort existed. The boy had not been a good 
 boy ; he had played truant ; he had more than once 
 slept abroad : he became absolved, a piteous lamb, 
 an excusable wastrel, in the horrible tragedy of his 
 end. And there seemed no motive whatever for the 
 deed ; it was just for the time being a penniless waif, 
 worth nobody's evil attentions. One single piece de 
 conviction was alone to be sought a green leathern 
 watch-guard, with a silver token-pig attached, 
 
 121
 
 122 THE FABULISTS 
 
 which the mother swore to have seen on her boy 
 the day he left her for ever. It had a key at each end 
 for its sole safe-keeping ; and it had disappeared. 
 Scarcely an adequate instigation to a crime so 
 foul ; yet, such as it was, its tracing was the 
 only hope of the authorities. But it had not been 
 traced. 
 
 Valmy entered into his subject with relish ; and 
 also with some vague feeling of exultation. It was 
 not only that it was one which gave scope to his 
 enjoyingly analytical and inductive habit of mind ; 
 he thought what a gratifying thing it would be if 
 in the process of postulating his theories he should 
 actually hit upon the spoor of the criminal. He would 
 rejoice could he be instrumental in bringing that 
 scoundrel to justice, even though he could do no 
 more than adumbrate the type of mind to be sought 
 for in the connection of unprovoked homicide. It 
 was a beastly crime, under whatever impulse com- 
 mitted, and the kindly, shepherding instinct in him 
 craved for retaliation on the wolf who could so vent 
 his damnable ferocity on a weakling of the human 
 flock. 
 
 Killing for joy ! That was surely a suggestive 
 theme an unworked vein. And yet it was a quite 
 plausible hypothesis. For what bloodshed and self- 
 mutilations was not religious exaltation responsible ? 
 Excess of joy, like other excesses, was wont to 
 manifest itself grotesquely, indecently, indicating, 
 as it were, an over-oxygenised condition of the moral
 
 JOY-HOMICIDE 123 
 
 constitution. Women especially, when intensely 
 exhilarated, would do things, commit hilarious 
 violences, of which they were normally incapable 
 slap, rend, and shriek with laughter. It was the 
 joie de vivre, uncultivated and unrestrained, which 
 moved trippers of the hooligan type to the wanton 
 destruction of trees, turf, and so forth. But a 
 step further was needed, to find them smashing 
 heads and limbs in an uproarious self-abandon- 
 ment. 
 
 He dotted down a few such headings, prepara- 
 tory to elaborating them into a consecutive thesis. 
 He wrote with a certain difficulty ; his hands felt 
 a bit stiff from rheumatism or something had 
 been curiously so for days past. What a jerry- 
 built structure was a man, even one like himself 
 boasting great bones and muscles, always to be going 
 wrong in his joists and jambs, and ready to drop 
 to pieces if a brick fell out. He paused a moment, 
 stretched himself and yawned. Certainly his pro- 
 fession was a test of a man's full capacities at 
 least as he used it for his sins and virtues. It 
 served him for the enormous exercise of body and 
 intellect his sanity required. He might overdo the 
 thing at times did, he knew, taught by reactions, 
 exhaustions, periods of infernal apathy when he 
 seemed conscious of organic existence as only a 
 torturing immurement in matter. But generally 
 it satisfied the insatiable "go" in him, the crav- 
 ing for movement, variety, sensation, emotion all
 
 124 THE FABULISTS 
 
 things, in fact, which made life living and potential. 
 He was perpetually losing himself in the crowd of 
 his own interests, which was the blest and only 
 state for a soul of his overwhelming nervous virility. 
 Penalties ? Well, they were hardly worth con- 
 sidering in the sum of gratifications. He took up 
 his pen again. 
 
 Joy-homicide ! He could almost understand it 
 from a psychologic point of view. Men had died 
 from joy : why should they not kill from joy, since 
 joy was thus proved kin to death ? Better to kill 
 than, when lifted to the threshold of Nirvana, risk 
 the least recall from that moral supremity. The gods 
 were gods by sacrifice ; the lambs must die to vindi- 
 cate them. He thought suddenly of a picture which 
 had always appealed vividly to his imagination, 
 Titian's " Bacchus and Ariadne," the divine rapture, 
 with its madcap Satyr flourishing a ghastly severed 
 joint. There was the thing epitomised the de- 
 lirium, the ecstasy, the bloody holocaust. What 
 was it a limb of ? An innocent steer a once glad 
 young life ? Poor beast poor boy ! Joy ? Of 
 course, overprojected, it flashed into the opposite 
 pole of rage, bestial and insensate. He had known 
 it to do so in himself more than once, jarred by 
 some extrinsic influence in himself, a cultured and 
 reasonable creature. There must be something in 
 us all of epilepsy, that mysterious, undiagnosable 
 condition, with its mad ebullitions, its blank sta- 
 tionary intervals, its intensified emotions. One
 
 JOY-HOMICIDE 125 
 
 should be careful never to venture one's nerves 
 beyond the reasonable limits; never to over-step 
 the border-line between the normal and the for- 
 bidden. To do so meant strange lapses of memory, 
 strange things done and forgotten, but recorded in 
 secret places. 
 
 Those opposite poles the meeting of the extremes 
 in a flash and stunning shock. Joy transcendent it 
 might be evoked by any recent ecstasy love, 
 music, the soft intricacies of dancing feet. And yet 
 a sound, a touch, could shatter its perfection, like 
 a drop of grit falling on a lightly sailing bubble. A 
 cough, a sniff, often repeated, would be enough. 
 How he hated a sniffer ! 
 
 Valmy sat up abruptly, leaned back in his chair, 
 and felt instinctively for his handkerchief. It 
 was not in his pocket. Never mind ; there would 
 likely be one in the overcoat hanging on the door- 
 peg. He got up, lifting that shambling- jointed, 
 huge frame of his, as if it were a burden a little in 
 excess of his will-power, and walked to the door. 
 Feeling vainly in one pocket after the other, his 
 fingers caught in something which seemed to com- 
 municate a galvanic shock to their tips. One 
 moment he paused, then resolutely drew the thing 
 out. It was a green leathern watch-guard, 
 dangling a tiny silver pig, and carrying a key at 
 each end. 
 
 He may have stood a full minute, absolutely 
 motionless, his eyes fixed in an unwinking stare
 
 126 THE FABULISTS 
 
 upon the token in his hand. Then very softly he 
 dropped it and walked to the window. It was wide 
 open. Sixty feet below lay the pavement. He put 
 his hands above his head like a bather, and dived 
 out.
 
 THE LAST DROP 
 
 S carrot Speaks. 
 
 " THERE is a providence, we know," said the gaunt, 
 melancholy man, " that watches over drunkards. 
 There is another, or another side of the same, that 
 rejoices in a fool. The heavenly autocracies must 
 have their jesters, I suppose ; and that is the 
 reason. Anyhow, fools grow fat on sufferance where 
 wise men starve on esteem. That is so much a 
 truism as not to be worth the discussing. Look at 
 me" he revolved slowly before us : there couldn't 
 have been an interval of three inches between his 
 lower waistcoat buttons and the two on his coat- 
 tails behind "I have never said a foolish thing in 
 my life ; and what is the result ? You might pass 
 me through a mangle, and send me home with the 
 washing in mistake for my own pyjamas. 
 
 " Of all fools the verbal punster is the most 
 intolerable I was going to say god-forsaken, but that 
 would not be true. Still, it is possible even for him 
 to presume too far upon his favour in high places, as 
 was proved in the case of Futvoye. Futvoye went 
 one too many just that ; and there was no doubt 
 he had to suffer for it. He was not the first fool, 
 
 127
 
 128 THE FABULISTS 
 
 either, who has had to pay for a foolhardy utterance 
 with his life. I was present at the time, and it 
 was, of course, painful in a way ; but it was impos- 
 sible to deny the stern justice of the thing. If 
 there is such a recognised law as the lex talionis, 
 here was a case calling clearly for its application. 
 No smaller penalty would have been adequate to 
 the offence. 
 
 " But let me be sure that you realise Futvoye, his 
 execrable propensity. We went a walk together 
 once, and lunched, detestably, at a country pothouse, 
 ' The Cat and Fiddle ' or, as amended by Futvoye, 
 the ' Cat and Vile-inn ? ' You see ? If you do, 
 that one example will suffice. He was a stumpy, 
 rosy man, with little brown side-whiskers like 
 cutlets, and a small, moist mouth ; and after he had 
 said things like that he would sit staring at the table 
 before him, self-consciously waiting for what I may 
 call the laugh obligatory. In all my experience of 
 him and his kind, I have never known such idiot- 
 cies to evoke more, though often considerably less. 
 Yet Futvoye was not once discouraged by such 
 hollow and mechanic receptions of his buffooneries 
 from the practice of his particular vice. It seemed 
 as incurable as a stammer. I have known him, 
 sitting goggling with a smiling fixity of gaze at the 
 tablecloth, to insult a mixed company throughout 
 a two-hours dinner with a running, punning com- 
 mentary on the general conversation, under the 
 apparent impression that he was sustaining a
 
 THE LAST DROP 129 
 
 reputation for humour. And the least of casual forced 
 laughs had all the effect upon him of a triple encore. 
 
 " Understand, I mean that lowest form of pleas- 
 antry which consists in distorting words or phrases 
 into others of an approximate sound. There are 
 classical examples, of course, such as Lamb with 
 his Hannah More and his not ' Hany more ' ; but 
 it is not to be assumed that because a clever man 
 condescends once in a while to a verbal villainy, 
 many verbal villainies constitute a genius. Keats 
 made abominable puns ; but, if you would be a 
 poet like him, you need not seek to fortify your 
 Muse by punning. That was Futvoye's mistake 
 or curse. He was congenitally insusceptible to 
 ' season. 1 One of the signs of the born criminal, 
 they say, is an insensibility to influences of weather. 
 Days short or long, wet or fine, affect him only in 
 their material aspects : he is not morally happier 
 because the sun is shining, or depressed because 
 the sky is dull. So with Futvoye : all atmospheres 
 and seasons, however incongruous, were as one to 
 him in the exercise of his contemptible faculty : 
 he would have been as ready, so to speak, to crack 
 nuts in the stalls as in the sixpenny gallery. 
 
 " Well, it is the last drop, says the proverb, that 
 makes the cup run over ; and the time came when 
 Futvoye's cup was brimming, and the providence 
 that suffers fools gladly up to a certain point 
 could stand no more of him. And I, as I have before 
 stated, was present at the execution. 
 i
 
 180 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " We were talking together in Cranston's Saw- 
 Mills, the machinery of which I was inspecting 
 on behalf of the firm of engineers I represented. 
 They were situated in the very suburb where 
 Futvoye lived, and Futvoye, having encountered 
 me outside by chance had, quite unnecessarily, 
 accompanied me into the works, where, standing 
 by the big circular saw, he kept me fretting and 
 fuming over a silly description of a Shakespeare 
 Reading Society he had just joined, and one of whose 
 meetings he had attended. The play had been 
 " Macbeth," and presently I found myself asking 
 Futvoye what part he could have taken in it, as 
 there was no Fool. Futvoye was quite unabashed ; 
 nothing of that sort ever offended him in the least ; 
 but he winked an eye and answered : ' No ; so 
 they invented a part for me Macduffer ; and that 
 reminds me * 
 
 " There was a pause or a poise, I might say 
 that ominous steadying of the thunderbolt in the 
 hand of an over-tried deity. The moment had 
 come. Then : 
 
 " ' The witches,' purred the wretched man, 
 confiding it to the floor, ' shouldn't have said " All 
 hail" to Macbeth when they only meant him to 
 reign.' 
 
 " And so it fell." 
 
 " He was caught by the circular saw ? " we asked. 
 
 " Nothing so commonplace," answered the mel- 
 ancholy man. " Futvoye wasn't the least a fool
 
 THE LAST DROP 181 
 
 in practical matters. Those glassy eyes of his saw 
 a great deal more than they seemed to confess. No ; 
 the building in which the saw was situated was an 
 old, somewhat crazy one, and the vibration of the 
 machinery had for some time been impairing its 
 stability. It had a timber roof, and it happened 
 that at that instant a truss fell from it spang upon 
 the saw, was whirled round, and brained Futvoye 
 on the spot. He never spoke again the Lord 
 be praised."
 
 A MATCH 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 Minutest seed of fire, epitome 
 
 Of all that life was, is, can ever be ; 
 
 Wee cosmic germ, containing 'in thy womb 
 
 The whole of rapture and the whole of doom ; 
 
 Imprisoned spark, holding a sun in fee, 
 
 Tamed to a pipe, a lamp, yet, once broke free, 
 
 The world thou buildedst rushing to consume. 
 
 132
 
 SUB SPECIE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 Courage is a perverse quality. I think there are 
 no men actually fearless, and there is none actually 
 a coward ; but always the coward in one respect 
 has it in him to be the hero in another, and vice versa. 
 There was an individual once who, when volunteer 
 assistance was called for to man a lifeboat in a great 
 emergency, came forward and took an oar, and 
 acquitted himself heroically in the face of imminent 
 death. That person, some time afterwards, betrayed 
 the most abject cowardice in the matter of having 
 a tooth drawn. The incident was related to me 
 at first hand, and I thought of it on the occasion 
 when I was present at Carleon's hypnotising of 
 Thewlis. 
 
 Thewlis was an extreme example of the neurotic 
 physically no craven, while a prey to infinite qualms in 
 the abstract yet he unhesitatingly dared an ordeal 
 which nothing would have induced me to undergo. 
 For its purpose was no less than to unearth, by way 
 of the successive strata of sub-consciousness, the root 
 origin of his malady. He had an idea himself that 
 the process would prove terrifying ; he faced the 
 test unflinching, nevertheless. 
 
 133
 
 134 THE FABULISTS 
 
 The experiment was conducted at night in 
 Carleon's sitting-room a shabby, ill-furnished apart- 
 ment, but so acoustically arranged, like a torture- 
 chamber, as to consume all sound within itself. The 
 light from a single shaded lamp fell quietly upon 
 Thewlis's closed lids and upturned face, whose repose 
 for it appeared quite restful in that initiatory trance 
 gave its meanness an aspect of dignity which it was 
 far from possessing normally. Carleon, with his lank, 
 exhausted look and belying seer's vision, stood above, 
 debating, as it were, like a skilled operator, where 
 first to get his knife in. And at last he spoke : 
 
 " Do you know me, Thewlis ? " 
 
 " Yes, you are Carleon." The voice was 
 strangely still and toneless; but it was Thewlis's 
 voice without any question. 
 
 " Speak to him, will you ? " said Carleon, turning to 
 me. 
 
 Much against the grain I complied with : " Hullo, 
 Thewlis ! know me too ? " 
 
 Not a response of any sort ; not a flicker of 
 acknowledgment on the white, impassive face. It 
 was clear I did not exist for him. Carleon bent 
 towards the motionless figure. 
 
 " Who is that sitting near you to your left ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " It is Hendon." 
 
 " Yes, it is Hendon." 
 
 Carleon motioned to me to rise and walk apart, 
 a direction which I obeyed rebelliously.
 
 SUB SPECIE 135 
 
 " Go and shake hands with Hendon sitting in 
 that chair, and then return to your seat," said 
 Carleon to the figure. 
 
 Thewlis rose, made a step to the chair I had 
 vacated, went through the process of shaking 
 hands with its imaginary occupant (I observed 
 that his fingers actually remained unclosed in the 
 act, as though they grasped something tangible 
 between them), and reseated himself. Carleon, 
 with a gesture, bade me approach. 
 
 " Now speak to him again," he said to me. 
 
 " Hope I didn't hurt you, Thewlis," I said. " You 
 know I always forget your flabby paw." 
 
 Silence again ; no consciousness whatever, it 
 appeared, of my voice or presence. 
 
 " We are en rapport," said Carleon, addressing 
 me. " I only desired to convince you. He sees 
 nothing, feels nothing, but through this medium." 
 He tapped his own forehead ; then took Thewlis's 
 right arm, and held it out horizontally. " You 
 cannot lower that," he said. 
 
 " No," answered Thewlis. 
 
 " Bear on it," said Carleon to me, "and see if 
 you can force him." 
 
 I responded reluctantly. The arm remained 
 stiff, but a slight spasm of pain seemed to twitch 
 the features of the sleeper. 
 
 " Curse it ! " I muttered : " that was beastly." 
 
 " No, no," said Carleon. " Don't take it in 
 that spirit." He made a pass or two above
 
 136 THE FABULISTS 
 
 the face of the seated figure. " Now," he 
 said. 
 
 I bore on the arm again ; the only effect was 
 to lever the figure slightly forward. I quitted 
 my hold, and it returned to its former position. 
 But there was no least suggestion this time of 
 wincing. 
 
 " I have deepened the trance," said Carleon. 
 " He has sunk below the region of physical 
 sensation." 
 
 It was odd that he might talk to me freely about 
 Thewlis without eliciting any more comment from 
 him than my own words could evoke. He had 
 to switch on, as it were, the connection between 
 them to make a full circuit of the hypnotic current. 
 
 " Lower your arm," said Carleon ; and the arm 
 dropped and subsided. 
 
 Carleon dwelt a moment, considering, his long 
 fingers grating at his chin. 
 
 " Thewlis," he said, " do you hear me ?" 
 
 " Yes, I hear." 
 
 Something indescribably different in the tone 
 struck me. It was thicker adenoidy, if I might 
 so express it. 
 
 " Are you happy, Thewlis ? " 
 
 " No. I am very unhappy." 
 
 " Try to explain to me why." 
 
 " I am leading the double life a ghastly, whited 
 sepulchre ; a mask of hypocrisy veiling filth and 
 corruption."
 
 SUB SPECIE 187 
 
 I made a violent gesture of protest. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Carleon, his eyes alight. " Don't 
 be a fool, Hendon ; don't mistake me. He is 
 down in a former existence the one immediately 
 precedent. Didn't you hear his voice ? " 
 
 His hands were busy once more. I half started 
 to my feet. 
 
 " I have had enough of this," I said. " Set the 
 man free." 
 
 " No," said Carleon, " no. That spent fire 
 explains much, but not all. It is not quite the 
 demon we seek. We must go yet a stage lower." 
 
 Thewlis looked like death ; but it was useless 
 for me to protest. The operator knew what he was 
 about. 
 
 " Thewlis," he said suddenly ; " you are to 
 answer me." 
 
 He was answered and in such manner as to 
 make me leap and the hair prickle on my scalp. 
 A torrent of blasphemy and derision, uttered in a 
 shrill woman's voice, broke from the unsealed lips. 
 I cannot repeat it ; I cannot explain the inevitable 
 moral of ruin and degradation which it conveyed. 
 It all ended as abruptly as it had begun. 
 
 I looked aghast at Carleon ; he looked at me. 
 We were both silent. Then suddenly he cried 
 out, " Good God, Hendon ! Two generations 
 back Thewlis was a woman and that explains it 
 all ! "
 
 THE ACCIDENT 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 I HAD never been in the town before, he said, and 
 I have no desire to visit it again. It is the sort 
 of place that exists to be forgotten by the casual 
 stranger as soon as possible modern, tawdry, 
 commercial, having the stamp of municipal vulgarity 
 all over it. Its very ghosts are mechanic, as I 
 had the best reason for discovering poisonous, 
 petrol-animated things, that leave an exhaust of 
 oil fuel in their wake in lieu of the good old-fashioned 
 brimstone. 
 
 I came into this undesirable town at sunset, 
 after a long day's tramp. The outskirts of any 
 properly-constituted borough are commonly but 
 the uncommendable prelude to warmths and hospi- 
 talities mellowing as one advances : this seemed 
 all outskirts. To a dreary monotony of grey 
 brick, flaring pothouses, pinchbeck emporiums, 
 exhibiting, in dingily-lighted sections, parks of 
 cheap perambulators, rolls of linoleum and suites 
 of colourable furniture tart with French polish, 
 succeeded more grey brick only more pretentious, 
 flaunting gin-palaces, co-operative stores like bar- 
 
 138
 
 THE ACCIDENT 139 
 
 racks, and that was all not a crevice with so much 
 as a scrap of antique moss in it ; not a curio shop 
 in all the place. 
 
 Somewhere about the depressing midmost of 
 this town I struck a casual trail for bed and dinner. 
 There was an hotel, so-called, which suggested an 
 ostentatious mean between champagne and swipes, 
 and made no appeal either to my taste or my 
 pocket : my destiny gravitated towards a quieter 
 and more melancholy hostelry whose name caught 
 my eye at a point where the High street took a 
 sudden half-turn to the left, as if it shied from the 
 very neighbourhood of a thing so dull and joyless. 
 
 It was a dismal inn, there was no denying ; its 
 very name, " The Ark," suggested desolation, 
 a lonely stranding in the back-waters of life, its 
 use past, its custom staled. And yet it was obvi- 
 ously new, raw, a destined failure from its inception. 
 It stood spiritlessly aloof from the main stream of 
 traffic, blinking dim eyes at the throng that would 
 not be diverted its way a common thing, but 
 even tragic in its excommunication. I entered 
 through its dingy portals without fervour. 
 
 The coffee-room was of a piece with the rest, 
 long, gaunt and empty, its cruets tarnished, its 
 table-cloths, for all I knew, " filthy dowlas," its 
 knives and forks black-handled, the smoky, feature- 
 less wall paper blistered at the seams and peeling 
 from the corners. And the single waiter appeared 
 the right sexton for this mortuary an old-young,
 
 140 THE FABULISTS 
 
 unearthly-eyed creature of the resuscitated corpse 
 type, wax-faced and blue-chinned, apparelled in 
 the mouldy livery of festivity, as if he had been 
 erroneously buried after some debauch of second- 
 hand hope, and dug up at the last moment pre- 
 maturely aged and earth-stained. His very presence 
 imparted a funeral flavour to the baked meats 
 or to the meat, for there was but one, a cold, a 
 deathly cold, sirloin of beef. 
 
 The room was as quiet as a church at midnight. 
 In all its hollow emptiness, the shuffle of the waiter's 
 pulpy shoes, the soft intimate crunch of my own 
 jaws, were the only sounds to disturb the small 
 dust of its silence. I ate as noiselessly as possible, 
 yet my teeth seemed to snap like castanets. I 
 grew nervous, oppressed ; I longed for some other 
 sound, some cheery entry to break the intolerable 
 stillness of things ; it was like the proverbial hush 
 before the storm. And then quite suddenly I had 
 my wish. 
 
 The waiter was away at the sideboard, cutting 
 me a second helping ; I was aware of a quick stop 
 in his operations, of an odd little cough, of his 
 gaping furtively round at me, the carving knife and 
 fork poised in his hands. And then my ears were 
 pricking. 
 
 It was very small and remote at first, a mere 
 pattering throb, beating as if from a vast distance, 
 hardly to be associated with any definite cause. 
 But rapidly, as I listened, it grew, as it were, into
 
 THE ACCIDENT 141 
 
 focus, and was the detonating pulse of a motor- 
 cycle, flurried, mad, recording a speed which in 
 that time and place appeared nothing less than 
 insane. The thing, at the pace it was advancing, 
 must be past the windows in a moment ; involun- 
 tarily I held my breath, awaiting the approach, 
 the crashing diapason, the closing swell and the 
 subsequent receding into silence. It was near 
 within fifty yards : at the bend of the road it must 
 swerve to the left, giving " The Ark " a wide berth 
 I jumped to my feet, with a gasp, upsetting my 
 chair behind me. It had not taken the bend ; 
 it was coming straight on, through the wall, into 
 the room, right upon me, a rushing indefinite 
 shadow. There was a crash, one thin, agonised 
 scream, a slam of light like the flap of a great ghostly 
 wing 
 
 " Beef, sir," said the waiter. 
 
 He was standing there with the plate, waiting 
 placidly for me to resume my seat. 
 
 " God Almighty ! " I muttered, looking stupidly 
 down. Was I mad, over-tired, delirious ? He had 
 put the chair softly on its feet again, and mechani- 
 cally I dropped into it. I had taken up my knife 
 and fork, when I heard his whisper at my ear : " It's 
 all right, sir. Some will hear it, and some won't." 
 
 I clapped down the implements again and leaned 
 back. " Hear it ! " my voice was thick and 
 trembling. " It wasn't my fancy, then ? What 
 was it, in God's name ? "
 
 142 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " He ran away with her," he said, " just stopped at 
 the garden gate, and she jumped behind him pillion, 
 and off they went harum-scarum. Polly Truelove 
 was her name a handsome bit of flesh, I've been 
 told ; but the parents wouldn't permit it ; and so they 
 eloped together like that. It was neck or nothing ; 
 but the odds were against them ; the street was 
 too narrer, and what with dodging they had a 
 slip at the lamp-post, and crashed right into it." 
 He backed a step or two, and stamped with his 
 foot on the floor. " Here it stood," he said, " as 
 near as you might guess. They were both killed 
 on the spot smashed to a pudden ; and burnt, 
 too." 
 
 " Here ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the waiter ; " you see in them 
 days the High Street run straight through where 
 this house stands now. They deflected it when 
 they built the new Municipal Offices. Here on this 
 very spot stood the lamp-post. It's always on a 
 Friday it comes ; and some will hear it and some 
 won't. Sleeping in the house, sir ? " 
 
 " No," I said. " I'm not sure I'm sleeping 
 anywhere to-night."
 
 THE LOST PANACEA 
 
 Scarrott Speaks. 
 
 HE was standing near a modest headstone in the 
 graveyard surrounding the Ordnance Chapel on the 
 road to Plumpton. His left arm supported his 
 right, the nervous shabbily-gloved fingers of which 
 restlessly chafed his chin, while his frowning eyes 
 pondered the inscription on the stone. Instinctively 
 my own followed the direction of that concentrated 
 gaze : " William Trivett." they read : " ' Death 
 but entombs the body ; life the soul ' " very 
 fine and simple, but uninstnictive as regarded the 
 watcher's expression. The key, I thought, might 
 lie to his individual hand, since something seemed 
 to intimate that his presence in the dreary place 
 was associated with the very spot on which he stood. 
 As for myself, the mere accident of my waiting 
 for a friend, who was visiting in the neighbour- 
 hood, accounted for my idle happening among the 
 graves. 
 
 The aspect of the stranger was melancholy, his 
 pose tragic. I should have thought it, perhaps, 
 assumed for my benefit, had I not come upon him 
 already unconsciously committed to it. He had 
 
 143
 
 144 THE FABULISTS 
 
 taken off his hat, a mouldy " topper," which stood 
 among the lean grass by his side ; a gap of bony 
 wrist showed between his gloves and coat-cuffs ; 
 he might have been an undertaker's mute, acquiring 
 through a private study of epitaphs the right 
 mortuary expression. Certainly the place was well 
 situated for such suggestive meditations deadly 
 in its loneliness, in the drab and geometric inelegance 
 of its walls and buildings, in the lifeless marshes 
 upon which it neighboured, in the drifting smoke 
 of the arsenal town, a mile away, which hung over 
 it like a veritable pall. 
 
 I was moving on, when he seemed to see me for 
 the first time. I think I have never known eyes 
 more moving than the pathetic blue orbs he turned 
 on me. A whole life-story of visionary ineffective- 
 ness seemed to speak from them. They looked 
 blind from too much gazing on the sky. He greeted 
 me, as one stranger encountering another in some 
 desolate outpost of the world. " A peaceful spot, 
 sir." 
 
 " Peaceful m'yes," I acquiesced, but without 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 He smiled wearifully. " The very source and 
 springhead of peace," he said, " if you only knew. 
 It is the world's tragedy that it lies locked there, 
 beyond hope of release, for all eternity." 
 
 That was his strange, rather staggering introduc- 
 tion to a personal relation which it needed but a 
 small pressure of curiosity on my part to extract
 
 THE LOST PANACEA 145 
 
 from him. The following forms but a bare com- 
 pendium of the tale : 
 
 " What is war ? The disease of one brain and 
 the infection of many. It is a transmitted zymotic 
 fermentation, originating in the greed, or policy, 
 or inhumanity of a solitary entity, thence to multiply 
 itself, like the plague, and spread its devastation 
 abroad over continents. You may mostly, if you 
 take the trouble, trace its inception back to its 
 single propagator. 
 
 "It is singular that men fight to regain what 
 but for fighting they need never have lost peace. 
 It is singular, too, that having once lost peace, 
 they go the most unreasonable way about to find 
 it again. If I lost a friend on the slopes of an 
 active volcano, I should not go to seek him by way 
 of the crater ; yet that is what the pursuit of peace 
 through war means. 
 
 " The simplest way to keep the peace, one would 
 think, would be to deprive oneself of the means 
 to break it. Commonsense recognised that fact 
 when it discarded the ready rapier at its hip. So, 
 were civilisation and humanity to discard arma- 
 ments, there would be no temptation to war. 
 
 " That is the propaganda I have been one half 
 of my life preaching to ears of stone : the other 
 half I have devoted to what I may call the homeo 
 pathic alternative. If war must be, then give 
 them war in surplusage. 
 
 " What is war, again ? A wickedness, an abomina-
 
 146 THE FABULISTS 
 
 tion, a horror, quite unrealised by those who lightly 
 advocate it. Since these insensate hordes are deaf 
 to the pleas of prevention, there is nothing for it 
 but so to increase the abomination a thousandfold 
 as to make war no longer a moral possibility. That 
 is what, through long years of research, experiment 
 and minute chemical analysis, I at length came 
 within theoretic touch of doing. I discovered 
 a gas which, confined and discharged from even 
 an incredible distance, could lay out a whole army, 
 as dead as the host of Sennacherib. A world 
 depopulated rested on the touch of my finger ; 
 the secret of the great renunciation was mine." 
 
 " Was ? " I said, seeing he paused significantly. 
 
 "Was," he repeated solemnly, pointing to the 
 grave. ' ' It rests now, for all eternity, in his keeping. ' ' 
 
 " What rests ? " 
 
 " The chemical formula of my discovery the 
 prescription, I may call it, for ending that world 
 disease. On that last day of days, my awful pur- 
 pose vindicated and triumphant, I placed on record, 
 on a single sheet of parchment, the sum of my 
 minute investigations. It was the death-warrant, 
 did I choose to decree it, of mankind ; and, with 
 that terrific document in my hand, I went down 
 to the arsenal yonder to commit its charge to a 
 friend William Trivett. He was a foreman of 
 the castings, and I looked to his personal regard 
 and interest to procure me presently an opportunity 
 for having my invention tested. I sent in the
 
 THE LOST PANACEA 147 
 
 packet with a note, and he returned a message 
 to the effect that he could not attend to it at the 
 moment, but would see me later on. He received, 
 as I afterwards heard, that pregnant enclosure 
 with a good-humoured laugh, and thrust it into 
 his pocket with a jocose reference to my incurable 
 ' crankiness.' God help him ! It was the last 
 laugh he ever uttered." 
 " How was that ? " 
 
 " He was superintending at the moment, sir, 
 the raising from its mould of a huge ingot of steel. 
 It was a Saturday, near closing-time, and the gang 
 under him, impatient to get the job finished, started 
 the lifting gear prematurely. Some hitch occurred, 
 and William Trivett descended into the pit to 
 asceitain the cause. That, the next instant, became 
 only too apparent. The core of the ingot had not 
 been given time to harden, and, as the mass rose, 
 a flood of still molten metal rushed out into the 
 pit and overwhelmed and completely immured 
 my friend. 
 
 " It was brought here, and buried as it was." 
 " But you had kept a record of the formula ? " 
 " Not a note. I had not dared to duplicate so 
 awful a testament. And then a brain fever, the 
 result of such catastrophic events, came to blot 
 out from my mind the last detail of my discovery." 
 " You can remember nothing about it ? " 
 " Nothing, sir, except that it began with safety- 
 matches."
 
 THE LOST CHILD 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 AH ! he was lost, and cried and cried 
 
 A butterfly his path beset, 
 And all his gasping sobs were dried, 
 While still his eager feet he plied 
 
 To reach it caught in Daddy's net. 
 
 " Rare luck ! A prize, by Jove ! Hullo ! " 
 
 The gratified aurelian 
 
 Exclaimed : " Here's something fine to show 
 Mama. What's up ? I did not know 
 
 What had become of you, my man." 
 
 148
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 
 
 I. JAMES WEDMORE 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 ON the Steyning to Brighton Road, in the Rape 
 of Bramber, there stood some thirty years ago, 
 at about a mile distant from the former, a little 
 group of cottages, the easternmost of which had been, 
 until the general clearance in the late seventies, 
 a toll-house. It abutted on the highway, which 
 was here nothing less than the ancient Stane Street ; 
 and, with the exception of Downing's farm a quarter 
 of a mile beyond, was the last house out of Steyning 
 on the Lewes side. Somewhere midway between 
 it and the farm-gates a covered well, common to 
 all the cottages, stood off from the road. The water 
 in this well rose sufficiently high to be dipped for 
 with a bucket slung from a short rope. 
 
 At the time of which I write the ex-pike house 
 was inhabited by a married couple called Wedmore, 
 who had an only child James, a lad of fourteen. 
 The boy was an unsatisfactory boy, moody, idle, 
 and addicted, as they say in Sussex, to the sowing of 
 gape seed a loafer, in fact. Or, still dialectically 
 
 149
 
 150 THE FABULISTS 
 
 considered, he was " buddy " a stupid, dreamy 
 fellow who made nothing but discontent of his 
 lot in life, and yet had not the spirit or energy to 
 try to better it. And his parents, for all the poverty 
 of their circumstances perhaps because of it 
 spoilt him. It is a mistake to suppose that there 
 are no foolishly indulged children among the poor : 
 the pampered darling of the aristocrat is actually, on 
 the whole, a creature nearer fiction than your petted 
 James or Jamesina of the Wedmore type. And, 
 in this respect of fondness, the father, an honest 
 carter, or " wenman," in Downing's employ, was 
 every bit as much to blame as the mother. It 
 even gave him some secret gratification to think 
 that something in the boy held itself instinctively 
 superior to the drudgery and soilure which he had 
 never a thought to resent on his own account. So 
 might a mixen congratulate itself on the fastidious 
 aloofness of the lily which its richness had made 
 to grow so fine and tall up and away from it. 
 
 One bitter January evening John Wedmore, 
 the father, came driving a one-horse field roller 
 up the road from Steyning, whither it had been 
 sent for repair. A little beyond the village they 
 turned, all three, into a narrow lane, a mere cart- 
 track, which ran up near parallel with the turnpike 
 behind the group of cottages to Downing's stead- 
 ing some hundreds of yards beyond. Thence the 
 carter, having deposited his charge, made his way 
 back to his own home, which he entered through a
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 151 
 
 wicket in the garden hedge. He found his wife 
 preparing the tea ; but no son. Where was James ? 
 He had gone, it appeared, to fetch a bucket of 
 water from the well up the road ; it was twenty 
 minutes earlier, maybe, that his mother had 
 despatched him on the errand. She had called 
 to him that she was running in to see a sick neigh- 
 bour, and would be back almost as soon as he. 
 
 The boy, nevertheless, had not returned : he 
 did not return ; in fact, he was never from that 
 moment seen again. The father, becoming anxious, 
 went out to reconnoitre. It was a hard frost, and 
 a light fall of snow, now long ceased, in which the 
 track of the lad's footsteps was clearly impressed, 
 covered the ground. The marks, keeping well in 
 the open, proceeded from the cottage door some 
 half-way to the well, when they abruptly ceased. 
 There, at that point, stood the empty bucket, 
 upside down, and nothing whatever else. All 
 around stretched an unbroken surface of white. 
 The footprints, clearly defined, and all going one 
 way, just stopped there and were no more. 
 
 Bemused now, and thoroughly alarmed, John 
 Wedmore hurried purposelessly on to the well. 
 He found the water encrusted with a thick coating 
 of ice, which obviously had not been broken since 
 it formed. Nor could he distinguish the smallest 
 sign of anyone having been latterly in its neighbour- 
 hood. Twilight was closing in ; he hurried back, 
 utterly aghast, and procured assistance. For hours
 
 152 THE FABULISTS 
 
 thereafter, by starlight and lantern-light, the 
 search continued, but without result. The lad, it 
 seemed, reaching a certain point, had simply stopped 
 and disappeared. Apart from its tragedy, the thing 
 was weird beyond conception. 
 
 Now nothing is so certain as that there is a way, 
 if you can hit on it, out of every mortal conundrum. 
 Well, how would you have solved this, given the 
 errand, the snow, the solitary foot-tracks, and their 
 abrupt termination ? The boy was not in the well 
 or in the ground ; he was too far from the hedge 
 to have leapt into it from where he stood ; no sign 
 or trace of him was then or ever after discovered. 
 
 And yet he had disappeared on his own volition, 
 and with a very calculating eye to contingencies. 
 His purpose had been to vanish, and in such a way 
 as to baffle whatever immediate hue-and-cry might 
 ensue. And his method had been this. Turning 
 the bucket upside down, he had sat upon it, after 
 slipping his feet standing from their shoes, which 
 he had then resumed, only transposed as to right 
 and left and reversed as to position, his toes, that 
 is to say, going into the heels, and his heels over 
 the toes. Then, taking care to make no fresh 
 footmarks, he had managed to lace the shoes firmly 
 in place, and, treading in his own tracks, had 
 returned rapidly to the cottage. Thence, having 
 restored his shoes to their proper position, he 
 had run hastily down the little garden path, from 
 which he had earlier swept away the snow, swung
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 153 
 
 himself over the hedge by an apple-bough into the 
 lane before mentioned, and scuttled along it in the 
 Steyning direction, until the sound of the approach- 
 ing roller had sent him hiding behind a rick. The 
 danger past he had emerged, and, a little short of 
 Steyning, had struck across country in the direction 
 of Worthing, whence he had made his way along 
 the coast to Portsmouth. 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue his career further. 
 A combination of luck and cunning had enabled 
 him to accomplish what he did. His tell-tale 
 footmarks along the lane, which might conceivably 
 have given him away, were, by a cruel irony of fate, 
 unconsciously obliterated by his father himself 
 driving the roller over them. And by the next day 
 a thaw had set in, which finished the business. 
 
 Why had he planned the disappearance at all ? 
 An innate viciousness is the answer, culminating 
 in his robbery of his parents' hard-earned savings. 
 It was as a prematurely decayed reprobate, dodder- 
 ing on the brink of the grave, that he recalled to 
 certain ears that long-forgotten mystery, and 
 confessed with a chuckle the part he had played 
 in it.
 
 THE DARK COMPARTMENT 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 I REMEMBER once, when hunting for a seat in a 
 crowded train, finding unexpectedly an empty 
 compartment, the door of which, when I came to 
 try it, was locked. Holding on to the handle, I 
 looked about for the guard. At that moment 
 another hurrying passenger halted beside me, peered 
 over my shoulder into the carriage, and went quickly 
 away. Something in the man's manner striking 
 me, I also investigated, and saw that the floor 
 of the compartment was sprinkled thick with saw- 
 dust. Incontinently I let go the handle, and 
 hastened to find a seat elsewhere. 
 
 There cannot be many engines, after all, which 
 do not trail the ghosts of past tragedies in their 
 wake. That was an experience unforeseen enough 
 to give one a sharp little qualm ; but I would not 
 willingly exchange it for Manby's. In his case 
 but let him tell his own story : 
 
 " I had been visiting the old Hampshire Abbey 
 town, and a run thence of thirty minutes by rail 
 would take me to the next stopping-place on my 
 itinerary, where there were barracks, and a cathe- 
 dral, and a public school, and a gaol not to speak 
 
 154
 
 THE DARK COMPARTMENT 155 
 
 of cosy hotels. It was a dark November evening, 
 and soppingly wet, so that, dawdling over my tea- 
 board comforts at the inn, I came near in the end 
 to missing my train altogether. It was actually 
 starting when I gained the platform, and I had to 
 make a dash for it, and scramble into the first 
 compartment that offered. 
 
 " The light in the roof burned so dim that, what 
 with that and the momentary flurry of my entrance, 
 I did not recognise at once whether I were alone 
 or had broken into company. As my eyes, however, 
 accustomed themselves to the obscurity, I saw that 
 there were two men sitting together opposite me 
 at the further end of the compartment. 
 
 " The lamp, I say, was so down a mere night- 
 light in suggestion that it was difficult to dis- 
 tinguish the character of my travelling companions. 
 Moreover, as one of them seemed thickly bearded, 
 and the other wore a dark felt hat slouched over 
 his eyes, their faces, or the section of each of 
 them visible to me, appeared nothing but feature- 
 less white maps, hung up, as it were, in the gloom. 
 The two sat very quiet, close together, but without 
 exchanging the least communication that I could 
 see ; and presently, from under cover of my own 
 hat-brim, I took to scrutinising the silent shapes. 
 I was the more emboldened to that inquisition by 
 the utter indifference with which they had accepted 
 my abrupt invasion. They seemed now, even, 
 to be wholly unconscious of my presence.
 
 156 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " The deathliness of that disregard, rigid and 
 motionless; the huddled cohesion of the twin 
 shadows, with those blots of white representing their 
 faces, affected me strangely and uneasily after a 
 while. I wanted one or the other of them to stir, to 
 resolve himself into a detached human entity and 
 quite suddenly I had my wish. How it happened I 
 don't know ; but there came a sort of local shifting 
 of the gloom, a sense of a quick gleam in its midst, 
 and in that moment I understood. The man with 
 the slouched hat had handcuffs on his wrists, and 
 he was travelling in charge of a prison warder. 
 
 " And almost as I realised the truth the 
 prisoner began to speak : 
 
 " ' I'm sick ; I want air.' 
 
 " I say he spoke, and I might say the other 
 answered. A sense of those words, anyhow, 
 throbbed in my brain, and they had their instant 
 corollary in his rising and standing at the window 
 unopposed. I felt the rush of wet air, and saw the 
 wing-like filling of the dark Inverness cape he wore. 
 And then suddenly there was a tiny snap, and he 
 went out of the window like a flying crow. I saw 
 the warder snatch at him, and follow the way he had 
 gone, pulled off his feet by the wrench and jerk. 
 And there was I alone in the dark compartment, 
 with only the window guard, broken and bent 
 askew, to witness to the stunning tragedy which 
 had passed in a moment before my eyes. 
 
 " Even as I leapt to my feet I grasped what had
 
 THE DARK COMPARTMENT 157 
 
 happened. Under cover of his cloak, and the roar 
 of wheels and rain, the prisoner, though manacled, 
 had managed rapidly to file through the bar to 
 breaking point. 
 
 " I tore at the alarm communication cord, and 
 stood gasping and shaken. Almost against my 
 expectation, the train slowed down within a few 
 seconds and came to a stop. I put my head out 
 of the window on my side, and beckoned frantically 
 to the shape I saw beating towards me along the 
 blown track-side. The guard came below, looking 
 up with the staring, rather combative, expression of 
 the official summoned against his own better faith. 
 ' What is it ? ' 
 
 ' For God's sake, come here ! Two men have 
 just gone out of the window.' 
 
 " He climbed grudgingly to the footboard, and 
 so into the carriage. ' Yes, sir,' he said. ' Where 
 were they sitting ? ' 
 
 " His cool, incredulous tone maddened me. 
 
 ' There, by that open window,' I said. ' Isn't 
 it plain enough ? ' 
 
 " He crossed the carriage, pressed his hand on 
 the seat, turned to me again. ' That won't do. 
 No one's been sitting here. The cushion's cold. 
 Feel for yourself.' 
 
 " ' God in heaven, man ! ' I cried. ' Do you take 
 me to be mad or drunk ? They sat there, I tell 
 you a warder and his charge ; and the prisoner 
 stood up on some pretext and went clean out,
 
 158 THE FABULISTS 
 
 dragging the other after him. There's the broken 
 window rail to witness.' 
 
 " ' Is there ? ' He had had his back to it ; but 
 moved now, just glancing over his shoulder, so that 
 I might see. And there was the window-rail whole 
 and sound, and the window itself closed. 
 
 " Presently, after I don't know what brief interval, 
 I found myself giggling hysterically. 
 
 " ' Look here,' I said, ' I think I'll change my 
 carriage.' 
 
 " ' I would,' said the guard, ' if I were you.' 
 
 " Both his tone and his look were odd ; but he 
 formally took my name and address, with an inti- 
 mation that the minimum penalty was five pounds. 
 It was, on the face of it, a serious offence, you will 
 agree. Yet, curiously, I received no summons 
 from the company, or ever heard another word on 
 the matter."
 
 THE BLOODHOUND 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 His name was Faust, and he was only symbolically 
 a bloodhound. In actual truth he was, I think, 
 the mildest-natured dog of his length in England. 
 Also, saving viciousness, he had every vice which a 
 dog could have or almost. His habits, due, I 
 am sure, to an irreclaimably well-meaning and 
 somewhat pathetic opportunism, were deplorable : 
 he over-ate himself, with results similar to those 
 afflicting the infant in the melancholy Jacques's 
 soliloquy on the Seven Ages of Man ; he swarmed 
 with fleas ; he suffered from an eruptive mange, 
 and well, not to mince matters, from that which 
 is associated with the predatory instincts of the 
 early-rising bird ; he snored apoplectically the long 
 nights through. He was a humiliating coward, and, 
 did another dog approach him in the street, fell 
 over instantly, with a yelp, on his back, and lay 
 there, ungainly supine, until he was heaved or 
 kicked into something approaching a normal posture. 
 His eyes were sorrowfully houndish ; his ears, 
 deep and flapping, fell into his food ; on decent legs 
 he could even have been convincing ; but those 
 
 159
 
 160 THE FABULISTS 
 
 were nominal supports, mere rudimentary things, 
 like the first efforts of a tadpole towards froggish- 
 ness. Figuratively he might have been likened to 
 a huge black and tan German sausage on castors ; 
 it was a common infantine gibe to ask one if he had 
 been bought by the yard. In short he was a Dachs- 
 hund, and, with all his melancholy failings, be it 
 said, a pedigree dog of quite singular distinction. 
 His " points," I believe though I knew nothing 
 whatever about them were superlative. And that, 
 for a dog of his confiding and spiritless disposition, 
 proved his near undoing. If it had been otherwise, 
 the world, in the immortal Mr. Huttle's phrase, 
 would have had no use for him. 
 
 Faust was an affectionate charge from a friend 
 who had shut up house and gone, in a volunteering 
 capacity, to the wars never mind to what wars. 
 Of course, in our fond innocence, we undertook 
 the trust, pledging ourselves to be its loyal stewards. 
 He was sick on the brand-new drawing-room carpet 
 a delicate felt of an evasive blue the moment he 
 arrived, and the stain the first thing you encoun- 
 tered on entering the room proved indelible. 
 Thereafter followed the catalogue of distressful 
 discoveries, including not one virtue save attach- 
 ment. To me, personally, his devotion became 
 fulsome and insupportable. I could not go out but 
 he would follow me, though he dreaded the risks 
 and publicity of the streets ; he snored at my door ; 
 he artlessly made me his seeming confidant and
 
 THE BLOODHOUND 161 
 
 abettor in all the errors of conduct of which he was 
 persistently guilty ; he took punishment in a way to 
 make me feel an ashamed and ungrateful brute. I 
 grew to loathe him, and felt myself a beast for 
 doing so. Was he not in his wistful way vindicating 
 his master's complete belief in my affection and 
 humanity ? 
 
 And then one day he was stolen and I tried to 
 be sorry. 
 
 He was stolen there was no doubt about it. 
 There had latterly been an epidemic of such cases 
 in the district, and the police were definitely coming 
 to the conclusion that there were expert dog-stealers 
 about. We did all that was right, without undue 
 ofnciousness, even to the offer of a perhaps insuffi- 
 cient reward. If occasionally a twinge of guilty 
 uneasiness would seize us in the knowledge that the 
 war was threatening to draw to an end, we took refuge 
 in the thought that the executive, not ourselves, was 
 now responsible for Faust to Faust's owner. We 
 could do no more than await with trepidation 
 the chance of his restoration to us. But, like King 
 Philip, Faust persistently went, and never came. 
 
 One day, weeks later, I happened to be in a 
 " Picture-House." Amongst the scratch films ex- 
 hibiting was one of the Trooping of the Colours. 
 One saw the double line of spectators crowding 
 the Mall, and the sentries at regular intervals like 
 the posts of a fence. And then suddenly a dog 
 ran out into the road a Dachshund which, as his
 
 162 THE FABULISTS 
 
 master darted from the press to recover him, yelped 
 and rolled over on his back. Yelped, I say ; you 
 could somehow see it ; and I cried in my suffering 
 soul, " Faust ! " The figures of the little incident 
 were small and not near ; but the thing was plain 
 enough to make the people in the hall laugh. 
 
 But I did not laugh. I endured a long, silent 
 struggle with my conscience, and it was a bitter one ; 
 but in the end the honest steward prevailed, and I 
 went to Scotland Yard and reported. 
 
 The police acted promptly and efficiently. They 
 visited the Picture-House ; procured an enlarge- 
 ment of the tiny section of the film in question, and 
 showed me the result. It was shattering. The 
 dog-thief, as plainly revealed in the very act of 
 rescuing his property, was my friend himself, Faust's 
 owner. He had returned betimes, as I afterwards 
 discovered, from the seat of war, and, on his way to 
 us to reclaim his pet, had encountered the actual 
 thief escaping with his booty in tow. A brief, fierce 
 altercation had ended in the delinquent taking to 
 his heels, and leaving the beast in the hands of its 
 legitimate master. 
 
 I learned all that later, I say ; as also of the 
 impassable breach which our so-called broken trust 
 had effected between me and my friend. He had 
 abandoned then and there his intention of visiting 
 us, and had indignantly shaken the dust of our 
 very neighbourhood off his munition boots. 
 
 But at the moment I was concerned only with the
 
 THE BLOODHOUND 163 
 
 absurd fiasco of the thing as regarded the intelligent 
 action of the police. The inspector, however, took 
 my blushful apologies with unexpected good 
 humour with jocosity, even. He explained the 
 reason for his jubilation presently, with some official 
 reserve. A certain brute, accused of the foul 
 murder of a child, was at the moment awaiting his 
 trial in prison. Before the magistrate his defence 
 had been an alibi ; he had not, he declared, been in 
 London on the day in question, that of the Trooping 
 of the Colours ; and the prosecution could bring no 
 evidence to refute that assertion, confirmed by lying 
 witnesses. And here he was, gaping forward from 
 the group that watched Faust's master rescuing his 
 property. The film camera had betrayed him; 
 he stood quite prominent in the enlargement 
 squint and hare-lip and all ; the date had given him 
 away, and in the end the camera hanged him. 
 
 And that is how Faust earned his title to Blood- 
 hound.
 
 UNINSURED 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 Fame and heroic deeds, wealth and desire 
 Dreams I left, glowing in the unguarded fire, 
 To dream again ! A spark and lo ! in flame 
 The ashes of my fame I 
 
 164
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 
 
 II. ABEL KENT 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 SCATTERED at long intervals over the wild and 
 beautiful country which surrounds the confluence 
 of three counties, Gloucester, Hereford, and Mon- 
 mouth, exists a number of old houses granges, 
 fortified farms, and manor-seats many of which 
 are of Tudor origin, while not a few can claim for 
 themselves a considerably remoter antiquity. Of 
 these manors, Redmanshaugh is one not least entitled 
 to consideration, both for its aspect and its history, 
 with only a single detail of the latter of which, how- 
 ever, we need concern ourselves. It relates to the 
 capture and arrest, on the hearthstone of his own 
 great hall, of Sir Humphrey Landen, who in the 
 year 1807 was hanged at Hereford for the murder 
 of a Miss Boyd, of whom he was enamoured. 
 
 During the subsequent half-century the fortunes 
 of the Hall, beautiful example as it is of perpendicu- 
 lar architecture, remained chequered ; until, some 
 time in the sixties, we find it, in a state of con- 
 siderable disrepair, under the charge of caretakers, 
 
 165
 
 166 THE FABULISTS 
 
 a Mr. and Mrs. Kent, who were a very respectable 
 couple, but in impoverished circumstances. It 
 was here, nevertheless, that during the second year 
 of their occupation, they undertook the charge of 
 Abel Kent, who was the husband's brother, had 
 been a seaman, and was now a helpless paralytic. 
 
 Redmanshaugh stands in a very lonely position, 
 a little to the north of the Forest of Dean. It is a 
 massive, two-storied building, with heavily mullioned 
 windows, timbered ceilings, fantastic chimneys of 
 the Tudor era, and a labyrinth of rooms. Its out- 
 standing feature is the great hall, with its flagged 
 floor and mighty chimney-piece. This last, built 
 entirely of Caen stone, and curiously carved, rises to 
 the ceiling, and is fronted by a huge, semi-circular 
 hearthstone, suggesting the " D " in billiards in its 
 relation to the line of the room-end, and extended 
 to embrace the chimney jambs, which are both high 
 and wide. 
 
 On this hearthstone one still and sunny day Abel 
 Kent, the paralytic, had been put to sit in his 
 elbowed Windsor chair. He had always, in the un- 
 couth inarticulations which had come to stand him 
 for speech, shown his liking for the place, and, as it 
 was quiet and out of the way, it suited Mrs. Kent 
 very well to humour him in the matter. She had 
 brought him his dinner at mid-day on a tray, had 
 superintended his eating it, and afterwards, called 
 away suddenly by her husband who had returned 
 unexpectedly fiom work, had deposited the tray
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 167 
 
 hurriedly on the floor, and never thought of it again 
 until a couple of hours had elapsed, when she re- 
 membered, and returned to the hall to remove it. 
 It was not there ; the chair was not there ; the 
 invalid was not there. All three had disappeared : 
 the hearthstone, blank and empty, showed not a 
 sign of any recent occupation. 
 
 To incredulity, as may be imagined, succeeded 
 amazement, terror, finally hysteria. The woman, 
 after a rushing search, ran out to seek her husband. 
 He returned with her, and together they continued 
 the fruitless quest. Not a sign of Abel, his chair, 
 his dinner, was to be discovered anywhere. The 
 paralytic who could not walk, the palsied who could 
 not speak coherently had, it appeared, come sud- 
 denly to life, shouldered that contiguous furniture, 
 and departed with his burden into the unknown. 
 
 Or had he been kidnapped as he sat, and noiselessly 
 removed in some vehicle ? Surely a motiveless and 
 profitless abduction, and accomplished with in- 
 credible secrecy. Yet the wild forest was near, 
 with its rude, half-civilised population. That was 
 a speculative solution, which, in default of a more 
 plausible and of any proof whatsoever, might or 
 might not serve. The only certain thing was that 
 Abel had vanished. 
 
 The story became a story, to be included, as the 
 months went on, among the legends of the Hall. 
 Recovered from the first shock of the thing, Mrs. 
 Kent even acquired a placid taste for relating it to
 
 168 THE FABULISTS 
 
 chance visitors. It was already eighteen months 
 old when a certain antiquary heard it for the first 
 time from her lips, and became instantly and greedily 
 interested in the problem. 
 
 He was a little, spare man, this antiquary, with a 
 scrap of beard, a high, creaking voice, and red rims 
 to his eyes. He was also a past expert in latency, 
 ambuscade and everything pertaining to mysteries, 
 labyrinthine and arcane. During three successive 
 days he haunted the place of that disappearance, 
 and on the tfrrd he produced Abel. 
 
 Mrs. Kent was dusting in the room at the time, 
 with her back turned to the visitor. She heard 
 him squeak and leap back, switched round and 
 there was Abel sitting in the chair exactly as she 
 had left him, with the dinner-tray at his feet. Only 
 the scraps of cold meat were dust, and the body 
 itself a grinning mummy. She fainted, of course. 
 
 The stone, you see, which was in fact a complete 
 circle, the hearth its centre, revolved on a pivot, like 
 an engine turn-table, carrying with it the lower 
 halves of the two chimney jambs, whose reverses 
 were exact duplicates of their fronts. A half revo- 
 lution of the table would thus, you understand, 
 transpose the jambs, while leaving them in appear- 
 ance precisely as they were, and would convey, 
 through one of the openings caused by their dis- 
 placement, into a secret chamber situated in the 
 thick of the wall behind the fireplace, any object 
 happening to be deposited on the stone at the time.
 
 STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 169 
 
 Here was revealed, in fact, an ancient hiding-place 
 of a very cryptic and ingenious character. 
 
 How was the machinery which moved the table 
 set in motion ? Why, by dropping a leaden disc, 
 some two inches in diameter and six ounces in 
 weight, through a crack in the stone, cunningly 
 made to look accidental, a similar fissure, brought 
 into evidence by the half turn, on the opposite side, 
 enabling one to reverse the process ; while in the 
 chamber itself was a lever, which, acting inde- 
 pendently on the machinery, served any one 
 immured there for a means to escape. 
 
 But the machinery, rusting or stiffening from 
 disuse, had failed to act what time Sir Humphrey 
 Landen had sought that means to elude his pursuers, 
 with fatal results to himself. The necessary lubrica- 
 tion had been supplied by Abel Kent's dinner- 
 tray, from which a cruet of salad oil had toppled over 
 when Mrs. Kent had placed it hurriedly on the floor. 
 By an actual coincidence, the oil had flowed into 
 the crack, gradually eased the clogged parts, let 
 down the disc, and despatched the poor dumb and 
 helpless paralytic into his living tomb behind the 
 fireplace. 
 
 It was ghastly enough ; but let us hope the end 
 came quickly. Poking and prying, the antiquary 
 had solved the mystery. As an early example of the 
 slot machine, it all delighted him hugely ; but he had 
 the decency, before making a minute investigation 
 of the details, to summon assistance to Mrs. Kent.
 
 THE BLUE DRAGON 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 I RAN across Gilroy in Christie's show rooms one 
 view day before a sale of heterogeneous china. 
 That had been formerly a not uncommon encounter ; 
 but of late years the keen edge of Gilroy 's virtuosity 
 seemed to have dulled, and though, as I understood, 
 he still collected, friends spoke of an abatement of 
 enthusiasm in him, at least in a certain marked 
 direction. Rather to test that report than from any 
 desire to ask his opinion on a coveted object, I got 
 him to come and look at a Ming saucer, a green 
 dragon on a mustard-yellow ground, which stood 
 with other exhibits in a case in a corner of the room. 
 He acquiesced, though I thought unwillingly, and 
 stood a little aloof regarding the thing, but without 
 a sign of that minute particular interest he would once 
 have displayed in it. I fancied even I detected a 
 hint of repulsion, of contemptuous dislike in the 
 long, white face with its set, thin lips. And that 
 amused me and tickled my curiosity. 
 
 " Don't you take an interest any longer," I said, 
 " in Oriental ware ? " 
 
 He wore habitually gold pince-nez, with a broad 
 170
 
 THE BLUE DRAGON 171 
 
 black ribbon, and his eyes, naturally contracted, but 
 absurdly magnified by the lenses, now regarded me 
 with an exaggerated inquisition. 
 
 " Not much, to tell the truth. Why do you 
 ask ? " 
 
 " Why not ? You used to be an enthusiast." 
 
 " Eclectic, I flatter myself. I never specialised. 
 Old Bow and Chelsea are my present fancy. I'm not 
 a rich man, you know." 
 
 "I've known prices paid for Old Bow and 
 Chelsea." 
 
 " Not by this child. And they're so clean and 
 wholesome, innocent of the least hint of latency 
 Shamanism whatever you like to call it. There's 
 something rather bestially suggestive, to my mind, 
 in much Mongolian art a sort of pervading demon- 
 ism which infects even its representations of in- 
 animate objects." 
 
 I laughed. " But didn't Chelsea borrow some- 
 thing from the Orient ? " 
 
 " The innocent may touch pitch without being 
 defiled, the Apocrypha despite. Think of the baby 
 who shared his milk-sop, unharmed, with the 
 venomous serpent." 
 
 " Gilroy ; is it that you've had an experience ? " 
 
 He stood looking at me silently a moment ; and 
 then suddenly took my arm. 
 
 " Come into the open air," he said, " away from 
 that and I'll tell you. Yes, I've had a sort of 
 experience."
 
 172 THE FABULISTS 
 
 We went down the sunny Mall together, and he 
 spoke as follows : 
 
 " It was the last piece of Oriental ware I ever 
 bought, or shall buy ; and I picked it up at, of all 
 places in the world, a marine store-dealer's in Dept- 
 ford, a queer old cabin with a black rag doll hanging 
 over the doorway. How it, the thing, got there I 
 don't know ; probably brought by some Chinese 
 sailorman ; but anyhow I saw it, and bought it 
 for a trifle too a blue and white cylindrical brush- 
 pot, A Yung Ching period, about five inches high, 
 and closed with a wooden lid that fitted it like a 
 plug. There was a beastie, of the usual grotesque 
 type, painted on its side ; but I made no particular 
 examination of my ' find' until I got it home, when, 
 in the growing dusk, I sat me down before the fire and 
 took it from its paper. It was quite an acquisition at 
 the price ; but there seemed nothing remarkable 
 about it, unless, perhaps, in the anatomy of the 
 little sit-up monstrosity, dog or dragon or devil, 
 which struck me as unusual. The skeleton, in short, 
 or certain articulated indications of it, appeared 
 either on the outside of the animal like that of 
 Hartley Coleridge's imaginary chimera or showed 
 through it was impossible to tell which from the 
 inside, as if the thing had been X-rayed. Its jaw 
 was a compromise between a beak and a snout, and 
 its body displayed a pelt of fine long hair. 
 
 " Now I was moved to take the lid off, because, 
 oddly, there seemed a sort of faint shifting bias to the
 
 THE BLUE DRAGON 173 
 
 pot, as if it contained some small soft object. But 
 the lid would not be induced to move, and I could 
 get no purchase on its sloping edge. I grew im- 
 patient at last, and tried to lever it up with a pen- 
 knife ; when the thing happened that any ass might 
 have foreseen. There was a crack, and off flew the 
 lid, carrying with it a triangular wedge of china 
 from the lip. The ' piece/ from the virtuosic point of 
 view, was ruined. 
 
 " Utterly disgusted with myself, I threw the pot 
 into a soft easy chair close by, and damned to all 
 eternity the folly of the collector in investing his 
 capital in fragile articles which a misplaced touch 
 could render comparatively valueless. Then I 
 sat sulking and glowering into the fire, until its soft 
 reverberations, and the twilight stillness of the 
 room, began to weigh upon my lids and senses, and I 
 found myself nodding. I did not go to sleep ; but I 
 dozed ; and, as I dozed, a consciousness of intense 
 depression gradually came to overwhelm me. I 
 neither knew nor troubled about its cause or con- 
 stitution : it was there, and threatening swiftly to 
 master my power of resistance a sense of the weary 
 futility of life, and of a desire to end it. Death was 
 in my soul, a scarce resistible longing and at that 
 instant something tickled my ear. I put up my 
 hand impatiently to brush away the irritation ; and 
 felt nothing. But a second time it occurred, and my 
 fingers touched something pulpy and hairy, which 
 leaped from under them. I don't think I'm feminine
 
 174 THE FABULISTS 
 
 enough in general to scream at a mouse but a 
 mouse on one's neck ! I shot up into a sitting 
 posture ; and I'm not a self-destroying man and in 
 that moment I knew my own morbid folly. But I 
 was sickeningly scared shaking all over ; and I sat 
 staring about me. There was something going down 
 me at a soft, scrambling rush something that 
 traversed my leg and reached the carpet. A little 
 spurt of coal gas was momentarily illuminating the 
 room and I don't know what made me go for it 
 but I jumped and snatched up the Ching pot. And 
 there was nothing on it, not a sign of beast or paint- 
 ing, only the smooth white glaze. Nothing, I say ; 
 and why ? Because it was on the floor, blue and in 
 movement a tiny thing that ran round and round, 
 and then made for my leg as if to remount it and 
 reach what was in my hands. With a gasp I threw 
 the pot away from me into the easy chair ; and, as I 
 did so, the running thing seemed to make a spring 
 for it and disappear. I was sick, I tell you, but with 
 nerve to snatch up the wooden stopper and clap it in 
 place. And as I jammed it down, I saw the dragon 
 come out on the surface of the pot again as wicked 
 and fantastic as ever. That was the experience." 
 "H'm! What did you do with it ?" 
 " Why, I took it as it was, gripping on the lid like 
 death, and stopping the fracture with my thumb 
 (I could feel it there inside, nuzzling and palpitating 
 all the time), and, my landlady being out, put it 
 into the kitchen fire. There was an explosion that
 
 THE BLUE DRAGON 175 
 
 cracked the range a close one ; and for days 
 afterwards a horrible smell of burnt fur about the 
 house." 
 
 " Seems as if the beast appeared on the pot inside 
 out, and your taking off the lid pulled him right 
 way round again." 
 
 " Doesn't it ? " 
 
 " Well, I'm afraid, in spite of your experience, I 
 shall go for the Ming saucer." 
 
 " That's all right ; only no, it really wasn't an 
 Oriental variety of the blue crocodile and pink 
 oyster genus."
 
 PROVIDENCE 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 HAVE you ever heard of the Gorlestone Tunnel 
 murder ? Probably not, since it belongs to your 
 father's generation, and many more notable railway 
 mysteries have interposed themselves between then 
 and now. But of one thing I am quite certain, that 
 any shadowy recollection of it which may exist in 
 your minds will not be associated with the name of 
 Mr. Trillet Boomby. It could not fail to be, could it, 
 supposing that extraordinary name had figured in any 
 way in the case ? As a matter of fact, it did not : 
 at the same time, as a matter of fact, the case owed 
 its ultimate issue entirely to the unconscious inter- 
 vention of Mr. Trillet Boomby, always working, be 
 it understood, under Providence. 
 
 Now, circumstance is like an endless revolving 
 band, the world its fly-wheel, the driving force 
 somewhere up in the blue yonder. If you would 
 think to trace the genesis of any particular " provi- 
 dence," so called, by reversing the wheel and hunting 
 backwards, you would reach of course in time the 
 primal protoplast from which everything derives. 
 That is true enough ; still, in the case of these special 
 
 176
 
 PROVIDENCE 177 
 
 " providences," it is possible sometimes to detach and 
 isolate, for the purpose of proving and illustrating 
 them, a special group of coincidences, which date 
 from a more or less definite point in the train of 
 events. That point, to be sure, is an insecure one, 
 and of loose interpretation : you may trace back, 
 for instance, the fly that choked the pope to the 
 maggot that was the fly, to the carrion that bred 
 the maggot, to the huntsman who made the carrion ; 
 or you may continue, through the family history of 
 the huntsman himself, to the particular circumstances 
 which led him on a particular day to kill a particular 
 beast, which bred a particular insect, which a parti- 
 cular accident at a particular moment deposited 
 in the papal wine-cup. For all essential purposes, 
 however, we may elect to date Mr. Trillet Boomby's 
 association with the Gorlestone murder case from 
 the moment when he slipped on the pavement 
 outside the Lowther Arcade (it existed in those 
 days), and sat down rather hard. 
 
 There WAS a piece of orange-peel but let that pass. 
 The main point is that it was outside the Lowther 
 Arcade that Providence brought Mr. Boomby to 
 this abrupt stop. He got up, unnecessarily 
 ashamed it was no fault of his and instantly 
 sought refuge from his confusion in the Arcade 
 itself. It occurred to him to try to look natural, 
 so he pretended that he had come to buy a toy. 
 The pretence, as it happened, was both an inspiration 
 and a reproof, for he had actually been on his way, 
 
 M
 
 178 THE FABULISTS 
 
 when he collapsed, to Waterloo Station, thence to 
 journey on a week-end visit to the father of his god- 
 son, who lived a half-mile outside Swithunminster on 
 the Ramsley road. Some earnest of his spiritual 
 relationship would be expected of him by Johnny, 
 and undoubtedly not less by Johnny's parents on 
 Johnny's behalf. They were all very religious 
 people. 
 
 "Uncle" Trillet thought of a clockwork engine. 
 The stall at which he applied happened to be out of 
 the article. He thought, with diminishing in- 
 ventiveness and without success, of a few other 
 things. Finally, time pressing, he was inveigled by 
 the astute young lady into purchasing, what she had 
 mentally imposed upon him from the first, a flying 
 top the very latest thing in toys. You pressed a 
 grooved metal rod, or centre-bit, into a miniature 
 propeller, which, violently set revolving thereby, rose 
 into the air and whirred away in eccentric flight a 
 weapon of destruction to delight any boy. With the 
 packet under his arm, Mr. Trillet Boomby hurried off 
 to catch his train. 
 
 Now, I ask you to consider the absolute irrelation 
 of two nevertheless converging forces. I doubt if 
 Uncle Boomby, a kindly-natured man, had even read 
 about the Gorlestone case. Certainly it never for one 
 moment occurred to him, as he drove past the grim 
 prison on the Ramsley road, that lying immured 
 within its walls lay the young seaman convicted, 
 though on circumstantial evidence, of a very brutal
 
 PROVIDENCE 179 
 
 murder, and condemned to suffer for his crime on the 
 morrow. The visitor drove past and on, beaming 
 benevolence, and was only a little dashed, on reach- 
 ing his destination, to receive a message to the effect 
 that his host and hostess were temporarily called 
 away, but that Johnny would do the honours in 
 their absence. 
 
 Johnny, in fact, was nothing loth, and presently 
 godfather and godson were out in the garden, the 
 latter excitedly eager to test the new purchase. 
 Once, twice, thrice he essayed the trick, and on the 
 fourth attempt let fly with vigour. And at that 
 moment ! 
 
 At that moment the prisoner lay in his place, Mr. 
 Trillet Boomby stood in his, and a strong, thickset 
 man, carpet-bag in hand, was walking up the hill 
 from the station towards the prison. Dusk was 
 already falling, and ! 
 
 The propeller spun, rose, hovered a moment, and 
 whizzed away with a little buzzing song. It made 
 straight for the wall overlooking the road, and hit a 
 cat that was dozing on top (rotating and edge-on, it 
 had almost the cutting force of a knife). The cat, 
 bouncing up with a screech, and leaping anywhere, 
 landed full among a tray of plaster images an Italian 
 hawker was bearing past on his head below. The 
 Italian cursed and jumped, the tray, with its ruin of 
 casts, went crashing into the road, and so startled a 
 horse drawing a cart-full of washing that the beast 
 bolted incontinent, and went tearing down the hill,
 
 180 THE FABULISTS 
 
 leaving its pedestrian master gaping and hooting in 
 the rear. A little below the prison the cart smashed 
 on a lamp-post, and vomited its load all over a toiling 
 cyclist, who, being overturned from his machine, 
 was shot with considerable force into the middle of 
 the thickset man with the carpet-bag, who in his turn 
 went down with a broken thigh. And so the end, 
 prepared for outside the Lowther Arcade, was ful- 
 filled. 
 
 For the thickset man, do you see, was the public 
 executioner, arriving overnight in preparation for his 
 job ; and, since he was hors de combat, and no other 
 could be obtained immediately to fill his place, the 
 execution had to be postponed for twenty-four 
 hours, late during which interval, some startling 
 new evidence having come to light, a reprieve 
 arrived for the condemned man, who was ultimately 
 pronounced innocent and discharged. 
 
 So the gods will sometimes make a practical joke 
 of even their mercies, as the orange-peel witnesseth. 
 But to the day of his death Mr. Trillet Boomby 
 remained ignorant of the part he had played in 
 averting a tragedy. Indeed, certain ominous sounds 
 following the flight of the cat had made him rather 
 shy of revealing himself. And in any case there was 
 a second propeller in the box.
 
 THE BROKEN WINDOW 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 The keen glass cut his fingers red, 
 
 And he was scolded, left to smart. 
 
 O, broken pane by which he fled ! 
 O, little fingers, cold and dead, 
 
 Come back break everything but my heart 
 
 181
 
 A PATHETIC EXPIATION 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 GREAT families, through their monuments, often lend 
 to little churches a distinction they would otherwise 
 lack ; and so runs the world. There is such a little 
 church, a very little church, standing six miles due 
 north of Winton in a grassy field, with the prettiest 
 of gurgling brooks beyond. It is a quite incon- 
 siderable ark, stranded, on that musical waterside, 
 in a perfect green quiet. But within are antique 
 brasses, and early Norman sculptures, and tombs of 
 old local families more than you would guess. It is 
 those the casual visitor turns from the road to 
 inspect ; and mostly, likely enough, he has a vacant 
 eye for the poor scattered headstones he must pass 
 by to reach them. Yet among those unconsidered 
 stones is one at least embodying a story more human, 
 I think, than any recorded in those stately panoplies 
 of brass. On it are written the names of the small 
 Jemmy and his mother, Veronica. 
 
 These two, together with Jemmy the greater, 
 lived, when they lived, in a good county house in 
 the neighbourhood. Veronica had been married 
 for her looks, which were sweet, but she had not 
 much character to back them. She was rather of 
 
 182
 
 A PATHETIC EXPIATION 188 
 
 the Amelia type, born to be some tyrant's slave 
 and victim. No doubt pretty helplessness is 
 effective as a pre-matrimonial asset ; in the daily 
 domestic relations it may come, with the intolerant 
 sort of man, to prove a daily exasperation. 
 
 But there is no doubt about it that Jemmy senior 
 was a brute. Having wrung from his wife all that, 
 in his creed, was worth taking from her, the dis- 
 charmed residue became for him nothing but a 
 subject for contempt and oppression. That, had 
 Veronica possessed the least independence of will, 
 would have meant no more than the common 
 tragedy of disillusionment ; but she was a burr 
 of that constitution that clings the faster the more 
 ruthlessly it is sought to detach it, until it is rent 
 into pieces for its faith. So, in proportion as 
 Veronica clung to her tyrant, the more detestably 
 he used her. It is the way with such Vandals. 
 
 Women like this put a fanatic value on the out- 
 ward symbols of their estate. Perhaps it is not to be 
 wondered at, when we consider their otherwise un- 
 protected position. The ring is their justification for 
 all that they suffer meekly ; it is the pledge of that 
 which gave moral security to themselves, and to 
 their children legitimacy ; and they regard the 
 actual things as a sort of dividend warrant, to be 
 deprived of which would render their matrimonial 
 securities worthless. So, when one day Veronica 
 lost her wedding-ring, she felt as if the world had 
 crumbled about her feet.
 
 184 THE FABULISTS 
 
 Jemmy minor was the delinquent. He had 
 appropriated the little glistening hoop when his 
 mother was washing her hands after gardening, and, 
 slipping the thing unobserved on his own pudgy 
 but inadequate finger, had incontinently dropped 
 it off again somewhere. No doubt his immature 
 wits, his butterfly memory (he was only four) were 
 wholly unequal to the instant test of their capacities 
 that followed. The more he was questioned, the 
 more impossible became his answers ; tears, agita- 
 tion and distraction only confused the issue for him 
 and involved his babyish mind in increasing en- 
 tanglements. He recollected, vaguely, that he had 
 " lifted " the ring ; but whither, after the theft, he 
 had betaken himself with it, or when become 
 conscious of its absence, was a dark book to him. 
 He was a ubiquitous baby ; in fine weather here, 
 there and everywhere about the place. He simply, 
 could not " bremember " ; and there, it seemed, 
 was an end of it. 
 
 He was dreadfully distressed to see his little 
 mother so agonised and distraught. He did not 
 even resent the strange violence to which her first 
 frenzy subjected him. But he sought, full-throated, 
 to propitiate her, to expiate his naughtiness in love 
 and tears. And then he forgot, of course forgot 
 all about it ; and remorseful Veronica hated herself, 
 and went like a desperate thing without her ring. 
 
 It was an opportunity for Jemmy the brute. 
 He did not fail to take advantage of it, or of the poor
 
 A PATHETIC EXPIATION 185 
 
 creature's superstition. Lacking, he said, that 
 symbol of servitude, she was his wife no longer ; 
 her own criminal carelessness had reduced her to the 
 level of a kept a hatefully kept chattel. 
 
 And then one day the boy died. He was seized all 
 in a moment with croup, and paid out his last little 
 strangled breath before the nearest doctor could be 
 summoned. 
 
 Veronica did not go mad ; you must have a mind 
 to lose it, and she was simple. But she fell into a 
 long illness of apathy, from which she did not 
 arouse for many months. Then one day she turned 
 a jewelled ring on her wedding finger, so as to show 
 the plain gold band uppermost, and crept to visit 
 her darling's grave in the old churchyard. It was 
 already neglected and overgrown. The father had 
 felt the child's death as much as he could feel any- 
 thing, but selfishly, of course, and with rather an 
 increase than an amelioration of his feelings towards 
 the mother, now doubly disentitled. 
 
 The effort, the emotion, had exhausted Veronica ; 
 still she feebly tidied the green mound, dressing it 
 to what neatness she could contrive. There was 
 a little bunch of yellow ragwort sprouting among 
 the coarse grass, and she weeded it up with the 
 rest. And at once a thought came to her. She was 
 a country-bred girl, innocuously versed in simples, 
 and this weed was not ragwort to her, but St. 
 James wort, Jemmy's own name-flower. Perhaps 
 it had represented the conscious yearning of his
 
 186 THE FABULISTS 
 
 spirit towards hers it had blossomed just above 
 where his small hands would have lain crossed upon 
 his heart and was at once a lovely message and a 
 symbol. Shedding weak tears, Veronica made to 
 replant the rooted spray in its place, but paused in 
 the act. Would she ever, perhaps, in her state of 
 increasing lassitude, be capable of visiting the grave 
 again ? She would take the flower home and plant 
 it in her own window-box, where it would grow to 
 remind her perpetually of the tender thought which 
 had quickened it. Jemmy's own little loving offer- 
 ing sweetly contrived. 
 
 She obeyed her impulse, with some wonderful 
 sense, in the act, of a satisfaction other than her own. 
 The spray was planted in the box, in a wee hole 
 made with a stick-end, and flourished, and died 
 down in season, and in season appeared again above 
 the soil. And then a marvellous thing happened. 
 As the thick, swelling sprigs broke the ground, they 
 pushed up before them into the light a buried 
 wedding-ring, which a year before had been 
 thumbed down into the mould by a careless little 
 boy. It was Jemmy minor's expiation. 
 
 Even Jemmy major was startled and touched. 
 There is always a vein of superstition in the brutal. 
 The South African War was just at that time in its 
 opening phases, and he had joined a corps of yeo- 
 manry. He showed some repentance and kindness 
 towards his wife in the days before he sailed, and 
 afterwards, when a Boer bullet had disposed of him,
 
 A PATHETIC EXPIATION 187 
 
 she revered his memory proudly as that of a saint 
 and hero. I knew her as a quiet, colourless little 
 woman, unearthly big and shining about the eyes, 
 and with a habit of keeping her left hand ungloved, 
 and, as it were, on show.
 
 THE SHADOW-DANCE 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 " YES, it was a rum start," said the modish young 
 man. 
 
 He was a modern version of the crutch and tooth- 
 pick genus, a derivative from the " Gaiety boy " 
 of the Nellie Farren epoch, very spotless, very 
 superior, very fundamentally and combatively 
 simple. I don't know how he had found his way 
 into Carleon's rooms and our company, but Carleon 
 had a liking for odd characters. He was a collector, 
 as it were, of human pottery, and to the collector, as 
 we know, primitive examples are of especial interest. 
 
 The bait in this instance, I think, had been 
 Bridge, which, since some formal " Ducdame " must 
 serve for calling fools into a circle, was our common 
 pretext for assembling for an orgy of talk. We had 
 played, however, for insignificant stakes and, on the 
 whole, irreverently as regarded the sanctity of the 
 game ; and the young man was palpably bored. 
 He thought us, without question, outsiders, and not 
 altogether good form ; and it was even a relief to 
 him when the desultory play languished, and con- 
 versation became general in its place. 
 
 18?
 
 THE SHADOW-DANCE 189 
 
 Somebody I don't remember on what provoca- 
 tion had referred to the now historic affair of the 
 Hungarian Ballet, which, the rage in London for a 
 season, had voluntarily closed its own career a week 
 before the date advertised for its termination ; and 
 the modish young man, it appeared, was the only 
 one of us all who had happened to be present in 
 the theatre on the occasion of the final performance. 
 He told us so ; and added that " it was a rum start." 
 
 " The abrupt finish was due, of course," said 
 Carleon, bending forward, hectic, bright-eyed, and 
 hugging himself, as was his wont, " to Kaunitz's 
 death. She was the bright particular ' draw.' 
 It would have been nothing without her. Besides, 
 there was the tragedy. What was the ' rum 
 start'? Tell us." 
 
 " The way it ended that night," said the young 
 man. He was a little abashed by the sudden con- 
 centration of interest on himself ; but carried it 
 off with sang-froid. Only a slight flush of pink on 
 his youthful cheek, as he flicked the ash from his 
 cigarette with the delicate little finger of the hand 
 that held it, confessed to a certain uneasy self- 
 consciousness. 
 
 " I have heard something about it," said Carleon. 
 " Give us your version." 
 
 " I'm no hand at describing things," responded 
 the young man, committed and at bay ; " never 
 wrote a line of description in my life, nor wanted to. 
 It was the Shadow-Dance, you know the last thing
 
 190 THE FABULISTS 
 
 on the programme. I dare say some of you have 
 seen Kaunitz in it." 
 
 One or two of us had. It was incomparably 
 the most beautiful, the most mystic, idyll achieved 
 by even that superlative dancer ; a fantasia of 
 moonlight, supported by an ethereal, only half- 
 revealed, shimmer of attendant sylphids. 
 
 " Yes," said Carleon eagerly. 
 
 " Well, you know," said the young man, " there 
 is a sort of dance first, in and out of the shadows, 
 a mysterious, gossamery kind of business, with 
 nobody made out exactly, and the moon slowly 
 rising behind the trees. And then, suddenly, the 
 moon reaches a gap in the branches, and and it's 
 full moon, don't you know, a regular white blaze of 
 it, and all the shapes have vanished ; only you 
 sort of guess them, get a hint of their arms and 
 faces hiding behind the leaves and under the shrubs 
 and things. And that was the time when Kaunitz 
 ought to have come on." 
 
 " Didn't she come on ? " 
 
 " Not at first ; not when she ought to. There 
 was a devil of a pause, and you could see something 
 was wrong. And after a bit there was a sort of 
 rustle in the house, and people began to cough ; and 
 the music slipped round to the beginning again ; 
 and they danced it all over a second time, until it 
 came to the full moonlight and there she was this 
 time all right how, I don't know, for I hadn't 
 seen her enter."
 
 THE SHADOW-DANCE 191 
 
 " How did she dance when she did appear ? " 
 The young man blew the ash from his cigarette. 
 " Oh, I don't know ! " he said. 
 
 " You must know. Wasn't it something quite 
 out of the common ? You called it a rum start, 
 you remember." 
 
 " Well, if you insist upon it, it was the 
 most extraordinary thing I ever witnessed 
 more like what they describe the Pepper's Ghost 
 business than anything else I can think. She was 
 here, there, anywhere ; seemingly independent of 
 what d'ye call gravitation, you know ; she seemed 
 to jump and hang in the air before she came down. 
 And there was another thing. The idea was 
 to dance to her own shadow, you see follow it, 
 run away from it, flirt with it and it was the 
 business of the moon, or the limelight man, to keep 
 the shadow going." 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, there was no shadow not a sign of one." 
 
 " That may have been the limelight man's fault." 
 
 ' Very likely ; but I don't think so. There was 
 
 something odd about it all ; and most in the way 
 
 she went." 
 
 " How was that ? " 
 
 " Why, she just gave a spring, and was gone." 
 Carleon sank back, with a sigh as if of repletion, 
 and sat softly cracking his fingers together. 
 
 " Didn't you notice anything strange about the 
 house, the audience ? " he said " people crying
 
 192 THE FABULISTS 
 
 out ; girls crouching and hiding their faces, for 
 instance ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, now I think of it," answered the 
 modish youth. " I noticed, anyhow, that the 
 curtain came down with a bang, and that there 
 seemed a sort of general flurry and stampede of 
 things, both behind it and on our side." 
 
 " Well, as to that, it is a fact, though you may 
 not know it, that after that night the company abso- 
 lutely refused to complete its engagement on any 
 terms." 
 
 " I dare say. They had lost Kaunitz." 
 
 "To be sure they had. She was already lying 
 dead in her dressing-room when the Shadow-Dance 
 began." 
 
 " Not when it began ? " 
 
 " So, anyhow, it was whispered." 
 
 " O I say/' said the young man, looking rather 
 white ; " I'm not going to believe that, you know."
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 I HAD paid my sixpence at the little informal " box- 
 office," and received in exchange my printed permit 
 to visit the Castle. It was one of those lordly 
 " show-places" whose owners take a plain business 
 view of the attractions at their disposal, while 
 ostensibly exploiting them on behalf of this or that 
 charity. How the exclusive spirits of eld, re- 
 presented on their walls in the numerous pictured 
 forms they once inhabited, regard this converting of 
 their pride and panoply to practical ends, is a matter 
 for their descendants to judge ; but no doubt the 
 most of them owed, and still owe, a debt to humanity, 
 any liquidation of which in terms of charity would be 
 enough to reconcile them to the indignity of being 
 regarded like a waxworks. For my part, I am free to 
 confess that, did I see any profit in an ancestor, I 
 should apply it unequivocally to the charity that 
 begins at home. 
 
 I discovered, when I entered, quite a little party 
 waiting to be personally conducted round the rooms. 
 Obviously trippers of the most commonplace type 
 (and what was I better ?), they stood herded to- 
 
 N 193
 
 194 THE FABULISTS 
 
 gether in a sort of gelid ante-chamber, pending the 
 arrival of the housekeeper who was to act as cicerone. 
 A hovering menial, in the nature of a commission- 
 aire, had just disappeared in quest of the errant lady, 
 and for the moment we were left unshepherded. 
 
 Assuming the nonchalant air of a chance visitor of 
 distinction to whom palaces were familiar, I casually, 
 while sauntering aloof from it, took the measure of 
 my company. It was not in the least unusual or 
 interesting. It comprised a couple of rather sickly 
 ' gents ' of the haberdashery type ; two flat ladies in 
 pince-nez, patently in search of culture and instruc- 
 tion ; a huge German tourist, all bush and spectacles, 
 with a mighty sandwich-box slung over his shoulder, 
 and a voice of guttural ferocity ; an ample but 
 diffident matron, accompanied by a small youth in 
 clumping boots and a new ready-made Norfolk suit 
 a size too large for him, and, finally, a pair of tittering 
 hobble-skirted young ladies, of the class that parades 
 pavements arm-in-arm. All whispered in their 
 separate groups, each suspicious of the other, but 
 with voices universally hushed to the sacred solemn- 
 ity of the occasion. Only the German showed a 
 disposition to truculent neighbourliness, proffering 
 some advances to the hobble-skirted damsels, which 
 were first haughtily, and then gigglingly, ignored. 
 Whereat the flat ladies, though intellectually 
 addicted to his race, showed their sense of his un- 
 flattering preference by turning their backs on him. 
 
 The room in which we were delayed was the first
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 195 
 
 of a suite, and very chill and melancholy in its few 
 appointments. There were some arms, I remember, 
 on the walls, and a sprinkling of antlers of all mural 
 decorations the most petrifyingly depressing. They 
 offered no scope to my assumption of critical ease, 
 and conscious of an inquisition, a little derisive, 
 I thought, in its quality, on the part of the company 
 I was gravitating towards the general group, when 
 we were all galvanised into animation by hearing the 
 sound of a light, quick footfall approaching us from 
 the direction of the room we were about to traverse. 
 It tripped on, awaking innumerable small echoes in 
 its advance, and suddenly materialised before us in 
 the form of a very elegant gentleman, of young 
 middle-age and distinguished appearance. 
 
 " Permit me," he said, halting, hand on heart, with 
 an inimitable bow. " I make it my pleasure to 
 represent for the nonce the admirable but unctuous 
 Mrs. Somerset, our valued housekeeper, who is 
 unfortunately indisposed for the moment." 
 
 I could flatter myself at least that my manner had 
 so far impressed the party as to cause it to constitute 
 me by mute agreement its spokesman. I accepted, 
 as they all looked towards me, the compliment for 
 what it implied, though with a certain stiffness which 
 was due as much to surprise as to embarrassment. 
 For surely courtesy, in the person of this distinguished 
 stranger, was taking a course as unusual as the clothes 
 he inhabited were strange. They consisted of a 
 dark blue, swallow-tailed coat, with a high velvet
 
 196 THE FABULISTS 
 
 collar and brass buttons, a voluminous stock, a buff 
 waistcoat, and mouse-coloured tights, having a 
 bunch of seals pendent from their fob and ending 
 in smart pumps. His hair, ample and dusty golden, 
 was brushed high from his forehead in a sort of 
 ordered mane ; the face underneath was an ironically 
 handsome one, but so startlingly pale that the blue 
 eyes fixed in it suggested nothing so much as the 
 " antique jewels set in Parian marble stone " of a once 
 famous poem. He bowed again, and to me, accepting 
 the general verdict. 
 
 " It is most good of you," I said. " Of course, if 
 we had known, if we had had any idea " 
 
 He interrupted me, I thought, with a little im- 
 patience : 
 
 " Not at all. It is, as I informed you, a pleasure 
 a rare opportunity. I fancy I may promise you a 
 fuller approximation to the truth, regarding certain 
 of our family traditions, than you would ever be 
 likely to attain through the lips of the meritorious 
 but diplomatic Somerset." 
 
 He turned, inviting us, with an incomparable 
 gesture, into the next room. He was certainly an 
 anachronism, a marvel ; yet I was willing to admit 
 to myself that eccentrics, sartorial and otherwise, 
 were not confined to the inner circle of society. As to 
 the others, I perceived that they were self-defensively 
 prepared to accept this oddity as part of the mysteri- 
 ous ritual appertaining to the sacred obscurities of 
 the life patrician.
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 197 
 
 "The first two rooms," said our guide, halting us 
 on the threshold, " are, as you will perceive, appro- 
 priated to family portraits. The little furniture 
 that remains is inconsiderable and baroque. It is 
 what survives from the time of the fourth marquis. 
 We observe his portrait here" (he signified a canvas 
 on the wall, representing a dull, arrogant-looking old 
 gentleman in an embroidered coat and a bob-wig), 
 " and can readily associate with it the tasteless 
 ostentation which characterised his reign. He was 
 really what we should call now a complete aristo- 
 cratic bounder." 
 
 His tone suggested a mixture of flippancy and 
 malice, which was none the less emphatic because 
 his voice was a peculiarly soft and secret one. 
 Somehow, hearing it, I thought of slanders sniggered 
 from behind a covering hand. The young ladies 
 tittered, as if a little shamefaced and uneasy, 
 drawing his attention to them. He was obviously 
 attracted at once. Their smart modernity, piquant 
 in its way, proved a charm to him that he made no 
 pretence of discounting. He addressed himself 
 instantly to the two : 
 
 " Sacred truth, ladies, upon my honour. He was 
 a ' throw-back,' as we say of dogs. The mark of the 
 prosperous cheesemonger was all over him." 
 
 " Ach ! " said the German, vibratingly asserting 
 himself, " a dror-back ? Vot is dart ? " 
 
 " A Teutonic reaction," said the stranger, taking 
 the speaker's measure insolently, with his chin a
 
 198 THE FABULISTS 
 
 little lifted, and his eyes narrowed ; "or rather a 
 recrudescence of barbarism in a race or line that has 
 emerged from it. Your countrymen, from what I 
 hear, should afford many illustrations of the process." 
 
 The flat ladies exchanged a little scornful laugh, 
 which they repeated less disguisedly as the German 
 responded : " I do not ondorrstand." 
 
 The common little boy, holding to his mother's 
 skirts, urged her on to the next picture, a full-length 
 portrait of a grim Elizabethan warrior in armour. 
 
 " Look at his long sword, mothre ! " he whispered. 
 
 " He didn't wear corsets not much," said one of 
 the haberdashery youths facetiously, in an audible 
 voice to the other ; and the nearest spinster, with a 
 sidelong stare of indignation at him, edged away. 
 
 " A crusader ? " said the second flat lady, as if 
 putting it to herself. " I wonder, now." 
 
 The stranger smiled ironically to the hobble- 
 skirts, one of whom was emboldened to ask him : 
 " Was he one of the family, sir ? " 
 
 " By Heraldry out of Wardour Street," answered 
 our guide. " Very dark horses, both of them." 
 And then he added, going a few steps : " You do us 
 too much honour, sweet charmer positively you 
 do." He tapped the portrait of a ponderous 
 patrician : " The first marquis," he said, " created 
 in 1784 out of nothing. The King represented the 
 Almighty in that stupendous achievement. God save 
 the King!" 
 
 " Let's go, mothre," whispered the small common
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 199 
 
 boy, pressing suddenly against the ample skirts. 
 " I don't like it." 
 
 " Hush, 'Enery dear," she returned, in a whispered 
 panic. " There ain't nothing to be afraid of." 
 
 " Wasn't there none of you before that, sir ? " 
 asked the second haberdashery youth." 
 
 The stranger sniggered. 
 
 " I'll let you all into a little secret," he said 
 confidentially. " The antiquity of the family, 
 despite our ingenious Mrs. Somerset, is mere hocus- 
 pocus. The first marquis's grandfather was a 
 Huntingdonshire dairy-farmer, who amassed a con- 
 siderable fortune over cheeses. He came to London, 
 speculated in South Sea stock, and sold out at top 
 prices just before the crash. We don't like it talked 
 about, you know ; but it was his grandson who was 
 the real founder of the house. He-was in the New- 
 castle administration of '57, and was ennobled for 
 the owlish part he took in opposing the reconquest of 
 India under Give. And, after that, the more fat- 
 headed he became, the higher they foisted him to 
 get him out of the way. Fact, I assure you. Our 
 crest should be by rights a Stilton rampant, our 
 arms a cheese-scoop, silver on a trencher powdered 
 mites, and our motto, in your own admirable 
 vernacular, ' Ain't I the cheese ! ' 
 
 The young ladies tittered, sharing a little protest- 
 ing wriggle between them. Then one urged the 
 other, who responded sotto wee : " Ask him your- 
 self, stupid."
 
 200 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " Charmed," said the stranger. " Those roguish 
 lips have only to command." 
 
 " We only wanted to know," said number two 
 blushfully, " which is the wicked lord don't push 
 so, Dolly ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " The stranger showed his teeth in a 
 stiffly-creased smile, and shook a long forefinger 
 remonstrantly at the speaker. " You have been 
 studying that outrageous guide-book, I perceive. 
 What is the passage eh ? ' Reputed to have been 
 painted by a mysterious travelling artist of sinister 
 appearance, who, being invited in one night to play 
 with his lordship, subsequently liquidated the debt 
 he incurred by painting his host's portrait.' ' 
 
 He turned on his heel and pointed into the next 
 room. Full in our view opposite the door appeared 
 a glazed frame, but black and empty in seeming 
 an effect I supposed to be due to the refraction of 
 light upon its surface. 
 
 " A most calumniated individual," he protested, 
 wheeling round again. " There is his place ; we 
 shall come to it presently ; but only, I regret, to 
 find it vacant. A matter of restoration, you see, 
 and much to be deplored at the moment. I should 
 have liked to challenge your verdict, face to face with 
 him. These libels die hard and when given the 
 authority of a guide-book ! Take my word for it, he 
 was a most estimable creature, morally worth dozens 
 of the sanctimonious humbugs glorified in the 
 Somerset hagiology. Pah ! I am weary, I tell you,
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 201 
 
 of hearing their false virtues extolled. But wait a 
 minute, and you shall learn. The ' wicked lord,' 
 young misses ? And so he is the flattered siderite 
 of your regard. Well, it is well to be sought by such 
 eyes on any count ; but I think his would win your 
 leniency. Only excess of love proved his undoing ; 
 and I am sure you would not consider that a crime." 
 
 We were all struck a little dumb, I think, by this 
 outburst. The two girls had linked together again, 
 both silent and somewhat white ; the gaunt spinsters, 
 rigid and upright, exchanged petrified glances ; the 
 fat woman was mopping her face, a tremulous sigh 
 fluttering the hem of her handkerchief ; the two 
 young shopmen dwelt slack-jawed ; even the German 
 tourist, glaring through his spectacles, shook a little 
 in his breathing, as if a sudden asthma had caught 
 him. But our host, a,s though unconscious of the 
 effect he had produced, motioned us on smilingly ; 
 and so, mechanically obeying, we paused at the next 
 canvas the uncompleted full-length of a beautiful 
 young woman with haunting eyes. 
 
 " The Lady Betty," he said, " as she sat for 
 ' Innocence ' to Schleimhitz. The portrait was only 
 finished, as you see, as far as the waist. He was a 
 slow worker, and not good at drapery." 
 
 The German cleared his throat, and pushing his 
 way past the flat ladies (I thought for the moment 
 one was near furiously hooking at him with her 
 umbrella), glanced with an air of amorous ap- 
 propriation at the hobble-skirts, and spoke :
 
 202 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " Schleimhitz wass fery goot at drapery. There 
 vvass a reason berhaps " 
 
 " Ah tut tut 1 " exclaimed the stranger, with 
 a little hurried smile ; and led us on. 
 
 " Portrait," he said, " by Gainsborough, of a 
 boy unidentified. There was a story of his having 
 been mislaid by his father, the second marquis, 
 on the occasion of that gentleman's first marriage, 
 and never discovered again." 
 
 " Poor little chap," murmured one of the hobble- 
 skirts. " I wonder what became of him ? Isn't 
 he pretty ? " 
 
 " An ancestress," said our cicerone, at the next 
 canvas, "who married an actor. He played first 
 gentleman on the stage, and first cad off it. I 
 believe he broke her heart or her spirit ; I forget 
 which. She kept them both in one decanter." 
 He sniggered round at the two girls. " No, 'pon 
 honour/ he said, ' I vow to the truth of it. You 
 must trust me above Mrs. Somerset." 
 
 " A collateral branch this," he said, passing on. 
 " He buried three wives, who lie and whisper 
 together in the family vault. He himself was buried, 
 by his own direction, at sea. They say the coffin 
 hissed as it touched the water." 
 
 The little common boy suddenly began to cry 
 loudly. 
 
 "I'm frightened, mothre ! " he wailed. " Take 
 me away." 
 
 The stranger, bending to look for him, made as if
 
 A QUEER CICERONE 203 
 
 to claw through the group. I saw a most diabolical 
 expression on his face. 
 
 " Ah I " he said, " I'll have you yet 1 " 
 
 The child screamed violently, and beat in frantic 
 terror against his mother. I interposed, an odd 
 damp on my forehead. 
 
 " Look here," I said ; " leave the boy alone, 
 will you ? " 
 
 They were all backing, startled and scared, when 
 there came a hurried, loud step into the room from 
 behind us, and we turned in a panic huddle. It 
 was the commissionaire, very flustered and irate. 
 
 " Now, then, you know," he said, " you'd no 
 right to take it upon yourselves to go round like this 
 unattended." 
 
 " Pardon me," I said, resuming my charge of 
 spokesman ; "we did nothing of the sort. This 
 gentleman offered himself to escort us." 
 
 I turned, as did all the others, and my voice 
 died in my throat. There was no gentleman at 
 all the room was empty. As I stood stupidly 
 staring, I was conscious of the voice of the com- 
 missionaire, aggrieved, expostulatory, but with 
 a curious note of distress in it : 
 
 " What gentleman ? There's nobody has the 
 right but Mrs. Somerset, and she's ill she's had a 
 stroke. We've just found her in her room, with a 
 face like the horrors on her." 
 
 Suddenly one of the women shrieked hysterically : 
 
 " O look ! He's there 1 O come away 1 "
 
 204 THE FABULISTS 
 
 And, as she screamed, I saw. The empty picture 
 frame in the next room was empty no longer. It 
 was filled by the form of him, handsome and 
 smiling, who had just been conducting us round 
 the walls.
 
 OLD HARRY 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 JUST outside the little country town, where Haggart's 
 Lane, with its swing-gate betokening a semi-private 
 way, gave straight upon the wide stretches of 
 Wickenham Common, a substantial man, dressed 
 in worn tweeds, and with gaiters round his calves, 
 came to a slow, meditative stop and looked up at 
 the sky. It was dark with sagging clouds, packed 
 to bursting with electricity ; the air was densely 
 oppressive, like a physical weight. It was evident 
 there was going to be a storm, and a big one. 
 
 Yet, though he appeared to brood on its signs, it 
 was not of the weather that old Harry was thinking 
 at all. An even sultrier atmosphere possessed his 
 soul ; emotions, which one would never have 
 suspected from that stolid exterior, were at work 
 there ; some greater heat surmounted the lesser, and 
 he smiled, not because he felt mirthful, but because 
 he had little more than that one facial expression 
 at command for all occasions. He smiled, as the 
 poet sang, because he had to. 
 
 Old Harry was biggish, inert ; in complexion 
 like a great cherubic baby, in years some thirty- 
 
 205
 
 206 THE FABULISTS 
 
 five or so. A man may be called old because he is 
 old ; or the sobriquet may be applied to him in 
 affection, or in patronage, or in a sort of humorous 
 contempt for his slow perceptives, his lack of skill, 
 verbal and physical, his ready submission to chaff. 
 It would have been difficult to assign the term its 
 particular popular significance in Harry Ford's 
 case. Moreover, it is odd that, although most 
 people of his acquaintance used it, as if instinctively, 
 in their allusions to him, a few felt themselves 
 quite remote from the least inducement to do so. 
 Still, since Truth, as we are told, speaks through 
 the majority, old Harry shall be, in the fondest 
 sense, for us. 
 
 Standing by the swing-gate, before emerging 
 upon the Common, Old Harry smiled. He could 
 have done no less, indeed, considering the subject 
 of his meditations and her thrilling contiguity. 
 He could actually see from where he stood the 
 glimmer of Miss Dolly Silver's skirt behind the hedge 
 of the little garden across the road. There were 
 two or three scattered cottages there, modest, 
 thatched affairs, and Dolly's father ex-postmaster, 
 and present deputy registrar for births and deaths 
 owned the midmost. 
 
 We are dealing, you will understand, with folks 
 in quite moderate circumstances, to whom the posses- 
 sion of a very few pounds more or less represented 
 the whole question of matrimonial eligibility. 
 Old Harry had no reason to hesitate on that score,
 
 OLD HARRY 207 
 
 if, indeed, we are not misrepresenting his feelings 
 altogether. He was popularly regarded as a " warm ' ' 
 man, who had judiciously nursed the little patrimony 
 left him by his deceased father a builder in a small 
 way after investing part of it in the purchase of 
 old Wickham Pike, a toll-house half a mile distant 
 across the Common on the now abandoned Scar- 
 chester road. That purchase had been made fifteen 
 years ago, and had been followed by some enlarge- 
 ments and improvements necessitating the taking 
 out of a fire insurance policy to the tune of three 
 hundred pounds, which policy reposed in the safe 
 custody of Mr. Jarvis, attorney-at-law, who was an 
 agent for the company, and a shrewd man to boot. 
 He was one of those, by the by, who persistently 
 refused Mr. Ford his popular prefix. 
 
 Old Harry smiled fixedly down at the turnstile 
 or kissing-gate, as he preferred to regard it his 
 lips cherubic, his lids half-closed ; then, with a sigh 
 that seemed to blow the thing open, passed through 
 and crossed the road. He made straight, if leisurely, 
 for the garden wicket opposite, on the top of which 
 he leaned his fat arms, while he addressed the fair 
 young figure beyond. 
 
 " No need for that watering, Miss Silver. Your 
 beds are going to have enough and to spare." 
 
 " If I didn't, not a drop of rain would fall, Mr. 
 Ford. . Don't you know that ? " 
 
 She turned her face to the sky, her blue eyes 
 shining like porcelain. The action threw out the
 
 208 THE FABULISTS 
 
 shapely curves of her throat and bosom. The 
 watcher stirred slightly, and sucked in his lips. 
 
 ' You want to bring on the storm, then ? " he 
 said. " Ain't ye afraid of thunder ? " 
 
 She laughed ; but checked herself on the instant 
 and stood looking at him. 
 
 " I usen't to be. I don't know so much now." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because my life's worth more to me, perhaps." 
 Her lips parted. She came rosily to the gate. 
 " Are not you afraid ? " she said " of being caught 
 in the storm, I mean ? If you are going home, 
 I think you had better make a run for it." 
 
 The smile, habitual to his face, appeared, just 
 perceptibly, to flicker. 
 
 " O, I don't mind ! " he answered. "I wanted 
 to ax ye, by-the-by, what's this about Dick Hunston's 
 great find ? " 
 
 " The stamps ? It's quite true. They were 
 inside an old book six of them in a sheet. They 
 are said to be of tremendous value. I am keeping 
 them for him." 
 
 " You ? " 
 
 She looked down, laughing, and tracing with 
 the point of her shoe a pattern on the brick 
 path. 
 
 " Why not ? " she said. " His father says, as 
 he found them, he may keep them, sell them, for 
 for his own." 
 
 A little pause, during which the smile seemed to
 
 OLD ;HARRY 209 
 
 become a petrifaction, a deformity on the cherubic 
 face, succeeded. 
 
 " / see," said Old Harry at length ; " 7 see. 
 What luck for you and Dick ! And when's it to 
 be, may I ax ? I declare if I were inclined that way 
 myself, I could envy him his starmps." 
 
 " Would you like to see them ? " said Miss Dolly 
 Silver, jumping to escape her embarrassment. 
 
 " That I should. You know I've been a bit of a 
 collector in my day." 
 
 She ran in, re-emerged, holding a thick envelope 
 in her hand, from which she delicately slipped the 
 treasure. " There ! " she said. 
 
 " No ! " he exclaimed, his mouth open, his eyes 
 goggling : " I do believe Miss Silver if I harn't 
 got one of that sort too ! " 
 
 She echoed his " No ! " with a rather falling 
 expression. He put a puzzled hand to the back of 
 his head. " Yes," he said, " I could a'most 
 swear it only is Dick coming here to-night ? " 
 
 " No ; he's gone over to his uncle's." 
 
 " Do you think would he mind now if I could 
 just take this home to compare with mine, and return 
 it to-morrow ? " 
 
 She looked serious. " O, I don't know ! You 
 see so much depends on them ; and he's been 
 told " 
 
 " Why, sure you can trust me, Miss Dolly. I'd 
 bring them back without fail the first thing to-morrow 
 morning. But, never mind, if you'd rayther not."
 
 210 THE FABULISTS 
 
 He was an old acquaintance, and of sound repute ; 
 no direct embargo had been laid on her ; what 
 harm could there be ? Besides, she had thought more 
 than once it might be her fancy, of course, but 
 supposing a jealous, unnecessary slight, it would 
 seem, on a perhaps disappointed suitor. She 
 acquiesced in a moment, a little reluctantly, 
 a little faintly even pressed the packet upon 
 him at last, when contrition seemed to detect 
 signs of hurt in his face. He went off, beaming, 
 with the treasure, and she retreated into the cottage, 
 panic-struck now it was too late to recall her act. 
 As she passed over the threshold, the first far boom 
 of thunder sounded along the levels. 
 
 Old Harry heard it, and put on speed heavily, 
 smiling all the time. He had half a mile to go, and 
 the darkness of premature night and of the coming 
 storm was gathering thick and fast about him. His 
 cottage stood quite isolated, the nucleus of a little 
 thicket of gorse, and he would be alone in it at this 
 hour, the woman who charred for him sleeping out. 
 But he was not nervous about lightning or other 
 such elemental disturbances ; what did trouble him 
 was the oppressive heat. It raised a fury in his 
 breast like a physical injury. He strained to be at 
 home, and under shelter, with full opportunity to 
 think. 
 
 He was a slow thinker, but a tenacious. The cud 
 of reflection would roll many times up and down 
 in his throat before it was finally absorbed. There
 
 OLD HARRY 211 
 
 was just the germ of an idea forming for discussion 
 in his mind as he reached his solitary door ; but he 
 would not admit or indulge it until he could settle 
 down to fast communion with himself. The sky 
 was all one incessant blink and flicker by then, 
 though the air remained dry as that from an oven ; 
 and the accumulating reverberations of thunder 
 left no intervals of silence. He entered his little 
 parlour, and felt about for the matches. It was 
 so dark in there that he stumbled once or twice, 
 and said things under his breath. He would not 
 even swear yet without reserve. 
 
 Presently he found the matches and lit the lamp. 
 It flared up murkily until he slipped the chimney 
 on it ; and then the small room woke suddenly 
 to brilliant illumination. It was a comfortless 
 room, mean, a little dilapidated, seeming to confess 
 to a spirit of parsimony somewhere, or else to a 
 popularly over-rated competence. There was slight 
 token of the " warm " man about it. Its master 
 glanced uncordially, a thought curiously, around 
 its walls, before he turned to see that all was fast and 
 the window curtains closed. Then at last, that 
 stereotyped smile or grin persistent to his expression, 
 he threw his cap into a corner, sat down before the 
 empty table, took the envelope from his pocket 
 and the stamps from the envelope, and, laying the 
 frail treasure before him, propped his face on his 
 hands and prepared to think. 
 
 So this was the find, Dick Hunston's find, which,
 
 212 THE FABULISTS 
 
 by implication, was to supply that young man with 
 the short means to matrimony. He, Harry Ford, 
 had heard the report, and had taken the directest 
 means to verify it. Hunston's was the little town's 
 main curio-shop, and from a lumber of old leaves 
 amid its dusty recesses had casually blossomed this 
 flower of six petals, costly as any orchid. Dick, 
 who was an eager philatelist, had had the wit to 
 detect its presumptive value, which after all was to 
 exceed his modest computation by hundreds of 
 pounds. There was only one specimen of the 
 stamp hitherto known to exist a single survivor 
 from the withdrawn penny misprint of '47 and 
 that was worth well, exactly what it would fetch. 
 
 But at present the interest and curiosity in the 
 find were local little more than personal. Old 
 Harry thought of that as he sat, quite motionless, 
 gazing down on the treasure. He knew nothing 
 about its rarity ; about stamps at all. His pretext 
 to the girl had been uttered on a momentary inspira- 
 tion, as an instinctive snatch at first means to an 
 end faintly adumbrated in his mind but not at once 
 made clear. His nose wrinkled as he looked down 
 now on the insignificant plunder. That a man's 
 and woman's destiny, that of their unborn progeny, 
 could dare to stake itself on this scrap of perishable 
 rubbish ! An odd sound came from his lungs. 
 
 That double destiny he had guessed, feared : 
 he had not known until this accident came to confirm 
 it. So they were really lovers, eh ? lovers con-
 
 OLD HARRY 218 
 
 fessed ; and the banns would be cried on the strength 
 of this preposterous trifle ! Six tiny squares of thin 
 paper, and worth but not too fast. There might 
 be others convinced of their prior claim to a certain 
 property, long coveted, long gloatingly relished in 
 anticipation. Because a man was slow to fancy a 
 maid, he was not necessarily insensible ; the strength 
 of a passion lost nothing from its having been 
 conceived in maturity. And he had given sure 
 indications it was damnable thus to have foreclosed 
 on him without warning. Well, was it too late ? 
 Perhaps not. 
 
 His thoughts flowed with a sort of furious sluggish- 
 ness. The storm by this time was blazing and roar- 
 ing overhead, flash and crash almost synchronous, 
 and only now he seemed to awaken to its fact and 
 significance in the context of his ripening purpose. 
 
 Yes, his purpose ; for that was formulated at 
 last. The stamps must be destroyed somehow 
 he had felt that from the first. The question had 
 merely been how in what seemingly accidental 
 way, so that neither suspicion nor responsibility 
 should attach itself to him in the matter. How ? 
 The answer had burst upon him, shaken him, in a 
 crackling slam that seemed to split the house. 
 The house ! dry, thatched, decrepit, jerry-built 
 from the outset ; its appointments cheap and 
 worthless ; always something infinitely less than 
 the snug possession that local gossip had painted it ; 
 hard to maintain on an insignificant income, yet
 
 214 THE FABULISTS 
 
 worth, supposing it were burned down ? And, 
 
 once set alight, it would burn like tinder. 
 
 Ah ! That was the inspiration : to destroy the 
 stamps by the very act that should qualify himself 
 for a sum of three hundred pounds in the way of 
 compensation ! Rule out Dick in that case, and hail 
 his own conquering eligibility. And even though 
 he were to fail with her after all, his lust of jealous 
 vindictiveness would have received its satisfaction. 
 Dick Hunston would have to forego his little dream 
 of riches and matrimony, curse him. 
 
 Before the storm passed ! His mind had been 
 labouring slowly towards this crisis ; once it was 
 attained, he acted with sureness and despatch. 
 Swiftly he examined the glass-reservoired lamp, 
 and found it, to his satisfaction, near full of oil. 
 Then, gathering together everything combustible 
 within reach, and disposing all about the floor and 
 table, he threw the stamps on top, hurried to the 
 door, cushion in hand, stood in the opening, waiting 
 for the next terrific flash and roar, and, in the 
 instant of their tumult, flung his missile full-pitch 
 at the burning lamp, falling back himself into the 
 passage as he did so. There came a bursting crash 
 from the room, and an instant wind of flame. 
 Stooping low, Old Harry hurried from the house 
 and, crouched among the bushes at a safe distance, 
 waited to mark the result of his deed. Everything 
 the rending storm, amazing, bewildering, near 
 rainless, the isolated position, the hopelessness
 
 OLD HARRY 215 
 
 of succour lent itself to the success of that. He 
 watched, as the lightning leapt and the thunder 
 rattled overhead, the house catch fire ; and not until 
 it was involved beyond redemption, did he leave his 
 covert and make, as if for help, across the common. 
 They had seen it at last a little thing in that 
 enormous welter, glowing and sparkling like a 
 burning bush across the flats. He met them, only 
 hardly emerged from their homes, a startled group 
 appalled from too great venturing, yet palpitating 
 to know and, human-like, relish the worst. He 
 staggered upon them, holding his hands to his head : 
 and they closed about him, clamouring and staring. 
 And then the word went from mouth to mouth : 
 Th' old Pike House stroock by lightning and fired ! 
 Poor Old Harry ! He had been mazed, stunned 
 by the shock, but had come to in bare time to make 
 his escape. Nothing could be done ; the building 
 was hopelessly involved ; and that, privately, was 
 a relief ; but each was eager to outdo the others in 
 offering temporary home and shelter to the houseless 
 castaway. And then the rain came down in a 
 blinding sheet ; while still far away, licking and 
 spouting up into the night, rose the flame of Harry's 
 holocaust. 
 
 Old Harry sat on the edge of his chair, his hands 
 supported on the knob of his stick, his eyes staring 
 into vacancy, the smile on his lips a little ghastly. 
 Somewhere in the dull corridors of his brain uttered
 
 216 THE FABULISTS 
 
 words were reverberating in a way to mix and 
 bewilder their meaning : he was struggling to get 
 them into line, as it were. Mr. Jar vis, who was 
 responsible for this confusion, sat and watched its 
 surface manifestations. He sat, leaning back in 
 his chair in his own office, his raised finger-tips 
 lightly bridged, his expression, as ever, very dry 
 and keen. And the sentence he had spoken was 
 something to this effect : 
 
 " No, Ford, no ; you need be under little concern 
 as to the fate of the stamps. It was really a for- 
 tunate accident which involved them in the ruin 
 of your house ; and it will comfort you, if you have 
 not already been told, to learn why. There was, 
 it appears, a seventh stamp included in that extra- 
 ordinary find ; and that seventh stamp, inasmuch 
 as it figured on its original wrapper, was of greater 
 value than all the rest combined. Hunston, it 
 seems, had retained that single example to show to 
 an expert, and the loss of the others, whose ascer- 
 tained existence would have lowered the abnormal 
 market price of this particular rarity, has in fact 
 raised the value of the one surviving to a quite 
 potentially extravagant figure. I understand it is 
 pronounced of prodigious importance I confess I 
 have little sympathy myself with these costly crazes 
 and that Hunston has already been offered for it 
 a sum which I should be afraid to mention. So 
 your misfortune has actually been the young 
 philatelist's gain.
 
 OLD HARRY 217 
 
 " So far, then, your conscience may rest at peace. 
 A more serious matter for you, I fear, is the complete 
 loss of your house." 
 
 The slow eyes had come round to the speaker, 
 strained, questioning. 
 
 " Sure, Mr. Jarvis, sir. But still there's the 
 policy." 
 
 " I am afraid, Ford, you have forgotten that 
 Visitation of God clause in it. It is directly designed 
 to protect the company against claims for compensa- 
 tion in the case of lightning, flood, earthquakes, or 
 other such divine manifestations which cannot be 
 foreseen or provided against. Your house was, by 
 your own assertion, struck and destroyed by 
 lightning. You may try to recover ; but, in my 
 opinion, you have no case whatever." 
 
 Old Harry, having at last got his thoughts into 
 some sort of order, rose unsteadily. 
 
 " Thank'ee, sir," he said. " I'll just go and take 
 a week or two and think it over."
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 THE Wanderer, the water squelching in his broken 
 boots at every step, splashed his way across the 
 melancholy estate. A drenched moon, seeming to 
 pitch at its moorings as the running clouds lifted it, 
 glazed with a lamentable light the wet roofs and 
 palings of the surrounding houses. Those, scattered 
 loosely over a wide area of swampy ground, illus- 
 trated the latest word, in one direction, of suburban 
 expansion. They would close up some day and 
 become part of the city of which they were now 
 only the advanced outposts ; at present they stood 
 in their pretentious instability for nothing better 
 than the smart foresight of a speculative builder. 
 So much, in the flying moonshine, was evident to the 
 Wanderer. He marked the little barren, stony 
 gardens, the rows of forlorn saplings, the weedy 
 wastes dumping-grounds for pots and broken 
 crockery the unmade roads scarred with their 
 wildernesses of soggy ruts ; and his soul yearned 
 for the flare of city slums, whose squalor was still 
 the sweltering over-ripened fruit of exotic ages. A 
 lonely gas-lamp here and there blinked testily, like 
 a light-ship in a waste of waters, whenever the 
 
 218
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 219 
 
 wind smote its solitary eye ; for the rest, scarce 
 ten o'clock as it was, drab dejection seemed on all 
 sides to have extinguished its tapers and gone 
 drearily to bed. 
 
 The Wanderer, going forward with that stoic, 
 hunch-shouldered aspect which is common to those 
 long familiar with shrunk vitals and the filter of rain 
 into coat-collars, raised his head suddenly and 
 looked about him. A sound of universal running 
 and dripping had succeeded on the passing of the 
 last brief hammering storm. 
 
 " The Laurels," he muttered : " That was the 
 name the old woman told me The Laurels ! Curse 
 these bally houses ! When shall I reach the one I 
 want ? Uncle Greg, like all the rest of them, will 
 have gone to bed, if I'm not quick." 
 
 He had not, after all, much to hope of the sinister 
 old man ; but anyhow he was Uncle Gregory's own 
 sole sister's child, and any chance was worth risking 
 in this deadly pass to which he had come. If he 
 could only induce Uncle Greg to ship him off some- 
 where abroad just to be rid of his intolerable 
 importunities ! Surely, for his own sake, he would 
 not drive him to desperation. Uncle Greg was a 
 wicked old Pharisee and humbug, but respectability 
 was the breath of his nostrils. He lived by it and 
 prevailed by it, witness this very estate exploited by 
 him, and on which he himself was established, the 
 crowning expression of its social orthodoxy. It 
 would be ruinous business to have a profligate and
 
 220 THE FABULISTS 
 
 pauperised nephew haunting its decent preserves. 
 Yes, his case was strong enough to warrant a descent 
 on Uncle Greg, much as in his heart he feared the 
 malefic old man. 
 
 He had come to an abrupt stop in the houses ; 
 beyond seemed to stretch a moon-dappled hiatus of 
 broken ground. But, looking intently across this, he 
 perceived distinctly enough a solitary house, standing 
 remote and lone on the limits of the estate. To- 
 wards that house, since he had investigated all others, 
 it was necessary for him to make his way. He 
 distinguished a track of some sort, and followed it. 
 
 As he approached the building, apprehension 
 stiffened in him to fury. It was dark and lifeless 
 like the others. Not the gleam of a light twinkled 
 anywhere from its windows ; the household, to all 
 appearance, was a-bed. 
 
 Cursing between his teeth, he came up to the gate, 
 and read without difficulty its inscription. The 
 Laurels, safe enough. He had reached his goal at 
 last, and to what end ? 
 
 One moment he stood, deliberating the prospect 
 before him ; the next, in a rage of decision, he had 
 opened the gate and walked in. A black shrubbery, 
 of the nature to justify the name, appeared to accept 
 him into its yawning arms. There was a gloom 
 of trees about the house, in whose shadow the white 
 shutters in the windows seemed to open and stare at 
 him secretively. Not a sound pioceeded from the 
 building anywhere ; yet its vulgarity, its raw new-
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 221 
 
 ness, were enough to allay any sensation of eeriness 
 which its silence, its ghostly isolation in the moon- 
 light, might otherwise have conveyed. 
 
 The Wanderer, standing before the hall door, 
 held his breath to consider. His feet had crunched 
 on the gravel path ; yet it seemed to him that to 
 breathe were more certainly to betray himself. 
 To betray himself to what ? 
 
 Yes, to what ? Why should he fear or hesitate ? 
 Desperate men need dread no ambushes. There was 
 no lower than the bottom of things, and he lay there 
 already, bruised and broken. To turn now were to 
 turn for shelter to the booming wind, the rain-swept 
 waste. There was none other possible to him, save 
 through the door of crime. He might open that yet ; 
 Uncle Greg should decide for him. He had one 
 negotiable asset himself. There was a positive 
 value in self -obliteration ; it was worth money. 
 The lesson could not be better conveyed than through 
 self-assertion. He lifted his hand to the knocker. 
 
 The blow sounded startlingly through the silent 
 house ; and yet he had knocked but timidly at the 
 outset too timidly, it appeared. He raised his hand 
 again ; louder this time ; and still no one answered. 
 
 Then anger grew in him ; he refused to be ignored ; 
 if he had to wake the whole household he would stay 
 and not desist until he was admitted. The rever- 
 berations, violently continued, gave him heart and 
 courage, gave him confidence. Conversely with his 
 own determination must be rising the palpitations
 
 222 THE FABULISTS 
 
 of the silent listeners within. It was impossible 
 that they could not hear him. He rained at last 
 a very battery of blows upon the door. Still there 
 followed no response. Then, in a sort of derisive 
 perversity, he took to delivering second taps with 
 the knocker, regular, monotonous, up to fifty or so. 
 That must goad the most resolute inmate to re- 
 bellion. 
 
 Suddenly, quite suddenly, he paused. 
 
 " // you knock too long at a closed door, the devil 
 may open to you." 
 
 Where had he heard that read that ? Super- 
 stitious drivel, of course ; and yet, the spectral 
 night, the lonely house, and this silence ! Pooh ! 
 It was Uncle Greg he demanded and was resolute 
 to arouse. Uncle Greg was devil enough for any- 
 one. Let him appear, to vindicate the proverb if he 
 liked ; he asked nothing better. 
 
 He had raised his hand once more, when he 
 fancied he heard the faintest echo of a response 
 within the house. It might have been a faint call or 
 a footstep. " Ah ! " he breathed to himself, " the 
 old devil at last ! " 
 
 The sound increased came on. Unquestionably 
 it was the stealthy tread of a footstep in the hall. 
 A tiny ray of light shot through the keyhole. The 
 Wanderer clutched the rags upon his chest and 
 stood rigid. In the very act of steadying himself, 
 he saw that the hall door was open and Uncle Greg 
 standing motionless on the threshold.
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 223 
 
 The same heavy, sly figure as of old, beaming 
 hairless self-complacency in its every slab feature. 
 He wore a shawl dressing-gown of a flamboyant 
 pattern ; his stumpy feet were encased in gorgeous 
 carpet slippers ; in one hand he held a lighted 
 candle, in the other a revolver. He betrayed no 
 astonishment, but only a sort of furtive glee. 
 
 " Charlie ! " he said, in his whispering chuckle : 
 " poor Charlie, is it, that has been knocking fit to 
 wake the dead." 
 
 " I was desperate to get in to make you hear," 
 muttered the Wanderer. " Look at my state, 
 Uncle Greg." 
 
 " And you made me hear," said the old builder. 
 " What a determined fellow, to be sure. There was 
 nothing for it at last but to get up and come. I 
 have brought my pistol with me, you see." 
 
 " Not to use it on me, I hope, Uncle Greg ? " said 
 the Wanderer, with a ghastly jocularity. 
 
 "No," said Uncle Gregory; "no. It's not the 
 kind of weapon for your sort. I've a better way of 
 retaliating on you." 
 
 The visitor, in this visible presence, was stung to 
 wordy violence on the instant. 
 
 " O ! a better way, have you ? " he said sneeringly. 
 " We'll see about that. I know where I'm not 
 wanted, and the value to be put on my undesirability. 
 If you wish to hoof me out of this precious dove-cot 
 of yours, you'll have to pay for the privilege, you 
 know, Uncle Greg."
 
 224 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " Shall I ? " said the old man. " Why, how you 
 go on, Charlie. There are Christian ways of re- 
 taliating, ain't there ? Suppose in my old age, I 
 have come to that." 
 
 " Come to that ! " The Wanderer drew in his 
 breath as if to a sudden pang. Was it conceivable 
 that out of such ineffable slyness and hypocrisy as 
 he remembered of old had blossomed this aftermath 
 of Christian charity and forgiveness ? He tried to 
 read the change in the familiar face, but the swaying 
 candle-light distorted it absurdly. 
 
 " I can't make out if you're getting at me or not," 
 he said. " Anyhow my misery is plain enough. 
 May I come in, Uncle Greg ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " said the old man. " It's the very 
 thing I want." 
 
 He turned and went silently along the hall. The 
 Wanderer, following half dazed, observed stupidly 
 how the candle-light seemed to have awakened a 
 very phantasmagoria of shadows on the walls and 
 ceiling. They jerked and frolic'd above and around ; 
 they tumbled over the stair-rails as if in some fan- 
 tastic scramble for place and precedence. The effect 
 was so bewildering, that it came as a quick shock to 
 him to notice suddenly, through the thick of their 
 gambolling, the echoing emptiness of the passage he 
 trod. It was without carpet or furniture bare to 
 its limits. 
 
 And so it was with the room into which Uncle 
 Gregory preceded him. From door to shuttered
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 225 
 
 window it was void as death; only a faint, sickly 
 odour pervaded it ; only a very little litter of damp 
 straw was scattered about its boards. The Wanderer 
 stopped, petrified, staring before him staring hither 
 and thither, and then at Uncle Gregory. The old 
 man stood, swaying the candle high, swaying it 
 to and fro so that his own shadow, obeying its 
 motions, danced and leapt and dilated on the walls 
 and floor. 
 
 " Damn it ! " cried the Wanderer, finding his 
 breath in a gasp ; " stop that stop it, will you ! 
 What is the meaning of this ? What trick are you 
 playing on me ? " 
 
 " Trick, Charlie ! " The old builder bent in a 
 soundless chuckle. " It's all right ; it's all right, 
 you know. If I'd known you were coming, I'd 
 have delayed the bankruptcy proceedings." 
 
 " What ! Sold up ? " 
 
 " That's the word, Charlie. Nothing left only 
 this." 
 
 He held out the revolver, balancing it in his hand. 
 
 " A heavy bullet," he said " fit to splash a man's 
 brains all over the shop. What a curse you in- 
 tended to make of my life, didn't you ? A mean, 
 squalid ruffian you were always that, you know. 
 I hated you, Charlie, my dear ; I always hated you, 
 you poisonous prodigal. Now I'm going to have my 
 turn with you at last. You'd come here, would you, 
 to bleed the old man ? You shall bleed for him, 
 hang for him, you hound ! They'll think you did
 
 226 THE FABULISTS 
 
 it, and you shall answer with the red witness on 
 your hands." 
 
 The Wanderer's face was white as drained veal ; 
 he had thought for an instant that the other meant 
 to murder him ; and then he saw in a flash his more 
 terrific purpose. He gave a scream like a run-over 
 woman, and leapt forward but it was too late. 
 The pistol crashed, and Uncle Gregory's brains 
 flew all about the room. 
 
 Or so they appeared to as, on the moment, 
 darkness rang down. He staggered back, with a sob 
 that was wrenched from him like a hook from a 
 fish's throat. He put his hand to his forehead, and 
 it seemed to adhere there with a little treacly sugges- 
 tion, and a more overpowering sense of that odour 
 which had already nauseated him. And then he 
 turned and fled. The hall door was still open, re- 
 vealing a livid oblong of watery moonshine. Into 
 that he fell, rather than plunged, as a man leaps 
 from the side of a burning ship. He had no thought 
 or care for his direction, so long as it bore him from 
 that horror. Once, as he tore along, he stumbled 
 and fell, his hands in a pool of water. That suggest- 
 ing something to him, frantically, hurriedly, he 
 rinsed his palms and bathed his forehead before he 
 rose again and sped on. He had only one purpose 
 in his mind to reach the city lights and find shelter 
 from himself in their glare. 
 
 Little by little he had come to recognise that the
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 227 
 
 doom imposed upon him was unavoidable and 
 irrevocable. What insidious pressure, intimate and 
 satanic, had persuaded him to that necessity, 
 gradually enveloping his mind until escape from its 
 torture seemed possible in only one direction, he 
 knew well enough, while he was helpless to resist it. 
 There was a limit to the endurances of reason ; better 
 the condemned cell and the rope and the pinioned 
 arms than this long-drawn-out agony of apprehension. 
 After all, if he were to die, a self-accused though 
 innocent man, perhaps the sacrifice might be accepted 
 by the Unknown in some sort as an atonement, and 
 he might be spared in the hereafter that company 
 which alone he unspeakably dreaded. But a man 
 could not continue for ever with that shadow at his 
 shoulder, which no word of his he believed it 
 truly could conceivably dissipate. He might have 
 washed his flesh and his clothes : the stains of blood 
 were indelible. So surely as he confessed his visit 
 to the house on that night of terror, so surely, 
 viewing his antecedents and the purpose for which 
 he had come, would he place the noose about his own 
 neck. He could not resist his impulse the less for 
 that ; the diabolical thing which inspired it was 
 more powerful than himself. He was so weary, so 
 nerve-worn in the end, that even the thought of 
 temporising with the truth seemed an intolerable 
 ordeal. Better to confess at once that he was guilty 
 of murder, and get it over. Only that way lay peace 
 from it all.
 
 228 THE FABULISTS 
 
 During all these three days, so haunted, so marked 
 as he was, his immunity from arrest had not ceased 
 to astonish him. It was inconceivable that he had 
 not been observed on his way either to or from the 
 fatal house ; it was incredible that that persistent 
 knocking of his had failed to find its echo in some 
 panic heart. He had dared no attempt to leave the 
 place ; he had possessed no means to lie hidden in it. 
 On the contrary, some little dawn of luck, which had 
 found him out since that night, had brought him 
 more prominently than usual into the open. Was 
 not that the common irony of Fortune to bestow 
 her grudging favours at the moment when for all 
 moral purposes they had become valueless ? So 
 now, though she was represented by no more than a 
 job to distribute circulars, that respite from starva- 
 tion was gained at the expense of bitter bread to eat. 
 
 On each of the three days he had bought and 
 feverishly perused a halfpenny paper ; but never one 
 had contained any mention of the tragedy. No 
 shouting headline rushed into his ken ; no report of 
 discovery or inquest appeared to confirm him in 
 his sickest apprehensions. Was it possible that the 
 police, for their own purposes, were lying low ? 
 That were an unusual course, at least in these days 
 of sensational publicity. And then there flashed 
 into his mind another explanation of this silence, and 
 the most hideously plausible of them all. The bank- 
 ruptcy ; the emptied house ; its unsuspected inmate. 
 Of course the body was Iving there yet, undiscovered ;
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 229 
 
 and the crisis, in the prolonged expectation of which 
 he had been lingering out the exquisite torment of 
 these days, were merely postponed. 
 
 To the madness of that thought his reason 
 succumbed, and finally. He could endure no more. 
 One morning he walked into the local police-station 
 and addressed the inspector on duty. 
 
 " I have come to give myself up for the murder 
 at The Laurels." 
 
 The inspector, immovable, grizzle-bearded, with 
 overhanging eyebrows, betrayed no least hint of 
 emotion ; but he just signed to a subordinate to keep 
 the door. 
 
 " Yes," he said evenly. " What is your name ? " 
 
 The Wanderer confessed it ; as also his relation- 
 ship to the dead man, the purpose for which he had 
 called upon him and, more excitedly, the measure 
 of his own worthlessness and iniquity. 
 
 The inspector stopped him, with official aplomb, 
 in mid-career. 
 
 " This occurred three nights ago, you say ? I want 
 you to give an account of your movements up to 
 that time." 
 
 " That is easily done," said the Wanderer, with a 
 little panting laugh, now that the horror was off 
 his mind. " I had been discharged only a week 
 
 before from B Hospital, where I had been an 
 
 in-patient for two months and more. You won't 
 expect me to tell you for what." 
 
 "No," said the Inspector; and "Exactly," he
 
 230 THE FABULISTS 
 
 said. " Well, I shall have to detain you for 
 inquiries." 
 
 The magistrate, a precise, benevolent man, with 
 a certain soldierly compactness about his attire, 
 ended some remarks he had been making on the 
 advisability of contriving some punishment for those 
 who increasingly took up the time of the Court with 
 unfounded self-accusations, the result commonly 
 of drink 
 
 " Your statement about the hospital," he said, 
 addressing the prisoner, " has been confirmed. 
 It is possible that some mental distemper, induced 
 by your recent condition, was responsible for this 
 wild appropriation of a crime which, amounting as 
 it did to an unquestionable case of self-destruction, 
 occurred quite a month ago, when you were lying 
 ill. Not less can excuse you for this wanton 
 imperilling of your own life. What is that you 
 say ? " 
 
 His words had to be interpreted to the magistrate, 
 so thickly inarticulate they came from his lips. 
 
 " I knocked, and knocked, and he opened to me 
 at last. He had a pistol in his hand, and I saw him 
 do it." 
 
 " Come," said the magistrate kindly : " you must 
 forget all that. Leave closed doors alone for the 
 future, is my advice. Remember what is said 
 that the devil lays snares for the importunate ; 
 only not being omniscient, he sometimes over-
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 231 
 
 reaches himself on the question of an alibi. Never- 
 theless, it is not safe to count upon his anachronisms. 
 He has succeeded once or twice, I am afraid, in 
 getting innocent men hanged. The best thing for 
 all of us is to avoid knocking him up when we find 
 him asleep. 
 
 " I think, for your own sake, I shall remand you 
 for a week into the hands of the prison doctor."
 
 COX'S PATENT 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 MR. GASTER, manager of the Barstock branch of the 
 Counties Deposit Bank, sat in his official snuggery 
 one dusky November evening. It was past four 
 o'clock and closing time, the last of the staff had 
 departed, and the Bank porter was in the act of 
 securing the doors, when the sound of hurried voices 
 accosting the man became audible to the manager 
 in his den. 
 
 Probably some belated customer appealing 
 uselessly to the inflexible Williams. Mr. Gaster 
 sat tight, impatiently awaiting the intruder's 
 withdrawal. He was a bachelor ; he lived on the 
 premises, and a cosy fire and an attractive novel 
 before dinner appealed to him irresistibly from the 
 upper storey. In person he was small, with a 
 somewhat droll face, thin staring hair, and red eye- 
 brows that came close together. They met now in 
 a rather petulant frown. 
 
 " Do, for goodness' sake, clear out," he muttered 
 to himself. 
 
 But the colloquy continued, and, driven beyond 
 patience, the manager rose, opened his door and 
 
 232
 
 COX'S PATENT 233 
 
 looked out. There were two men in altercation 
 with the porter at the half -closed entrance. Beyond 
 in the street throbbed the lungs and shook the lights 
 of a motor-car. 
 
 " What is it, Williams ? " called the manager. 
 " They say they must see you, sir," answered the 
 porter, half turning. " I tell them it's past closing 
 time and agen the rules. 
 "Who are they ? '' 
 " One's a police-officer, sir." 
 Mr. Gaster stepped to the door. " Well ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " Can't we see you private, sir ? " protested one of 
 the strangers he in uniform. " We don't want to 
 raise a scandal." 
 
 " Scandal about what ? " 
 
 " Marston's the name, sir. Your head cashier, 
 isn't he? " 
 
 " Well ; he's away on a holiday." 
 " He is," said the stranger emphatically ; "on 
 a holiday a rare one." 
 
 " Come into my room, will you? Williams; wait 
 there and keep the door on the latch for a little." 
 
 Mr. Gaster led the way to his sanctum, and the 
 visitors followed. Motioning them in, he closed the 
 door and turned to regard the two. The one who 
 had spoken stood square and upright, patently 
 the expressionless official, spotless and self-possessed 
 by his trim silvered cap and beltless jacket an 
 inspector ; the other, a tall, bent, rather gasping
 
 234 THE FABULISTS 
 
 weed of a man, in a long tight-waisted brown coat, 
 was, as Mr. Gaster learnt, a plain-clothes detective. 
 
 " Who are you ? " demanded the manager. 
 
 " Inspector Jar vis, sir, of the Southsea police. 
 This here's P.-C. Billiken. We've got your gentle- 
 man under observation at Southsea." 
 
 " Mr. Marston ? " 
 
 " Mr. Marston." 
 
 " He's stopping there, is he ? And why have you 
 got him under observation, inspector ? " 
 
 " For suspicions of our own, sir, aggravated by a 
 chance discovery." 
 
 " What's that ? I understand nothing of your 
 implication at present." 
 
 " Why, sir, when you see a young Bank gentle- 
 man going it on his holiday, putting up at the best 
 hotel in the place, flinging his money about in every 
 direction, and spending seemingly at the rate of five 
 thousand a year, you begin nat 'rally to ask yourself 
 questions. That's what the manager of the ' Port- 
 land' did, and the failure of a satisfactory answer 
 worried him. He came to me, bringing with him a 
 piece of evidence that one of the maids had found 
 in the gentleman's room tucked among his collars." 
 
 " What was that ? " 
 
 The inspector produced from his breast a folded 
 canvas bag, which, on examination, was seen to be 
 imprinted with the Bank mark and number. 
 
 " Did that or did that not come from here ? " he 
 demanded.
 
 COX'S PATENT 235 
 
 " It looks like it," said the manager. There was 
 a note of keen distress in his voice, apparent for the 
 first time. 
 
 " You recognise it for the Bank's property ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "It is such a bag as is used to contain money 
 gold ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Had Mr. Marston free access to th strong 
 room ? " 
 
 "I see what you mean. For all practical pur- 
 poses yes." 
 
 " Ah 1 " The inspector drew himself up from the 
 hips, like a man relieved. " It give us the clue, 
 that did. I thought I'd run over and make sure. 
 Now, sir, the rest lies with you. Take my word for 
 it, where the place of that ought to be you'll find a 
 hole possibly a row of holes." 
 
 " It's easily proved. You had better come with 
 me and look." 
 
 He turned stiffly, obviously in part to command 
 the emotion with which this ugly revelation of a 
 crime had overcome him. " I hope you are mis- 
 taken, inspector," he said, a little hoarsely. " It 
 is a terrible charge a terrible charge. And I had 
 such complete faith in the man." 
 
 He took some keys from a safe in the wall, and 
 silently motioned the two men to follow him. As 
 they obeyed, the inspector just glanced at the 
 detective and the detective at the inspector.
 
 236 THE FABULISTS 
 
 The manager, leaving his room by the back, led 
 the way across a little lobby to a flight of iron 
 stairs, which descended thence to the basement. 
 At the bottom he unlocked a massive iron door, 
 which, being opened, admitted them into a little 
 close compartment, a mere four-square cell hewed 
 out of fireproof cement, having the chilled steel 
 door of the strong-room sunk in its further side. 
 Switching on the electric light, he then closed 
 and secured the first door, before proceeding to 
 unlock and swing open the second, when the 
 great maw of the strong-room yawned upon the 
 visitors like the mouth of some cold subterranean 
 monster. Mr. Gaster, leaving the key in the lock, 
 stepped in. 
 
 It was a wonderful place, eloquent of a profound 
 and impregnable security ; solitude fast-locked in an 
 eternal mausoleum ; sunk out of human reach like a 
 treasure barque foundered in fathomless waters, and 
 hugging its massed riches in a silence that no voice 
 of man, no throb of life's pulses could penetrate. 
 There were stacks of strong-boxes here, arranged on 
 grilles, each box classified and docketed, the pro- 
 perty, on deposit, of some customer of the Bank. 
 There were safes within the safe, and, beyond all, 
 a night of impenetrable darkness. 
 
 The manager, inserting a key into a hole in the 
 wall, disclosed a recess loaded shelf above shelf 
 with canvas bags such as that produced by the 
 inspector ; only these bulged, and were fat with
 
 COX'S PATENT 237 
 
 inviolate opulence. He ran his eyes along the 
 orderly rows. " No sign of despoliation here," he 
 said and, with the word, felt himself caught from 
 behind in a staggering grip. He recognised the 
 truth on the instant, and after the first shock 
 did not even struggle. 
 
 " Right you are," said the voice of the weedy 
 stranger, speaking, and for the first time, into his 
 ear. " I've got him, Jemmy, tight as a trivet. 
 Bale out the swag while I hold on." 
 
 The pseudo-inspector needed no urging. He 
 cleared the safe of its treasure, bag by bag, throwing 
 each as he removed it upon the floor of the cemented 
 cell. 
 
 " How many can we carry, Tim ? " said he. 
 " We've got to guy the porter, mind you." 
 
 " Trust to my blessed coat-skirts. I've got the 
 strength of a dozen porters in me." 
 
 Mr. Caster, resigned to his hopeless position, fully 
 endorsed the statement. The man's strength, for all 
 his slack appearance, struck him as infernal. He 
 felt as limp as a mouse in a cat's jaws. 
 
 " Nip his weasand there if he squeals," said 
 Jemmy. 
 
 " I'm not going to squeal," said the manager. 
 "Nobody could hear me if I screamed my lungs 
 hoarse. What are you going to do to me ? " 
 
 " No harm, if you keep quiet," said Jemmy. 
 " How about the flimsies, Tim ? " 
 
 " Leave 'em alone, boy. I'm all for real property,
 
 238 THE FABULISTS 
 
 and we've got our bellyful. Now, mister, by your 
 leave ? " 
 
 The bags were all out, scattered upon the cell 
 floor. Gaster, reading a sudden determined purpose 
 in the eyes turned upon him, struggled in the deadly 
 grasp. 
 
 " Good God ! " he cried, " you are never going 
 to do such a diabolical thing ? " 
 
 " Aren't we, though ! " said the weedy man. 
 " Where's the harm. The porter won't be long in 
 smelling a rat ; and there's plenty cubic feet of air 
 for you to draw on in the meantime. Come, you 
 little devil ! " 
 
 Actually they were going to shut and lock him 
 into the strong-room. The cruelty of the deed 
 roused the manager to frenzy. He fought and 
 maddened in the merciless grip. It was all of no 
 avail. In a moment he was thrust in and the key 
 turned upon him. 
 
 " Phew ! " said Tim, giving a little dry whistle. 
 " What a spitfire ! " He looked gloatingly upon the 
 heaped bags and began to unfasten his coat. It 
 was accommodated within the skirts with a number 
 of ingeniously contrived pockets, so calculated and 
 placed as to give little hint of the weighty secrets 
 they might cont ain . ' ' Now for the loading , Jemmy. ' ' 
 
 It took the two a considerable time to dispose 
 to their satisfaction as much of the swag as they 
 could safely carry ; but at length the task was 
 completed.
 
 COX'S PATENT 289 
 
 " Now, sonnie," said the uniformed criminal, 
 " you go first, and I follow, pretending, as I come, 
 to speak back to the gentleman. Savvy ? " 
 
 " Go on, Jemmy. I wasn't pupped yesterday." 
 
 " Where's the keys, then ? O ! hi the lock." 
 
 He took the little bunch from the strong-room 
 door, and stepped across to the door of the cell, 
 whose wards he manipulated for some time without 
 result. 
 
 " What," he said, " the hell's the matter with the 
 thing ? " 
 
 " O, here ! let me try," said the other impatiently. 
 " It needs a little coaxing, that's all." 
 
 But he too had to desist after some minutes of 
 barren prodding and twisting. 
 
 " There must be some trick in the blamed thing," 
 he said. "I've tried every blessed key on the bunch, 
 and " 
 
 " We shall have to ask him." 
 
 "Ask Hullo, Jemmy. I've got it!" 
 
 " Got it open ? " 
 
 " No. There must be a second bunch, that's 
 it, and he's taken it in there with him." 
 
 He came erect. The two rogues stood grinning 
 at one another. 
 
 "To think," said Jemmy, "of the cust little 
 sharp hoping to gammon us like that ! " 
 
 " We must have the things off him." 
 
 " No question of it. Unlock the strong-room 
 again, my boy."
 
 240 THE FABULISTS 
 
 The tall man took a hurried step, drove in the key, 
 swung open the door. 
 
 "Here, you, Gaster!" he called into the depths. 
 " Come out of that. We want you." 
 
 No answer whatever was vouchsafed. 
 
 " He's skulking," said Jemmy. " Or God o' 
 mercy, he can't have died of fright ! " 
 
 There was an electric switch just within the 
 cavern. He hastily snapped it on, and the gloom 
 sprang into light. Together they plunged in. 
 
 Not a sign, not a sound of the captive anywhere. 
 He had vanished utterly. 
 
 Suddenly Tim uttered a stifled roar : 
 
 " Here's another door in the wall ! " 
 
 It was placed further in at right angles to the 
 first placed handy for any such emergency as this. 
 They had boxed up the manager, with the means 
 to his own escape lying ready in his pocket. And 
 he had got them securely trapped between two im- 
 passable exits. 
 
 " Goosed us, by thunder," whispered Tim. They 
 stared at each other in blank dismay. Here, with 
 all the treasures of the Bank opened to their choice, 
 they were worse than condemned paupers. They 
 could only stand and curse one another's insanity, 
 waiting for the end. 
 
 It came soon enough. As, in a last frantic effort 
 to falsify their own convictions, they were striving 
 feverishly once more to force the outer lock, the door 
 was swept open upon them and there on the stairs
 
 COX'S PATENT 241 
 
 thronged quite a posse of constables. The manager 
 was waiting for his prisoners in the office above, when 
 they were brought in to him handcuffed. He rose 
 with a chuckle and a bow. 
 
 " Ox's patent, gentlemen," he said. " It was 
 most considerate of you to have left me in possession 
 of the second bunch of keys. Really I calculated 
 on that, you know, when I decided to lure you into 
 the trap. Your story was extremely convincing ; 
 your possession of the canvas bag a real surprise ; 
 your scheme altogether very elaborately and 
 cleverly worked out ; only, unfortunately for its 
 success, Mr. Marston himself returned to his work 
 this morning from Broadstairs ; and we happened 
 to have tallied together our stock of gold. Cox's 
 patent, gentlemen. Don't forget. It's full of 
 surprises. You will find your chauffeur outside 
 waiting to take you and himself to the station."
 
 TO R.B.C. 
 
 1908. 
 Heriot Sings, 
 
 How sweet our little baby lies ! 
 The pale lids rest upon his eyes, 
 As on blue flowers butterflies 
 
 Their weary wings. 
 His lips, as parted from the kiss, 
 Which last was mummy's own and his, 
 Seem breaking in their dreaming bliss 
 
 To blossomings. 
 
 They'll ope' anon when morning blows, 
 
 All dewy like the briar rose, 
 
 And in quaint pretty guise disclose 
 
 New flowers of speech. 
 Those be the blooms whose shape and scent, 
 Fresh gathered for our merriment, 
 We look to for our hearts' content, 
 
 And most beseech. 
 
 That day is still a day of days 
 When, plodding on our various ways, 
 Some laugh-provoking baby phrase 
 We bear with us. 
 
 242
 
 TO R. B. C. 243 
 
 Not wisdom crying in the street 
 With that dear nonsense can compete, 
 Or make our labours half so sweet 
 As baby does. 
 
 And will that little tongue still go 
 In dreamland, mispronouncing so ? 
 I would give half-a-crown to know 
 
 How last it ran. 
 
 The shadows jerking on the wall 
 Seem twitched with laughter one and all, 
 As if they'd heard it just miscall 
 
 Some bogey man. 
 
 A small grey mouse downstairs has run 
 Squealing to tell its mates the fun. 
 Why should I be the only one 
 
 That jest denied ? 
 But wait a little, manikin ! 
 I'll slip, once snug in bed, my skin 
 And flesh and bones, and just step in 
 
 The other side.
 
 THE LADY HOPE 
 
 I 
 
 Duxbury Speaks. 
 
 I HAD never seen Vane Court until it was doomed, 
 though I had heard much about it, in a fitful way, 
 from my friend Rupert Vane, to whom it belonged 
 by succession. He was the last representative of 
 his race, and in the way, indeed, to end it altogether. 
 The man was hopelessly in love hopelessly, in the ex- 
 treme sense of the word ; that is to say, there was only 
 one woman in the world for him, and she was not for 
 him. I had no personal knowledge of Lady Letitia 
 Berkeley ; and, save as my friend's lodestar, she has 
 no place in this story. But she was a generous and 
 high-minded girl, who, without doubt, would have 
 permitted, of her own free will, no considerations of 
 fortune to come between her and her love. That 
 barrier was provided by more interested parties, no 
 less than by the natural pride of an impecunious 
 suitor. The two were of a social condition that has 
 more exalted ideas than yours and mine, perhaps, of 
 what a suitable marriage provision consists. Vane 
 himself was of a very ancient family, and, had he 
 chosen, might likely have found it feasible to trade 
 
 244
 
 THE LADY HOPE 245 
 
 upon his name and position to the tune of whatever 
 was not expected of him in the way of settlements. 
 The columns of the newspapers supply countless 
 instances of people who live in the lap of luxury 
 on nothing a year. It is just a trick, like producing 
 a rabbit out of a hat. But Vane was not of these ; 
 he was even morbidly sensitive in money matters ; 
 and his love was shrined in a temple into which no 
 thought of usury had intruded or ever could intrude. 
 For nett result of all, therefore, his antique house 
 seemed doomed in him to extinction. 
 
 He was a man of an introspective temperament, 
 curiously quiet, reserved, enduring. A certain 
 sympathy in tastes brought us together in the first 
 instance. Vane Court was closed at that time, 
 and its master excogitating various schemes for 
 bolstering, nursing, saving the property propping 
 its crippled limbs under the weight of debt which 
 encumbered it. But they were idle all, and he 
 knew it. The estate was embarrassed beyond 
 redemption at least through any sum that he 
 could raise. It was mortgaged up to the chimneys, 
 and the highest reserve he could venture to put upon 
 its sale, should that prove inevitable, would just 
 about clear his honour and his pocket at the 
 final bid, and throw him, virtually penniless, upon 
 the world. And that, in short, came to be the 
 prospect which he had to face. 
 
 In the first full realisation of it, I think the hair 
 about his temples showed some early threads of
 
 246 THE FABULISTS 
 
 silver. The house was himself ; the thought of his 
 uprooting a virtual death. With its loss, too, was 
 associated another even more intimately pathetic. 
 He must forego for ever that last clinging hope of 
 the love that was to have mothered in it a new 
 generation. 
 
 It was about this time that I made my first 
 acquaintance with the old haunted residence. Vane 
 had asked me down to it, as the one friendly soul 
 who could appreciate his feelings at their true 
 significance. Those were his words, not mine. It 
 proved, at least, a fortunate choice, as I was to be 
 the unconscious instrument under Providence in 
 disencumbering the estate, and restoring happiness 
 to a very admirable fellow. I take no credit for 
 my part, and deserve none. It was a purely accidental 
 suggestion that did it. 
 
 Vane Court is a midland property, situated not 
 very far from Northampton. The actual fabric 
 of the house is early Tudor, with Perpendicular 
 windows, though later additions have confused the 
 original design. It is a fine, antique pile, and was, 
 I was a little surprised to discover on my first view 
 of it, in a sound state of preservation. But that 
 was for the structure. Within were desolate 
 corridors, denuded walls, an atmosphere as of 
 grey famine. Its many treasures had, indeed, been 
 withdrawn one by one to keep the fabric standing. 
 The stables hard by were empty and neglected, 
 their latches rusted with disuse, as was the handle
 
 THE LADY HOPE 247 
 
 of the pump in the shippen-yard ; but a curious, 
 great brass vane, shaped like a ship in full sail, 
 which surmounted a squat octagonal tower in their 
 midst, still turned erect and noiseless on its pivot. 
 I could have imagined the sleeping beauty lying 
 remote within those silent walls 
 
 Vane received me in his study almost the 
 only literally " living " room which remained to 
 him. A fire burned upon the hearth ; a clumber 
 spaniel was stretched on the rug before it ; a litter 
 of books, papers, personalia of every description 
 lay on shelves and tables around. There was even 
 a solitary picture hung over the chimney-piece, an 
 execrable sporting subject perpetrated in the worst 
 early nineteenth century style. He saw me look- 
 ing at it, and laughed in melancholy mood. 
 
 " Not much in our way, perhaps," he said ; 
 " but it's the only one left to me. The dealers 
 wouldn't touch it." 
 
 " Likely not," I answered drily. 
 
 " Yes," he said, musing and amused, pondering 
 the thing ; " it's bad. But I've a certain affection 
 for it. It was painted by a sporting ancestor of 
 mine, who was also a bit of an amateur artist ; and I 
 only wish it had been his worst act. He was the 
 one most responsible for the present state of 
 affairs." 
 
 " Ah ! " I said, sitting down. " So it's really 
 come to parting, Vane ? " 
 
 He lit his cigarette, and sat on a table, his hands
 
 248 THE FABULISTS 
 
 clasped over his crossed knees, his eyes dreaming into 
 the fire. 
 
 " Yes," he said. 
 
 " I should like to investigate the old place before 
 it goes, Vane. I should like to make some sketches 
 of it." 
 
 " For me, you mean ? Thank you, Fitz. You 
 shall do what you please to-morrow. To-night you're 
 mine. Yes, it's an old place. The Rover's grand- 
 father built it." 
 
 The wind came under the door from the vast 
 empty spaces beyond. The whole desolate house 
 seemed to wail and lament as under an intolerable 
 infliction. The carpet rose to the sob of it ; the 
 canvas of the picture swelled just perceptibly 
 like a sail. I saw the frame rock gently on the 
 wall. 
 
 " The Rover yes," I said, but half attending. 
 91 You've told me about him, I know. He was " 
 
 " He was our ancient mariner," said Vane. 
 " He learned ' sea-divinity ' under Drake the 
 theology which justified any robbery from anyone 
 who differed from you in religion. He was one of 
 the noble young gentlemen who accompanied that 
 famous filibuster during his circumnavigation of 
 the globe. They went to study sea-craft. It was 
 astonishing how profitable a study it proved. The 
 Rover was enchanted with his experience and, on 
 his return, bought and commissioned a ship of his 
 own the Lady Hope. You can see her portrait
 
 THE LADY HOPE 249 
 
 in brass to this day turning on my stable-roof 
 Dutch work it was put up by the Rover himself. 
 The name was the name of the lady who was his 
 his " 
 
 " His wife ? " 
 
 " No, his sweetheart. Somehow the terms aren't 
 synonymous with us. She jilted him, according to 
 the story. He'd succeeded, as I have, to an embar- 
 rassed estate, and he went boldly away to make 
 himself that buccaneering fortune which he was 
 resolved to bring home and lay at her feet. He 
 made it, and he brought it home ; but the feet had 
 flown. Lady Hope was Lady Hope no longer. 
 Her faithlessness, it was said, wrecked him, mind 
 and soul. He dwelt on at the Court a few years, 
 moping and misanthropic, then sailed away once 
 more and was never heard of again at least to 
 his credit. I'm afraid he visited his disappointment 
 in a very base way on the sex." 
 
 " And what became of the fortune ? " 
 
 " O ! the Lord knows ! Some of it was devoted, 
 no doubt, to refinancing the estate; but the bulk, 
 probably, he carried away with him. There used 
 to be a family tradition of some great stones hidden 
 by him about the house especially one enormous 
 diamond called the ' Dogstar,' which was said to be 
 larger than the Kohinoor after its first cutting. 
 He took it from an Indian carrack off the Azores, 
 and, if the tale's to be believed, it was simply of 
 incalculable value."
 
 250 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " Well, Vane, legend or not, I think I should have 
 looked for it." 
 
 " Looked ? Are we Vanes all fools, Fitz ? " 
 
 " O ! I beg your pardon." 
 
 " Trust us. There Ve been some of us, I think, 
 would have routed it out if it had existed, though it 
 had been buried deep as the foundations. We're 
 very hogs after such truffles. An empty fable, of 
 course. Why should he have left it behind him ? " 
 
 " Well, for the reason that explorers leave pro- 
 visions in caches that they may come to visit 
 again. One couldn't realise on a thing like that 
 in a hurry." 
 
 " Nonsense utter nonsense. If it had been 
 within our human reach, Harry Vane would have 
 found it." 
 
 " Who was he ? " 
 
 " The painter of that picture a mixture of dandy, 
 gamester and blackguard notorious at White's and 
 hazard, and a plunger if ever there was one. It was 
 he rattled away the Vane oaks in the dice-box, and 
 left the estate crippled to an extent from which it 
 has never recovered." 
 
 " I wonder you feel sentimental about him ? " 
 
 " Well, I dare say you do. But the fact is, he 
 was unfortunate in an attachment, too. He fell in a 
 duel because of her. There's a fatality about us." 
 
 We were silent for awhile. 
 
 " You have never seen Lady Lettice, Fitz ? " he 
 said suddenly.
 
 THE LADY HOPE 251 
 
 " No, Vane." He had never mentioned her name 
 to me before. 
 
 " It's funny," he said reflectively. " I wonder, if 
 you were to see her, if you would understand ? " 
 
 " Your love ? your loss ? " 
 
 " I dare say you wouldn't even call her pretty," 
 he said. " I don't know that I should myself. 
 Would you call this face pretty ? " 
 
 He took a photograph from his breast pocket, 
 and held it out to me. 
 
 " Frankly, not very," I said, after conning it. 
 
 " But there is nothing in it that offends ? " 
 
 " O, no ! " 
 
 " That's it. She's the very angel of inoffence. 
 Her thoughts all come out of lavender." 
 
 He sighed, restored his treasure to its shrine, and 
 once more a silence held between us. 
 
 " Vane," I said presently ; " I can't understand 
 what made your accomplished ancestor waste him- 
 self on a canvas of those dimensions." 
 
 "Eh!" he said, coming out of a deep reverie. 
 "The picture? O, yes! It was rather absurd, 
 wasn't it." 
 
 It certainly was. The subject was a ridiculous 
 little hunt, with figures preposterously disproportion- 
 ate with the amplitude of their surroundings. 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised," I said, " if the con- 
 junction was accidental. He had the canvas and he 
 had the idea, and the two didn't fit." 
 
 He looked at me a little without answering, his
 
 252 THE FABULISTS 
 
 eyes curiously lack-lustre ; then got up suddenly, 
 and, crossing to the fire-place, examined the work of 
 art intently. He was still about his scrutiny, when 
 the first dinner-bell rang. 
 
 II 
 
 " Return at once if possible. I particularly want 
 to see you." 
 
 I had been back in town but a day or two when 
 this telegram from Vane reached me. Within a few 
 hours I was on my way to Northampton. 
 
 He met me at the hall door, and I swear I hardly 
 knew him. This staid, melancholy soul was trans- 
 lated. His eyes shone as if with fever ; his measured 
 manner was replaced by one perpetually restless 
 and spasmodic. 
 
 " Good God ! " he said, seizing my hands, " good 
 God, Fitz ! " 
 
 " Vane, in heaven's name, what is it ? " 
 
 He hurried me eagerly into his sanctum and closed 
 the door. 
 
 " I haven't the nerve at last, Fitz," he cried. 
 " I simply can't venture the final test. You must 
 do it for me you must you were the cause." 
 
 I thought his troubles had unhinged his mind. 
 
 " There, come, old fellow," I said. " It's all 
 right. I'll do anything you want." 
 
 " Of course you will," he said. " Give me time
 
 THE LADY HOPE 253 
 
 to recover. You don't know what I've endured 
 waiting for you." 
 
 He turned away, bent, and rubbed his hands 
 before the fire ; but in a minute he was facing me 
 again. 
 
 "I'm making an enormous effort," he said. 
 " You'd appreciate it better if you knew what it 
 signified to me. Now, look. Do you notice any 
 vacancy here ? " 
 
 " You've sold the picture ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " Not I," he answered. " I wouldn't part with it 
 for a fortune." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, " what then ? That's for you 
 to discover. You've got to be my catspaw for the 
 chestnut you put down to roast. You really have, 
 Fitz. I'm afraid of burning my own fingers if I 
 try horribly afraid. You must forgive me for the 
 use I'm making of you." 
 
 He could find the nerve, even in the midst of his 
 excitement, to giggle over my expression. The sound 
 of that cachinnation comforted me amazingly. 
 
 " I'm perfectly sane, Fitz," he said. " Only 
 hideously agitated. You'll understand all in a 
 minute ; as, even if there was any purpose in 
 delaying the test, my reason wouldn't endure it, 
 now you've come. Something seems singing in my 
 heart that we're going to be successful." 
 
 Something seemed to sing in my own brain that, 
 if we were not whatsoever this strange test or
 
 254 THE FABULISTS 
 
 quest the man by me would drop dead at my 
 feet. 
 
 He led me out of the house and round towards 
 the stables. It was about three o'clock, and a 
 frosty but glowing afternoon. The vane on the 
 turrent stood motionless, its blackened brass shrouds 
 and tackle showing out distinctly against a pearl- 
 cold sky. The fashion of the thing was after the 
 " Grace-d-Dieu," in the queer picture at Greenwich 
 Hospital a fat-hulled, high-pooped craft, with four 
 masts, and protected tops for archers. Vane 
 stopped me suddenly, pointing to it. 
 
 " Do you remember my telling you," he said, 
 " that that was the Rover's work -a copy of his ship 
 the Lady Hope? He put it up after his return 
 from the Spanish Main, during those barren years 
 of his disappointment and inaction. It has stood 
 the wear of time, as I believe he meant it should. 
 It is a sort of rebus a play upon our name. Vanes 
 have we been all weathercocks freighted with 
 hope, and experts at raising the wind that bore us 
 to beggary. I believe I'm the very first to break 
 the tradition. Plausibility ceased from our house 
 with me. I should have no chance with the 
 Jews. Hope, at the last, is all that has descended 
 to me." 
 
 "It is the best possession," I said fatuously. 
 
 " So I'm inclined to think, " said he," thanks to 
 dear Fitz. It is centred in that little ball under the 
 rudder. Do you see it ? "
 
 THE LADY HOPE 255 
 
 " Yes," I said. " The balance of the thing was 
 estimated at two-thirds forward to one astern 
 obviously faultily. That ball was added to correct 
 it." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " he said. " I have another 
 theory about it. Anyhow, it's for that I summoned 
 you back." 
 
 " My dear fellow ! " 
 
 " My dear Fitz ! You speak forgive me the 
 common mind. The Rover was a man of foresight 
 and penetration. He knew the common mind and 
 provided against it. At least that is my theory. 
 Now let's go and look." 
 
 I followed him, rather pitifully. The conviction 
 that his misfortunes had affected his reason returned 
 upon me with redoubled force. He unlocked a door 
 in the octagonal tower, and motioned to me to enter. 
 A flight of dusty steps led up to a little chamber 
 under the roof. Looking overhead, I saw a narrow 
 trap in the ceiling, to which a fixed iron ladder led 
 from the floor. 
 
 " That's your way," said Vane. " This was the 
 Rover's conning-tower, so to speak. A later 
 Vandalism has turned it into a harness-room. 
 We've had some Goths in our family. But the 
 tradition, or superstition, of the weathercock has 
 always held. It's figured as a sort of heirloom, 
 the pivot upon which our fortunes turned. To keep 
 it perpetually oiled and twirling has been a sacred 
 trust with us. To what end, I say ? I'm going to
 
 256 THE FABULISTS 
 
 break that tradition too. I want you to go and 
 fetch it down." 
 
 " Me ? That weathercock ? " 
 
 " Yes, you. You began it, and you must end it. 
 That's only fair." 
 
 " But " 
 
 " To oblige me, Fitz. I can't answer for myself if 
 you refuse." 
 
 I ran up the ladder. The trap was secured by a 
 simple bolt. In another moment I was out on the 
 roof, and close by the odd thing where it swung at its 
 brassy moorings. I did not hesitate an instant, 
 but desperately grasped and lifted it. It turned 
 upon a rod which ran straight up through its mizzen- 
 mast, and it was readily detached. If there had 
 ever been a stop or screw at the crown, it had come 
 away. With my heavy plunder in my hands, I 
 descended warily to the floor once more. 
 
 Vane was as white as a sheet as he took it from 
 me, eagerly examined it, and handed it back. 
 
 " I believe my God ! " he whispered. " Unscrew 
 it do you hear ? Do you understand ? it un- 
 screws." 
 
 With shaking fingers he took from his pocket a 
 little hand winch which he had brought with him 
 against emergencies, and pressed it upon me. 
 
 " The ball the ball ! " he gasped. 
 
 I was near as excited as he was by this time. I 
 saw that the circumference of the little globe was 
 traversed by a scarce perceptible thread. Fitting
 
 THE LADY HOPE 257 
 
 the screw winch to the lower half, I bore with all 
 the weight of my wrist upon it. Suddenly it moved 
 with a tiny scream a thread of bright brass gleamed 
 out I twisted like a madman the ball parted 
 midway, and there fell from it, with a sharp thud 
 upon the boards, something wrapped in a screw of 
 suckling-calf vellum, upon which Vane pounced 
 with a sob. And the next instant a glory as of 
 long-imprisoned, long-smouldering light burst from 
 his hand. He looked up at me like one stunned. 
 " The ' Dogstar' ! " he whispered. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Well, Vane," I said, "when it's quite con- 
 venient to you." 
 
 He laughed, as he lit his pipe with a spill from 
 the fire. The " Dogstar " had been laid and locked 
 away, fathoms deep, for security. 
 
 " It was your remarking," he said, aggravatingly, 
 between his puffs, " upon the disproportion between 
 that canvas and its subject that first started me 
 upon the tack. There you are. That's where your 
 responsibility comes in. It was amazing so amaz- 
 ing, that I only wonder the suspicion had never 
 occurred to me before." 
 
 " What suspicion ? " 
 
 " Why, that ancestor Harry, a notorious Goth, 
 had had the effrontery to superimpose his execrable
 
 258 THE FABULISTS 
 
 stuff on one, and a great one, as it proved, of our 
 family portraits a portrait no less than that of the 
 Rover himself." 
 
 " Vane ! " 
 
 " It seems incredible, doesn't it ? But the man, 
 there's no denying it, was a Philistine of the first 
 water. Other instances of his Vandalism are on 
 record, but in this he certainly surpassed himself. 
 There's no guessing what havoc he played with 
 the family possessions ; but this particular work he 
 was always supposed to have parted with to the 
 Jews ; as no doubt he would have done, had he 
 guessed its value. The picture's by Zuccero, and of 
 extraordinary interest. I'll show it you in a minute." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, I was resolved to put my suspicion to the 
 test, anyhow ; and I had the thing down and began 
 experimenting on it at first rudely enough, but 
 soon with immense caution. Very little done con- 
 vinced me that my surmise was correct that 
 another and an older work lay beneath. I got a 
 local dealer to show me how to remove the surface, 
 and well, to cut a long story short, I restored 
 Rover Vane to his right possession of the canvas." 
 
 " But, I don't see " 
 
 " Of course not. I didn't myself for some days, 
 until an accident opened my eyes. My utmost 
 hope was that here perhaps was a potential treasure 
 of art, sufficient to stave off the day of reckoning. 
 And it was but in a way the remotest from my
 
 THE LADY HOPE 259 
 
 expectations. Come, now, and see it and read it 
 if you can." 
 
 He led the way across the hall to a little empty 
 room, the door of which he unlocked, taking the key 
 from his pocket, and threw open. 
 
 " There ! " he said. 
 
 It was bare of everything but a single frameless 
 picture, which was leaned against the opposite wall. 
 The frame itself stood apart in a corner amidst a 
 litter of tattered peelings. A haughty, truculent 
 young face, beruffed, black-bonnetted, seemed to 
 challenge the insolence of my intrusion. It sur- 
 mounted a figure robust and martial after a stiffly 
 anatomic pattern, upon the embroidery of whose 
 trappings and the steel of whose sword-hilt and 
 cuirass had been lavished the strictest art of the 
 painter. A dyed and gilded scroll in the left-hand 
 top corner contained the arms of the Vanes ; and at 
 the feet of the figure fell transversely across the 
 drugget, on which they stood, the light (a most 
 unusual feature) from an unseen lattice window, 
 whose reflections were scored with a number of 
 unreadable fine scriggles. The Rover stood before 
 me in the painted flesh. 
 
 I looked inquiringly at my friend. 
 
 " It conveys nothing to you ? " he said. 
 
 " Nothing bearing on your secret." 
 
 He laughed, and took my arm, and led me aside to 
 a position from which we could command the picture 
 at an angle.
 
 260 THE FABULISTS 
 
 "Now look attentively," said he; "especially 
 at those marks on the floor." 
 
 I was silent a minute or two. 
 
 " They have contracted themselves," I said 
 suddenly, " into what looks like a distich a double 
 line of writing." 
 
 "Admirable Fitz ! " he cried, exultant. *' So 
 they contracted themselves to me, one morning 
 when I turned from opening the shutters. They 
 answer to what used to be called a hagioscope 
 an oblique reading. Zuccero never put them there. 
 They were introduced afterwards, no doubt, and 
 for a purpose. They were the Rover's cryptogram 
 the clue to his secret ; and this is what they say." 
 
 He had got the lines by heart, and chaunted them 
 out : 
 
 " ' See fickle fortune turn in vayne. 
 
 What Hope hath lost shall naught regayne.' " 
 
 He ended. " I will take your word for it," I 
 said; " but even then " 
 
 " Wait a bit," he protested. " Directly I recog- 
 nised the hagioscopic character of the marks, I 
 made a careful tracing of them, and so got them 
 into easy black and white focus. That is what 
 they said ; and at the first it conveyed no more to 
 me than it does now to you. Inspiration came in 
 a flash. I " 
 
 " Hold on ! " I interrupted. " ' See fickle fortune 
 turn in vayne ' "
 
 THE LADY HOPE 261 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " you are getting at it, are you ? 
 You had forgotten the rebus, perhaps the skit 
 upon our name. Turn in vayne ! For three hundred 
 years it's been turning, Fitz. What could better 
 symbolise the Rover's estimate of his love's egregious 
 fortunes than that shifting weathercock the ship 
 which had borne him on to such a rock of despair ? 
 ' What Hope hath lost ' ? A fine cynical double 
 entente there ! I can imagine his savage transports, 
 seeing his false love's eyes, perhaps, lifted to consult 
 that oracle, and never guessing how her faithlessness 
 had deprived her vanity of the inestimable treasure 
 hidden within. But the barque has sailed into 
 port at last, and discharged her cargo. Hope, after 
 all, has come into her own. What do you think 
 the Rover is saying to it, Fitz ? " 
 
 " He's saying," I answered, turning again to 
 the portrait, " that Hope has other features than 
 those she bore in his time, and that in making her 
 the amende honorable at this late day, he's really 
 bidding for his own release from a pretty hot place. 
 I shall consider it unhandsome of you, Vane, if you 
 don't pay for a mass or two for the repose of his 
 soul!" ' 
 
 " A thousand, if it's any good." 
 
 " What do you estimate the value of the stone 
 at?" 
 
 " Lady Lettice's happiness." 
 
 " Yes, that's very poetical ; but I'm talking 
 prose."
 
 262 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " We can only make a relative calculation, Fitz. 
 I've been looking up the prices paid for some 
 famous stones. The great diamond in the Russian 
 sceptre, for instance, which weighs over a hundred 
 and ninety-three carats, was originally bought at 
 a price which at the present day would represent 
 a sum amounting to at least two hundred thousand 
 pounds. The Pitt diamond, of a hundred and 
 thirty-six carats, but reduced by cutting some 
 twenty per cent, yet fetched a hundred and twenty- 
 five thousand pounds a hundred and eighty years 
 ago. The Kohinoor, cut and cut again, and reduced 
 to scarcely more than an eighth of its original 
 dimensions, is still considered of almost incalcul- 
 able value, though a million sterling may be said 
 to represent the computation of the trade. But 
 there is really no standard of price for these excep- 
 tional stones. You may ask for them up to the 
 very limit of what cupidity can afford to give. The 
 * Dogstar,' on the scales' showing, exceeds the best 
 of those I have mentioned by twenty carats or more. 
 It is cut, and brilliantly cut, moreover, and of mag- 
 nificent water. I think I am sure O Fitz, old 
 Fitz ! what happy new generation is going to owe 
 its existence to you ! "
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 
 
 " The Goose that goes too often to the kitchen ends 
 on the spit." DANISH PROVERB. 
 
 I 
 
 Raven Speaks. 
 
 Two men, one middle-aged, the other scarce more 
 than a shrewdly precocious boy, sat breakfasting 
 late together in the coffee-room of a second- 
 rate hotel at Southampton. Of dingy reputation, 
 the hotel in question happened to be convenient 
 for afflicted passengers landing from the Channel 
 boats ; hence, no doubt, its chance selection by the 
 elder gentleman, whose sojourn there had already 
 run into a second day. 
 
 This person was large both in body and in pre- 
 sumptive benevolence. His formal dress was that 
 of an English clergyman, serene and orthodox ; 
 his face, with its minute-pupilled and somewhat 
 blind-looking oyster-grey eyes, was massively blunt- 
 featured, his smile was perpetual and his manner 
 smooth. His companion, who had only joined him 
 that morning, and whom he addressed, and pretty 
 constantly and ostentatiously, as Lord Burnside, 
 
 263
 
 264 THE FABULISTS 
 
 was suggested, rather than built, on a small cock- 
 ney plan. He looked as if he knew most things, 
 including a capacity for taking care of himself. The 
 table at which the two sat in the dark eating-room 
 was chosen as being remote from other feeding 
 company ; the iterated title was exploited for the 
 benefit of the dirty waiter alone, who, being suffi- 
 ciently impressed by it, communicated, as expected, 
 his knowledge to the management, and thereby 
 evoked some hovering curiosity in the background. 
 
 " Take or leave, Barry, my boy," said the clergy- 
 man, the Reverend William Wardroper by name. 
 He was leaning easily across the table ; he could 
 impart to the deadliest matter the most casual 
 manner possible, smiling and taking abstracted 
 note of his surroundings while his lips were calculat- 
 ing their every damning phrase. He beamed now 
 at a casual breakfaster, while his fingers trifled with 
 a spoon. " It is just the opportunity of our lives, 
 that is all," he said. " Substitute self-confidence 
 for indecision, and the risk is really not worth the 
 counting. There is positively a providence in it 
 all. Encore I'Audace : remember Danton's phrase." 
 
 " He was scragged, nevertheless, wasn't he ? " 
 said the young man coolly, and he drained his cup. 
 Mr. Barry Smith had been quite reasonably edu- 
 cated. It was not the fault of his training that he 
 lived most of his life in the local booking-office of 
 a London terminus, a machine rather than a man, 
 clipping and flinging out vouchers, himself no more
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 265 
 
 than a voice and an indistinct presence. But he 
 was fond of reading in his midnight hours. 
 
 " The knife, my boy," answered the clergyman ; 
 " not the rope. A distinction with all the difference 
 in the world. But you must make up your mind." 
 
 " Give me the objections again, governor." 
 
 " There are none." 
 
 " The points, then." 
 
 " Listen now. Roger " 
 
 " Ugh ! That gives one a nasty turn. There was 
 another Roger I've heard of mixed up in a like 
 business." 
 
 " Your risk is next to nothing. I take the bulk of 
 it, you understand. Roger Beck, I say, was a com- 
 plete nonentity. For years he and his mother had 
 been mere continental wastrels, known to nobody 
 least of all in their potential connections poor, 
 unattached, spending their lives in wandering from 
 place to place, and never settling anywhere. It was 
 in Switzerland that I came across them, and, worming 
 myself into their confidence " 
 
 " Trust you for a proper serpent, old man." 
 
 " Don't interrupt me again, please. Easily, I 
 say, I acquired with them a sort of confidential 
 position adviser and travelling tutor in one. The 
 boy was ill-educated ; the mother a fond dotard. 
 She never supposed but that impassable barriers 
 separated her lout from the title. It was the realisa- 
 tion of her mistake, I conclude, that killed her." 
 
 " That was at Chamonix ? "
 
 266 THE FABULISTS 
 
 " Above Chamonix, on the Montenvert. It was 
 late autumn, and the little deserted hotel was 
 preparing to close. I found her sitting dead, with 
 the English newspaper which had informed her 
 of her mistake slipping off her lap. I spotted the 
 tell-tale paragraph, and I kept it to myself." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " The boy now, unknown to himself, you 
 understand, Lord Burnside was completely in 
 my hands ; ready to do anything I advised. I 
 counselled England ; the woman was buried in 
 Chamonix ; and then, in order to the restoration 
 of his health and nerves, I despatched my pupil 
 on foot, by way of the Glacier des Bois, to Martigny 
 and the Rhone valley, thence to go on home by rail. 
 I myself was just to settle up our affairs and follow, 
 which I have done." 
 
 " A guide went with him." 
 
 " To be sure. That Mer de Glace, or Glacier 
 des Bois, is a ticklish place, full of deadly crevasses, 
 four or five hundred feet deep some of them, and 
 very lonely at this time of the year. I trust they 
 got safely over it. But I shall know soon. Terray 
 was to telephone me within a day or so of my arrival 
 here. He knows my address." 
 
 " Terray the guide ? " 
 
 " A rogue of a fellow," said the clergyman; " a 
 loafer in Chamonix and a half-English alien. I found 
 out something about him that made him fear me 
 more than a little."
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 267 
 
 The young man was rolling a cigarette, which 
 crackled stickily in his fingers. His face was almost 
 as white as the paper. 
 
 " He was to come on to England, too, was he ? " 
 he muttered. " A dangerous witness." 
 
 " Of what ? " said his companion blankly. " If 
 you said a possible murderer, now, I could under- 
 stand. But he would think twice, wouldn't he, 
 before double-knotting the noose about his own 
 neck ? " 
 
 Mr. Barry Smith put his cigarette to his lips with 
 a sickly air of bravado ; but his fingers shook. 
 
 " What next ? " he said, in a difficult voice. 
 
 The clergyman smiled ineffably. With his elbow 
 leaned on the table, he examined his finger-nails 
 with critical nicety. 
 
 " I ascertained the name of the lawyers," he said, 
 " and wrote to them before crossing, informing 
 them of my position, of the facts, and stating that 
 I proposed to convey the heir to his inheritance 
 in the course of a few days. Their reply was formal 
 and satisfactory, and I now await no more than 
 Terray's communication to respond to it. That 
 given, and given reassuringly, the rest lies with you." 
 
 " I know it does," said the young man, with some 
 desperate sullenness in his tone. 
 
 The clergyman lowered his arm, and caressed 
 the other's sleeve lightly with his finger-tips. 
 
 " My dear child," he said, in the softest, most 
 ingratiatory voice ; " it is for you to choose.
 
 268 THE FABULISTS 
 
 Observe, I put no pressure upon you whatever. I 
 might have selected a more competent agent, only 
 that the natural affections prevailed with me. 
 Consider well, however, before you decide, your 
 equipment for the task before you. You have a 
 retentive memory, I know, a fund of cool assurance, 
 and sufficient manners and education to play the 
 part. That you have not more you must attribute 
 not to any parental neglect, but to the chequered 
 nature of a career whose designs for your good have 
 always been greater than its capacities. There, 
 however, you come certainly into line with the 
 character you are proposed to represent. He was 
 no more refined, no better informed than yourself." 
 (It was significant how naturally he fell into the 
 past tense.) " For the rest, circumstances have 
 prepared the ground for us in a way, provided we 
 move with merely reasonable caution, to make a 
 slip impossible. Trust in me. Have you ever 
 known your friend to fail ? You, of all people, 
 should have faith, I think, in my methods. I have 
 given you proof often enough of their efficacy." 
 
 " Often enough is the father to once too often," 
 said Mr. Barry Smith, with sententious bitterness. 
 
 " Let us suggest rather the grandfather," said 
 the clergyman smoothly. " You never knew your 
 grandfather, I think, Lord Burnside. Ah, waiter ! 
 What is it ? " 
 
 " You're wanted at the telephone, sir," said the 
 man.
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 269 
 
 Mr. Wardroper rose and, smiling genially, followed 
 his conductor, at dignified pace, out of the room 
 to the secluded instrument. Once secure there in 
 isolation, he put the receiver to his ear. 
 
 " Yes ; my name is Wardroper," he said. " Who 
 is it ? " 
 
 " Are you alone ? " came the answer. 
 
 " Yes, alone. Are you ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am Terray." 
 
 " What Terray ? " 
 
 " The guide, sir." 
 
 " Where do you speak from ? " 
 
 " London, sir." 
 
 " You have something to tell me ? " 
 
 " It is this. You are safe to go ahead." 
 
 The clergyman returned to the coffee-room and 
 to his company. If his glassy eyes shut hi any 
 terrific secret, there was only one there capable of 
 interpreting the dim shadow that moved behind 
 them. 
 
 " L'audace, encore de I'audace, toujours de 
 I'audace," he said softly as he reseated himself. 
 " Have you decided, Barry, my boy ? " 
 
 " Well, if we're to be broke, we must be broke, I 
 suppose," answered the young man, with dogged 
 resignation. " Curse the moral of it all. It's a 
 prize worth risking something to get, anyhow. 
 Let's hear my instructions." 
 
 " I shall want you to be an attentive pupil, 
 Barry. You have got to cram, you understand. I
 
 270 THE FABULISTS 
 
 think I mastered most of the essential facts during 
 the time I tutored Master Roger. Now, turn your 
 mind's ear this way, if you please." 
 
 For an hour they conversed low together. It was 
 like the prolonged murmur from a confessional, 
 discussing what inaudible infamy, in a Catholic 
 church. At the end the clergyman rose. 
 
 " We can be in London by two o'clock," he said ; 
 then added softly, as the other got to his feet : 
 " L'audace, my boy, I'audace, I'audace. Every 
 move has been calculated ; every surprise foreseen 
 and provided against. Provisioned as you are, the 
 ordeal of the lawyers will prove a mere bagatelle ; 
 and, once accepted, self-confidence will carry us 
 on triumphantly. Only audacity. Remember it 
 is neck or nothing with us." 
 
 " A beastly way of putting it," said Mr. Smith. 
 He felt instinctively at his collar, as if his neck- 
 stud worried him, and cleared his throat. " Well, 
 come on," he said. 
 
 II 
 
 Let it be confessed at once, without any misleading 
 of the truth, that William Wardoper was a congeni- 
 tally wicked man. He did not lead the double 
 life, he would have told you ; he merely frankly 
 and cynically exploited his profession, a paid and 
 profitable profession like any other, for purposes of
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 271 
 
 self-interest and self-indulgence. If that were wrong, 
 the fault lay in the system, not in its adherents. 
 The Church never pretended to be anything but an 
 exclusive way to office and the coveted emoluments 
 of office ; its morality was exactly on a par with that 
 of "dirty" politics, with which, after all, it was 
 closely associated. 
 
 Wardroper was one of those intellectual human 
 abnormalities by whom all knowledge because, it 
 seems, of its easy acquirement is applied con- 
 temptuously to worthless ends. He had been a 
 double first class at Oxford ; a shrewd debater ; a 
 deadly controversialist. Yet from the first there 
 had always seemed something wrong about him, 
 indefinable, yet surely communicated to the seis- 
 mograph of the normal conscience. He had no 
 soul, in the spiritual acceptance of the term ; he 
 was not so much immoral as moral-less. And that 
 atmosphere, rather than any. definite suspicion of 
 heterodoxy, had kept him persistently unattached 
 and poor. So handicapped, the natural evil in 
 him had not hesitated to turn his " profession " 
 to whatever material profit it could command, 
 and he had descended by inevitable gradations 
 to the mere clerical adventurer, using his pseudo- 
 sacred calling for a cloak to cover his depravities. 
 He was a profligate by temperament ; his appetites 
 made him a criminal ; chance, in the matter of 
 the Burnside succession, put into his hands the 
 opportunity to become a gigantic criminal. The
 
 272 THE FABULISTS 
 
 magnitude of the stakes involved appealed to the 
 most daring in him. 
 
 Such men have, as a rule, a much greater fondness 
 for the fruits of their vices than of their rare virtues. 
 Mr. Barry Smith had had reasonable cause until 
 now to congratulate himself on the fact. His cockney 
 career had consistently owed as much as it was 
 worth to the influences of a parent, who disdained 
 ever to make a secret from his offspring of their 
 relationship, or to withhold from that offspring's 
 ears a narration of the principles which, in practice, 
 served to keep them both going. Only it was a 
 different thing to Master Barry when he found 
 himself called upon to take an active personal 
 share in the exploiting of those principles in one very 
 tremendous direction. However, being the true 
 son of his father, he ended, as we have seen, by 
 consenting. In a question of " neck or nothing," 
 as it had been disagreeably expressed to him, any 
 informal cutting of his duties had appeared a 
 matter of the smallest moment, and he had left the 
 booking-office, as he knew, never to return to it. 
 
 At the hour named the two men entered Messrs* 
 Sherrard and Stormont's offices in Norfolk Street, 
 Strand. Mr. Smith, for all his vamped-up assurance, 
 was looking peaked and glum ; Mr. Wardroper was 
 humming a blithe little air as they entered the glazed 
 partition occupied by the commissionaire whose 
 business it was to take down the names of visiting 
 clients on little slips of paper, and convey the same
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 273 
 
 into this or the other of the inner sanctums. The 
 man came back almost at once, and ushered the 
 gentlemen into a hushed apartment, lofty, gloomy, 
 and severely legal hi its appointments. A tall, 
 calm-looking gentleman, of virile middle-age, just 
 raised his body an inch or two from the chair hi 
 which he sat before a substantial desk and, with that 
 apology for a salutation, sank down again and 
 immovably conned his visitors. 
 
 " Mr. ? " ventured the clergyman, with a smilet 
 
 " Stormont," answered the gentleman. He just 
 bent to glance officially at the slip of paper and 
 looked up again. " And you ? " 
 
 " Wardroper," said the clergyman ; " and " he 
 signified his companion " my pupil, Lord Burnside." 
 
 " Exactly," said the gentleman. He seemed 
 quite to brisk up. " We received and answered your 
 communication, I think, Mr. Wardroper. Pray be 
 seated." 
 
 " That is so, Mr. Stormont." 
 
 "There are one or two formalities to be gone 
 through with certificates, identification, and so 
 forth. You will understand that ? " 
 
 " Assuredly. I am prepared, for my part, to 
 satisfy all inquiries." 
 
 " Just so. As for instance, how there come to be 
 two claimants for the title at one time ? " 
 
 It all happened in a moment. The shock was 
 proportionate to the occasion. Mr. Wardroper, risen 
 in an instant to his feet, was conscious of the snap 
 s
 
 274 THE FABULISTS 
 
 of cold steel about his wrists, and turned to find 
 himself in the custody of a burly inspector of police. 
 A supplementary constable had timely performed 
 the same neat and rapid office for his offspring. 
 
 The inspector spoke : " Charge of conspiracy and 
 attempting to procure murder," and shut his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Attempting ! " The comment was out before the 
 astounded criminal could stay it, or realise its signi- 
 .ficance. 
 
 " It's my duty to warn you," began the inspector. 
 
 " O, I know, I know ! " said the clergyman, with a 
 little genial impatience. He had quite recovered 
 himself. " Mr. Sherrard, I presume ? " he said, 
 addressing a stout and satisfied gentleman, who 
 stood in the background, beaming through a pair 
 of spectacles. " This is amazing treatment, my 
 good sirs, for one of my cloth. I trust you will not 
 live to repent it." 
 
 " Done with the neatest privacy and despatch, 
 Sherrard," said his partner. " I congratulate you. 
 And now we need not delay bringing in our witness." 
 
 At a sign from him a pale, skimp young man came 
 into the room. Wardroper gasped. 
 
 " Let me re-introduce to you," said Stormont, 
 " our Lord Burnside formerly your pupil, Mr. 
 Roger Beck." 
 
 The clergyman's lips, the clergyman's staring 
 eyes, shaped their own inarticulate message. But 
 still the mechanical smile never left his face.
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 275 
 
 " Hullo, Roger, my boy ! "he shook out at length. 
 It sounded somehow like an appalling blasphemy. 
 
 " Tell him, if you please," said Mr. Stormont, 
 " and get it done with." 
 
 The young man came forward. One could under- 
 stand from his physical meanness, from his common 
 tone, tainted with a queer little foreign accent, how 
 it had ever occurred to that other to replace him by 
 so vulgar a substitute. 
 
 " We were crossing the glacier," he said ; "we 
 were skirting a narrow, deep crevasse, when he, that 
 Terray, lifted and threw me in. At least he tried 
 to ; but my alpenstock caught across, and there I 
 hung by my hands. And as I hung, he told me all 
 about it the lord I had become, the plot to do me 
 out of my title and my life. He enjoyed telling it 
 me, the devil ; he laughed at my tears and entreaties. 
 ' When you have relished it to the dregs/ he said, 
 ' I shall just kick this, so, and down you will drop 
 to eternity. And for me, I shall go on to England 
 and be paid my price the first price, that is, which 
 is to be.' He was leaning over and gloating at me, 
 when there came a sudden wind up from the abyss, 
 cold as death and blinding with ice, and he staggered 
 and fell in." 
 
 " The glacier-blast," put in Stormont, nodding his 
 head like one who had climbed mountains, and knew. 
 
 " I heard him scream as he fell," continued the 
 young man. " It was like an express engine, faint and 
 fainter. Then I was mad, all alone there. I don't
 
 276 THE FABULISTS 
 
 know how I got out. I got my knee somehow upon 
 the alpenstock, and then my foot. My nails burst, 
 and only I knew I was lying safe above, and presently 
 the cold revived me. Then, saying no word to any- 
 body, sick only that he might still follow and kill 
 me, I came on to England, and sought out the late 
 lord's solicitors." 
 
 He ceased. " There is little essential to add," 
 said Stormont. " The clue once in our hands, with 
 your letter " he addressed the clergyman " to 
 confirm it, we had simply to await your arrival and 
 thereafter shadow your movements. You have 
 been watched, sir, at every point, since you landed. 
 The telephone message from the supposed guide 
 was spoken by the inspector here. Do you wish any 
 more information ? " 
 
 Still the same ghastly smile and mute lips. 
 
 " It was, to do you full credit," continued the 
 lawyer, " infamously well planned. The utter ob- 
 scurity attaching to the life of our client ; his own 
 ignorance of his succession ; the absence of any wit- 
 nesses capable of testifying to the truth. I won't say, 
 had it not been for that strange providence, but 
 that one of the cunningest frauds of our time 
 might have been successfully perpetrated. You can 
 take that negative comfort to your doom." 
 
 Mr. Wardroper, rallying ineffably from his stupor, 
 waved his large hand. 
 
 " Surely it is not spoken yet, sir," he said. " I 
 see nothing in all this but the inadmissible evidence
 
 ONCE TOO OFTEN 277 
 
 of hearsay to associate me with any conspiracy or 
 evil design whatever." 
 
 He was interrupted by Mr. Barry Smith, who had 
 sat collapsed hitherto in the chair into which he 
 had sunk. 
 
 " Conspiracy," he snarled, lifting his head. " I 
 wish I'd never answered to your summons ; I 
 wish I'd never agreed to play my lord to your 
 bloody-handed piping. Trust in you, indeed, you 
 old devil and dotard ! You may get out of it as 
 you can. I've had enough of your infallible methods, 
 and I'm going to tell the truth ! " 
 
 Mr. Wardroper appeared to stagger a little. He 
 closed his eyes and re-opened them, and wonderful 
 to relate they were wet. 
 
 " You to turn King's evidence, Barry, my boy ! " 
 he said. 
 
 " There," said the lawyer, " that will do. Take 
 them away, inspector."
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 
 
 Scanott Speaks. 
 
 CONCANON had taken the train to Farnborough, on 
 the South- Western main line, and thence walked to 
 view the "House to Let." The house, according 
 to the agents, had appeared the very thing to suit 
 him. It was small, isolated, the rent was low, and 
 there was a garden. Its reported solitude was what 
 had most appealed to him. He had just completed 
 a labour involving perpetual research and applica- 
 tion, and his brain-exhaustion coveted an utter 
 pastoral vacancy for months, for years, for a life- 
 time if need be. As yet freedom and idleness filled 
 him with only a dim rapture. 
 
 His direction soon took him off the highways 
 into remote quietudes. Trees and fields were all 
 about him ; and then came a little village. It was 
 a grave, sunless day, with only the tiniest breeze 
 that blew in ghostly spasms, and danced in little 
 eddies of dust before his feet, and in a moment was 
 gone. Suddenly, at a half mile beyond the village 
 in a flat country, he came upon a horseless furniture 
 van standing in the middle of the road. 
 
 It struck him as odd, and no more. As he passed, 
 
 278
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 279 
 
 he observed that the back doors were open, and that 
 an oak chest of an antique pattern was slightly 
 protruded through them. But no sign of men or 
 cattle was visible anywhere. 
 
 He went on, assuming that, according to his 
 directions, he must be very near his destination. 
 Somehow his thoughts reverted to a story recently 
 told him. It was of a deserted house, into which 
 nobody could penetrate. So surely as one tried, some 
 force, invisible, unaccountable, ejected him. Then 
 once a scandalised and indignant mob had essayed 
 to storm the place. They threw stones, they were 
 prepared to fire on it ; when suddenly there had 
 appeared at a window a presence so hideous that the 
 boldest screamed and fled. And thenceforth the 
 house was accursed and abandoned. 
 
 Concanon was wondering what had recalled the 
 weird thing to his mind, when he came upon a little 
 lane leading off the road ; and at the end was the 
 House to Let. He would have known it at once 
 from the particulars given him, without the ad- 
 vertising board to confirm. Alert on the instant, 
 he turned down the lane, and, approaching, saw at 
 once the explanation of the van. The tenants were 
 in actual process of leaving. 
 
 He was surprised, as he had certainly understood 
 from the agent that the house was empty ; yet 
 here were evidences enough of active removal. 
 Straw strewed the short drive ; articles of furniture, 
 placed ready for porterage, stood about the steps.
 
 280 THE FABULISTS 
 
 Yet still not a living soul appeared to attest the 
 fact. 
 
 Lonely of the loneliest the house undoubtedly 
 appeared ; yet, in its position, its embowered quiet, 
 its rusted antiquity, restfully potential of promise. 
 Concanon went on and entered the hall, assuring 
 himself, he knew not why, that here anyhow was no 
 repelling malignity. Rather some emotion, vaguely 
 sympathetic, seemed to lure him on from room to 
 room. They were all littered with unremoved 
 furniture. Obviously the British workman, claim- 
 ing his prescriptive right to thirst, had adjourned 
 to the neighbouring village for beer, leaving his task 
 unfinished. 
 
 Now it seemed to Concanon all of a sudden that 
 the thing he had considered and repudiated was 
 actually happening to him he was being softly, 
 invisibly, propelled towards the door. The con- 
 viction was so strong that, to test it, he leaned 
 slightly backwards, enough to throw him normally 
 off his balance. The next moment he was out in the 
 garden and walking rapidly away from the house, 
 his heart thumping and his brain in a fume. He 
 went up the lane, and coming out into the road, saw 
 the deserted van still in its place. The oak chest 
 appeared, if anything, a thought more protruded. 
 
 An hour later he walked into the agent's office in 
 Farnborough. 
 
 " You never told me," he said, " that the house 
 was occupied."
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 281 
 
 The agent stared at him. 
 
 " It isn't occupied, sir." 
 
 " Was, then, until recently. I found the removal 
 going on." 
 
 " It hasn't been let, I assure you, for over a year." 
 
 It was Concanon's turn to stare. 
 
 " Will you come back there with me ? " he said. 
 " We'll get a trap and drive over." 
 
 There was something wrong here, it appeared. 
 Could it be possible that tenants unbid had taken 
 advantage of the remoteness of the place to put in a 
 year's occupation rent-free ? Yes, the agent would 
 come with him. 
 
 They drove over. Nearing the lane, Concanon 
 observed that the furniture-van was no longer hi 
 evidence. It had been removed during the interval. 
 That was a plausible hypothesis, but no hypothesis 
 could account for the utter desertion and emptiness 
 of the house when they reached it. The men on 
 their return must have worked with a superhuman 
 activity. There was no trace anywhere of straw, 
 of furniture, of human occupation. It was all dust 
 and echoing loneliness. 
 
 The agent, taking his client for the second time 
 over the premises, was a little curt in his manner. 
 Probably he thought Concanon drunk or possessed. 
 He looked at him covertly from time to time, but 
 hardly alluded to the mare's nest which had brought 
 him afield to the utter waste of his afternoon. 
 
 Back in his office, he could scarcely command the
 
 282 THE FABULISTS 
 
 professional blandishment meet for the netting of 
 a customer. He spoke with a minute show of im- 
 patience, barely troubling to suggest alternatives. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said, " are you satisfied with the 
 place or not ? " 
 
 " Who were the last tenants ? " said Concanon, 
 answering the question with a question. 
 
 The agent shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " A family, name of Barrel, " he said shortly. 
 
 " An ordinary family ; I mean there was nothing 
 unusual about them ? " asked the customer, he 
 himself hardly know why. 
 
 " They paid their rent," said the agent. " That 
 was all I needed to know about them." 
 
 " Of whom did they consist ? " 
 
 " Father, mother, and a daughter of the mother, 
 who had been married before. The mother died 
 during their tenancy. Well, sir, about the house ? " 
 
 Concanon rose, and stood with his back to the 
 empty fireplace. 
 
 " I wish you'd tell me," he said, " what sort of 
 people they were." 
 
 His nervous insistence impressed the agent despite 
 his commonplace self. 
 
 " Really, sir," he said, " I knew nothing definite 
 against them." 
 
 " Definite ? " 
 
 " The man hadn't, perhaps, a first-class reputation. 
 He was, in fact, rather a domestic tyrant, and un- 
 popular with his neighbours."
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 283 
 
 " There was no suggestion of " 
 
 " Foul play ? Good heavens, no ! What are 
 you hinting at ? The poor woman died of some 
 internal complaint. Though certainly " 
 
 " Well, what ? " 
 
 " Why, it simply occurred to me that the money 
 was hers. But you mustn't accept that for any 
 suggestive admission. Everything was perfectly 
 straight and above-board." 
 
 " And they left a year ago, you say ? " 
 
 " Rather more." 
 
 " Do you know where they went ? " 
 
 " No, I don't. I know only that the furniture 
 was stored." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " That I can't recall. Now, sir, I must really 
 trouble you for an answer." 
 
 " Leave that open," said Concanon. " The place 
 suits me and it doesn't. If I decide to take, I'll 
 let you know." 
 
 He left the office in an odd mood. He seemed to 
 himself to have been impelled to these questions. 
 He returned to town in a state of queer mental 
 perturbation, which did nothing but increase 
 during the next day or two. Clearly, unless he 
 could devise some means to quiet it, his search 
 for repose had exchanged him merely Scylla for 
 Charybdis. 
 
 One night he saw in a dream once more the de- 
 serted furniture van. It stood on the empty road,
 
 284 THE FABULISTS 
 
 as it had stood to his waking vision ; only there was 
 a difference the oak chest was so protruded that it 
 seemed to shoot towards him. He woke trembling 
 and in a violent sweat ; and by the morning he had 
 made up his mind. He must do his utmost to trace 
 the thing. 
 
 Now, at the time of his first experience, he had 
 noted plainly enough, with no ulterior purpose, yet 
 somehow compelled to the observation, the in- 
 scription on the van. It was that of a well-known 
 Pantechnicon at Southampton ; and his one obvious 
 recourse was to visit the place. Necessarily his 
 mission must be a blind one ; nor could he conceive 
 what was to be its upshot. But go he must, if only 
 as a first step towards resolving a very haunting 
 psychical problem. He took an early opportunity 
 to run down. 
 
 As he approached the place, he saw that a quantity 
 of furniture and household effects was in process 
 of being removed from it at the moment. A couple 
 of tilted vans, heavily laden, issued from the yard as 
 he approached, and prominent on the tail board of the 
 second lay the oak chest. He believed he recognised it 
 with certainty, and his heart gave an odd twist. 
 Then, turning, he followed the van through the 
 streets. It led him to the rear quarters of some 
 auction rooms, where it stopped to unload. He 
 waited to see the chest carried in, then walked 
 round to the front offices and inquired as to forth- 
 coming furniture sales. The one they were about
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 285 
 
 to catalogue, he learned, was to take place in a 
 week. 
 
 He would wait for it, he told himself. He was, 
 happily, an idle man, and weather and water were 
 attractive. Calling at the auction rooms in due 
 course, he procured a catalogue and, having as- 
 certained from it that the goods were to be sold by 
 the direction of a Mr. Darrel, their owner, he passed 
 in to view the lots. The chest, on examination, 
 proved to be a sound antique piece ; but it was 
 completely, and naturally, empty. On the day of 
 the sale he attended, and, having bought the thing 
 at a fair price, had it carried home to his lodgings. 
 
 At night he examined his purchase. It was to 
 reveal to him for once and for all the actuality of 
 the ghostly influence which had mastered him, or 
 his own unfounded superstition. It was with a 
 thrill, quite momentarily sickening in its intensity, 
 that he found his minute investigation rewarded 
 at last by the discovery of a secret panel which, 
 sliding apart, betrayed the fact of a document 
 hidden behind it. Concanon disinterred his prize 
 with shaking fingers, and spread it open. 
 
 It was a Will, duly attested, and signed by one 
 Kathleen Darrel (nee Brewer) making her only 
 surviving daughter, Lucy Allingham, her sole 
 residuary legatee, after the payment of a certain 
 bequest to John Darrell, the testator's husband. 
 
 The next day Concanon returned to town, where 
 he made it his first business to visit the probate
 
 286 THE FABULISTS 
 
 office at Somerset House. The will in his possession, 
 he discovered, post-dated another, proved by John 
 Darrell, in which the whole of Kathleen Barrel's 
 property and effects were left unconditionally to her 
 husband. 
 
 Concanon promptly transferred the further con- 
 duct of the matter to the hands of his lawyers, who, 
 discarding all evidences of supernatural agency, 
 proceeded to work, like plain business men, to find 
 the girl, Lucy Allingham. A series of advertise- 
 ments was successful at length hi producing her, and 
 then the story, such as it was, came out. Darrel 
 had been a brute, both to his wife, whose fortune 
 he had married, and to his step-daughter. The 
 complete control he had effected over the former 
 had resulted in the will by which he alone profited ; 
 but remorse of conscience, it seemed, had driven the 
 mother, when stricken to her death, to remedy the 
 injustice done her child by executing a later will 
 that hidden away hi the oak chest. It was duly 
 witnessed by a couple of ignorant and illiterate 
 laundry hands, who had been sworn to secrecy, and 
 the girl supposed that some frantic, inarticulate 
 efforts made by her mother, when actually dying, 
 to explain something to her, had related to the 
 secret deposit. The two had lived in mortal terror 
 of Darrel ; the mother had postponed her revelation, 
 with fatal results, to the very last. The moment 
 she was dead and buried, the miscreant had driven 
 the girl from home, with an intimation that she was
 
 THE VAN ON THE ROAD 287 
 
 to expect nothing more from him. She, delicately 
 reared and educated, had been eking out a miserable 
 existence as a skirt hand, when the solicitors' 
 advertisement at length reached her. 
 
 The law did the rest, and effectively ; and a 
 scoundrel was duly checkmated. But there was a 
 postscript, proper to the singularity of the occasion. 
 The emotional experience, operating on a somewhat 
 debilitated constitution ; the impulse to a certain in- 
 timacy, supernaturally encouraged ; the communion 
 in a secret very sweet and pitiful in its essence 
 how could these result but in a craving for closer re- 
 lations ? The girl was desirable, the man, in his 
 then condition, wholly susceptible. When at length 
 Concanon moved into a country cottage not that 
 one in question, but another and a fairer, far away 
 he took a wife with him for love's sake.
 
 THE MASK 
 
 " Le masque tombe, I'homme reste." 
 
 Duxbury Speaks, 
 
 THERE are mental modes as there are sartorial, and, 
 commercially, the successful publisher is like the 
 successful tailor, a man who knows how timely to 
 exploit the fashion. Is it for the moment realism, 
 romance, the psychic, the analytic, the homely 
 he makes, with Rabelais, his soup according to his 
 bread, and feeds the multitude, as it asks, either on 
 turtle or pease-porridge. 
 
 It was on the crest of a big psychic wave that 
 Hands and Cumberbatch launched their " Haunted 
 Houses" a commonplace but quite effective title. 
 It was all projected and floated within the compass 
 of a few months, and it proved a first success. The 
 idea was, of course, authentic possessions, or mani- 
 festations, and the thing was to be done in convinc- 
 ing style, with photogravure illustrations. The 
 letter-press was entrusted to Penn-Howard, and 
 the camera business to an old college-friend of his 
 selection, J. B. Lamont. The two worked in double 
 harness, and collected between them more material 
 than could be used. But the cream of it was in the 
 
 288
 
 THE MASK 289 
 
 book, though not that particular skimming I am 
 here to present, and for whose suppression at the 
 time there were reasons. 
 
 I knew Penn-Howard pretty intimately, and 
 should not have thought him an ideal hand for the 
 task. He was a younger son of Lord Staveley, and 
 carried an Honourable to his name. A brilliant 
 fellow, cool, practical, modern, with infinite humour 
 and aplomb, he would yet to my mind have lacked 
 the first essential of an evangelist, a faith in the 
 gospel he preached. He did not, in short, believe in 
 spooks, and his dealings with the supernatural 
 must all have been in the nature of an urbane 
 Pyrrhonism. But he was a fine, imaginative writer, 
 who could raise terrors he did not feel ; and that, 
 no doubt, explained in part his publishers' choice. 
 What chiefly influenced them, however, was un- 
 questionably his social popularity; he was known 
 and liked everywhere, and could count most count- 
 able people among his friends, actual or potential. 
 Where he wanted to go he went, and where he went 
 he was welcome an invaluable factor in this some- 
 what delicate business of ghost-hunting. But fashion 
 affects even spirits, and, when the supernatural is 
 en vogue, doors long jealously shut upon family 
 secrets will be found to open themselves in a quite 
 wonderful way. Hence, the time and the man 
 agreeing, the success of the book. 
 
 I met Penn-Howard at Lady Caroon's during the 
 time he was collecting his material. There were a
 
 290 THE FABULISTS 
 
 few other guests at Hawkesbury, among them, just 
 arrived, a tall, serious young fellow called Howick. 
 Mr. Howick, I understood, had lately succeeded, 
 from a collateral branch, to the Howick estates in 
 Hampshire. His sister was to have come with him, 
 but had excused herself at the last moment or 
 rather, had been excused by him. She was indefi- 
 nitely " ailing," it appeared, and unfit for society. 
 He used the word, in my hearing, with a certain 
 hard decisiveness, in which there seemed a hint of 
 something painful. Others may have felt it too, for 
 the subject of the absentee was at once and discreetly 
 waived. 
 
 Hawkesbury has its ghost a nebulous radiance 
 with a face that floats before one in the gloom of 
 corridors and naturally at some time during 
 the evening the talk turned upon visitations. 
 Penn-Howard was very picturesque, but, to me, 
 unconvincing on the subject. There was no feeling 
 behind his imagination ; and, when put to it, he 
 admitted as much. Some one had complimented 
 him on the gruesome originality of a story of his 
 which had recently appeared in one of the sixpenny 
 magazines, and, quite good-humouredly, he had 
 repudiated the term. 
 
 " No mortal being," he said, " may claim origin- 
 ality for his productions. There are the three 
 primary colours, blue, red and yellow, and the three 
 dimensions, length, breadth and thickness. They 
 are original ; it would be original to make a fourth ;
 
 THE MASK 291 
 
 only we can't do it. We can only exploit creation 
 ready-made as we find it. Everything for us is 
 comprised within those limits even Lady Caroon's 
 ghost. It is a question of selection and chemical 
 affinities, that is all. There is no such thing here 
 as a supernature." 
 
 He was cried out on for his heresy to his own art 
 for his confession of its soullessness. 
 
 " Soul," he contended at that, " is not wanted in 
 art, nor is religion ; but only the five unperturbed 
 and explorative senses. Pan, I think, would have 
 made the ideal artist." 
 
 I saw Howick, who was sitting silently apart, 
 suddenly hug himself at these words, bending for- 
 ward and stiffening his lips, as a man does who 
 mutely traverses a sentiment he is too shy or too 
 superior to discuss. I did not know which it was 
 with him ; but inclined to the latter. There was 
 something bonily professorial in his aspect. 
 
 While we were talking Lamont came in. He 
 had not appeared at dinner, and I had not yet seen 
 him. He was a compact, stubby man, in astigmatic 
 glasses, and very dark, with a cleft chin, and a 
 resolute mouth under a moustache in keeping with 
 his strong, thick eyebrows. He gave me somehow 
 in the connection a feeling of much greater fitness 
 than did Penn-Howard. There was no suggestion 
 of the esprit-fort about him, and I got an idea that, 
 though only the technical collaborator, the right 
 atmosphere of the book, if and when it appeared,
 
 292 THE FABULISTS 
 
 would be due more to him than to the other. He 
 spoke little, but authoritatively ; and I remember 
 he told us that night some queer things about 
 photography such, for instance, as its mysterious 
 relation to something in light-rays, which was not 
 heat and was not light, and yet like light could 
 reveal the hidden, as a mirror reveals to one the 
 objects out of sight behind one's back. Thence, 
 touching upon astral charts and composite portraits 
 by the way, he came to his illustration, which was 
 creepy enough. He had once for some reason, it 
 appeared, taken a post-mortem photograph. The 
 man, the subject, had cut in life a considerable figure 
 in the parliamentary world as an advanced advocate 
 of social and moral reform, and had died in the odour 
 of political sanctity. In securing the negative, 
 circumstances had necessitated a long exposure ; 
 but accident had contrived a longer and a deadlier, 
 in the double sense. The searchlight of the lens, 
 being left concentrated an undue time on the lifeless 
 face, had discovered things hitherto impenetrable 
 and unguessed-at. The nature of the real horror 
 had been drawn through the super-imposing veil, 
 and the revelation of what had been existing all 
 the time under the surface was not pleasant. The 
 photograph had not appeared in the illustrated paper 
 for which it was intended, and Lamont had destroyed 
 the negative. 
 
 So he told us, in a forcible, economic way which 
 was more effective than much verbal adornment ;
 
 THE MASK 293 
 
 and again my attention was caught by Howick, 
 who seemed dwelling upon the speaker's words 
 with an expression quite arresting in its ungainly 
 intensity. Later on I saw the two in earnest conver- 
 sation together. 
 
 That was in October, and I left Hawkesbury on the 
 following day. Full ten months passed before I 
 saw Penn-Howard again ; and then one hot evening 
 towards dusk he walked into my chambers in Brick 
 Court and asked for a cigarette. 
 
 He seemed distraught, withdrawn, like a man 
 who, having something on his mind, was pondering 
 an uncompromising way of relief from it. Quite 
 undesignedly and inevitably I gave him his cue by 
 asking how the book progressed. He heaved out a 
 great, smoke-laden sigh at once, stirred, drew up and 
 dropped his shoulders, and looked at the fiery point 
 of his cigarette before replacing the butt between 
 his lips. 
 
 " O, the book ! " he said. " It's ready for the 
 press, so far as I'm concerned." 
 
 " And Lament ? " 
 
 " Yes, and J. B." 
 
 He got up, paced the width of the room and back, 
 and stood before me, alternately drawing at and 
 withdrawing his cigarette. 
 
 " There's one thing that won't go into it," he said, 
 his eyes suggesting a rather forced evasion of mine. 
 
 " O ! What's that ? " 
 
 Again, as if doubtful of himself, he turned to
 
 294 THE FABULISTS 
 
 tramp out his restlessness or agitation ; thought 
 better of it, and sat resolutely down in a chair 
 against the dark end of the bookcase. 
 
 " Would you care to know ? " he said. " Truth 
 is, I came to tell you if I could ; to ask your 
 opinion on the thing. There's the comfort of the 
 judicial brain about you : I can imagine, like a 
 client, that simply to confide one's case to such is 
 to feel relieved of a load of responsibility. It won't 
 go into the book, I say ; but I want it to go out of 
 me. I'm too full of it for comfort." 
 
 "Of it? Of what? " 
 
 " What ? " he said, as if in a sudden spasm of 
 violence. " I wish to God you'd tell me." 
 
 He sat moodily silent for some minutes, and I did 
 nothing to help him out. A hot, sour air came in 
 by the open window, and the heavy red curtains 
 shrank and dilated languidly in it, as if they were 
 the lungs of the stifling room. Outside the dusty 
 roar of the traffic went on unceasingly, with a noise 
 like that of overhead machinery. I was feeling 
 stale and tired, and wished, in the Rooseveltian 
 phrase, that Penn-Howard would either get on or 
 get out. 
 
 " It's a queer thing, isn't it," he said suddenly, 
 with an obvious effort, " that of all the stuff collected 
 for that book you were speaking of, the only auth- 
 entic instance for which I can personally vouch is the 
 only instance to be excluded ? All the rest was on 
 hearsay."
 
 THE MASK 295 
 
 " Well, you surprise me," I said, quietly, after 
 a pause. " Not because any authentic instance, 
 about which I know nothing, is excluded, but 
 because, by your own confession, there is one to 
 exclude." 
 
 " I know what you mean, of course," he answered ; 
 and quoted : " ' But, spite of all the criticising 
 elves, those who would make us feel must feel them- 
 selves.' Quite right. I never really believed in 
 supernatural influences. Do I now ? That is what 
 I want you to decide for me." 
 
 He laughed slightly ; sighed again, and seemed 
 rather to shrink into his dusky corner. 
 
 " I'm going to tell you at a run," he said. " Bear 
 with me, like an angelic fellow. You remember 
 that man Howick at Lady Caroon's ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite well." 
 
 " It seemed, when he learnt our business, Lament's 
 and mine, that there was something he wished to 
 tell us. He pitched upon J. B. as the more respon- 
 sible partnei ; and I'm not sure he wasn't right." 
 
 " Nor am I." 
 
 " O ! you aren't, are you ? Well, Jemmy was 
 my choice, anyhow, and for the sake of the qualities 
 you think I lack. He has a way of getting behind 
 things always had, even at Oxford. Some men 
 seem to know the trick by instinct. He is a very 
 queer sort, and the featest with the camera of any 
 one I've ever seen or heard of. It was for that 
 reason I asked him to come to get the ghostliest
 
 296 THE FABULISTS 
 
 possible out of ghostly buildings and haunted rooms. 
 You remember what he told us that night ? I've 
 seen some of his spirit photographs, though without 
 feeling convinced. But his description of that dead 
 face ! My God ! I thought at the time he was just 
 improvising to suit the occasion ; but " 
 
 He stopped abruptly. There was something odd 
 here. It was evident that, for an unknown reason, 
 the thought of that time was not the thought of this. 
 I detected an obvious emotion, quite strange to it, 
 in Penn-Howard's voice. His face, from our 
 positions and the dusk, was almost hidden from 
 me. I made no comment ; and thenceforth he 
 spoke on uninterruptedly, while the room slowly 
 darkened about us as we sat. 
 
 " Ho wick wanted us, at the end of our visit, to go 
 with him to his house. Something was happening 
 there, he said, for which he was unable to account. 
 We could not, however, consent, owing to our 
 engagements ; but we undertook to include him 
 sooner or later in our ghostly itinerary. He was 
 obliged ; but, being so put off, would give us no clue 
 to the nature of the mystery which was disturb- 
 ing him. As it turned out, we had no choice but to 
 take Haggarts the very last on our list." 
 
 " That is the name of his place ? " 
 
 " Yes. It sounds a bit thin and eerie, doesn't 
 it ? but in point of fact, I believe, Haggart is a 
 local word for hawthorn. We went there last of all, 
 and we went there intending to stay a night, and
 
 THE MASK 297 
 
 we stayed seven. It was a queer business ; and I 
 come to you fresh from it. 
 
 " The estate lies slap in the middle of Hampshire. 
 To reach it you alight at a country station which 
 might serve roughly on the map for the hub of the 
 county wheel. The train slides from a tunnel into 
 a ravine of chalk, deep and dazzling, and you have 
 to get on a level with the top of that ravine ; and 
 there at once you find immeasurable silence and 
 loneliness. Nothing in my home peregrinations 
 has struck me more forcibly than the real insignifi- 
 cance of urban expansion in its relation to the country 
 as a whole. Towns, however they grow and 
 multiply, remain but inconsiderable freckles on 
 that vast open countenance. Outside the City 
 man's possible radius, and excepting the great 
 manufacturing centres, two miles, one mile beyond 
 the boundary of ninety-nine towns out of a hundred 
 will find you in pastoral solitudes apparently limit- 
 less. Here, with Winchester lying but eight miles 
 southward, it was so. From the top of the tunnel 
 we had just penetrated came into view, first a wil- 
 derness of thorn-scattered downs, dipping steeply 
 and ruggedly into the railway-cutting, then an 
 endlessly extended panorama of wood and waste 
 and field, seemingly houseless and hamletless, and 
 broken only by the white scars of roads, mounting 
 few and far like the crests of waves on a desert sea. 
 Howick had sent a car to meet us, and we switch- 
 backed on monotonously, by unrailed pastures, by
 
 298 THE FABULISTS 
 
 woody bottoms, by old hedges grey with dust and 
 draggled with straw. We saw the house long before 
 we headed for it a strange, ill-designed structure 
 standing out by itself in the fields. It was an 
 antique moat-house, disproportionately tall for its 
 area, and its front flanked by a couple of brick 
 towers, one squat, one lofty. One wound about the 
 lanes to reach it, having it now at this side, now at 
 that, now fairly at one's back, until suddenly it came 
 into close view, a building far more grandiose and 
 imposing than one had surmised. There was the 
 ancient moat surrounding it, and much water 
 channelling the flats about. But there was evidence 
 too, at close quarters, of what one had not guessed 
 rich, quiet gardens, substantial outbuildings, and 
 a general atmosphere of prosperity. 
 
 " An odd, remote place, but in itself distinctly 
 attractive. And Howick did us well. You remem- 
 ber him ? A tall stick of a fellow, without a laugh 
 to his whole anatomy, and the hair gone from his 
 temples at thirty ; but with the grand manner in 
 entertaining. We had some '47 port that night 
 a treat one of a few remaining bottles laid down 
 by his grand-uncle, Roger Howick, of whom more 
 in a little. And everything was in mellow keeping 
 pictures, furniture, old crusted anecdote. Only 
 our host was, for all his gracious unbending, some- 
 how out of tone with his environments in that 
 connection of fruitiness, like the dry nodule on a 
 juicy apple. Constitutionally reserved, I should
 
 THE MASK 299 
 
 think, circumstance at that time had drained him 
 of the last capacity for spontaneity. The little fits 
 of abstraction and the wincing starts from them ; 
 the forced conversation ; the atmosphere of brooding 
 trouble felt through his most hospitable efforts 
 all pointed to a state of mind which he could neither 
 conceal nor as yet indulge. Often I detected him 
 looking furtively at J. B., often, still more secretively, 
 at his sister, who was the only other one present 
 at the dinner-table." 
 
 For a moment Penn-Howard ceased speaking ; 
 and I heard him shift his position, as if suddenly 
 cramped, and slightly clear his throat. 
 
 " I mention her now for the first time," he went 
 on presently. " She came in after we were seated, 
 and there was the briefest formal introduction, of 
 which she took no notice. She was a slender, 
 unprepossessing woman her brother's senior by 
 some ten years, I judged with a strange, unnatural 
 complexion, rather long, pale eyes in red rims, and 
 a sullen manner. Responding only after the curtest 
 fashion to any commonplaces addressed to her, 
 she left us, much to my relief, before dessert, and 
 we saw her no more that evening. 
 
 " ' Unfit for society ' ? Most assuredly she was. I 
 remembered her brother's words spoken ten months 
 before, and concluded that nothing had occurred 
 since then to qualify his verdict. A most dis- 
 agreeable person ; unless, perhaps 
 
 " It came to me all at once : was she connected
 
 300 THE FABULISTS 
 
 with the mystery, or the mystery with her ? A ghost 
 seer, perhaps neurotic a victim to hallucina- 
 tions ? Well, Howick had not spoken so far, and 
 it was no good speculating. I turned to the pious 
 discussion of the '47. 
 
 " After dinner we went into the gardens where, 
 the night being hot and still, we lingered until the 
 stars came out. During the whole time Howick 
 spoke no word of our mission ; but, about the hour 
 the household turned in, he took us back to the 
 hall a spacious, panelled lounge between the 
 towers where we settled for a pipe and nightcap. 
 And there silence, like a ghostly overture to the 
 impending, entered our brains and we sat, as it 
 were, listening to it. 
 
 " Presently Howick got up. The strained look 
 on his face was succeeded all at once by a sort of 
 sombre light, odd and revealing. All sound in the 
 house had long since ceased. 
 
 '"I want you to come with me/ " he said quietly. 
 
 " We rose at once ; and he went before, but a 
 few paces, and opened a door. 
 
 '"Yes, here,' he said, in answer to a look of 
 J. B.'s, ' quite close, quite domestic ; no bogey 
 of rat-infested corridors or tumble-down attics 
 no bogey at all, perhaps. It lies under the east 
 tower, this room When we first came here I 
 thought to make it my study.' 
 
 " He seemed to me then, and always, like a man 
 whose strait concepts of decency had suffered some
 
 THE MASK 801 
 
 startling offence, as it might be with one into whose 
 perfectly-planned tenement had crept the insidious 
 poison of sewer-gas Sliding his hand along the 
 wall, he switched on the electric light (' Haggarts ' 
 had its own power station), and the room leapt 
 into being. We entered, I leading a little. You 
 must remember I was by then a hardened witch- 
 finder, and inured to atmospheres concocted of the 
 imagination. 
 
 " It was not a large room, and it was quite com- 
 fortable. There was a heavily-clothed table in the 
 middle, a few brass-nailed, leather-backed and seated 
 Jacobean chairs, a high white Adams mantelpiece 
 surmounted by a portrait, a full Chippendale book- 
 case to either side of it, and on the walls three or 
 four pictures, including a second portrait, of a 
 woman, half-length in an oval frame, which hung 
 opposite the other. 
 
 " ' Miss Ho wick, I see,' I murmured, turning with 
 a nod to our host. He heard me, as his eyes 
 denoted : but he gave no answer. And then the 
 portrait over the mantelpiece drew my attention. 
 It was in a very poor style of art ; yet somehow, 
 one felt, crudely truthful hi an amateurish way. 
 There is a class of peripatetic painters, a sort of 
 pedlars in portraiture among country folk, which, 
 having a gift for likenesses, often succeeds photo- 
 graphically in delineating what a higher art inclines 
 to idealise the obvious in character. Such an 
 one, I concluded, had worked here, painting just
 
 302 THE FABULISTS 
 
 what he saw, and only too faithfully. For the 
 obvious was not pleasant a dark, pitiless face, with 
 a brutal underlip and challenging green eyes, that 
 seemed for ever fixed on the face on the wall oppo- 
 site. It was that of a middle-aged man, lean and 
 thin-haired, and must have dated, by the cut of its 
 black, brass-buttoned coat, from the late Georgian 
 era. 
 
 " I turned again questioningly to Ho wick. This 
 time he enlightened me. ' Roger Howick,' he said, 
 ' my great-uncle. It is said he painted that him- 
 self, looking in the glass. He had a small gift. 
 Most of the pictures in this room are by him.' 
 
 " Instinctively I glanced once more towards the 
 oval frame, and thought : ' Most but not that 
 one.' Unmistakably it was a portrait of our host's 
 sister the odd complexion, the sullen, fixed expres- 
 sion, the very dress and coiffure, they were all the 
 same. I wondered how the living subject could 
 endure the thought of that day-long, night-long 
 stare focused for ever on her painted presentment. 
 
 " And then silence ensued. We were all in the 
 room, and not a word was spoken. I don't know 
 how long it lasted ; but suddenly Lament addressed 
 me, in a quick, sharp voice : 
 
 " ' What's the matter, Penn-Howard ? ' 
 
 " The shock of the question took me like a blow 
 out of sleep. I answered at once : ' Something's 
 shut up here. Why don't you let it out ? ' 
 
 " Howick pushed us from the room, and closed
 
 THE MASK 303 
 
 the door. ' That's it,' he said, and that was all. 
 I felt dazed and amazed. I wanted to explain, to 
 protest. A most extraordinary sensation like sup- 
 pressed tears kept me dumb. I felt humiliated to a 
 degree, and inclined to ease all my conflict of emo- 
 tions in hysterical laughter. Curse the thing now ! 
 It makes me go hot to think of it. 
 
 " Howick showed me up to my bedroom. ' We'll 
 talk of it to-morrow/ he said, and he left me. I 
 was glad to be alone, to get, after a few moments, 
 resolute command of myself. I had a good night 
 after all, and awoke, refreshed and sane, in the clear 
 morning. 
 
 " I learned, when I came downstairs, that J. B. 
 and our host were gone out together for an early 
 stroll in the cool. Pending their return, I came 
 to a resolution. I would go and face the room 
 alone, in the bright daylight. Both my pride and 
 my principles were at stake, and I owed the effort 
 to myself. There was nothing to prevent me. I 
 found the door unlocked, and I went in. 
 
 " There was some sunlight in the room, penetrat- 
 ing through a thickish shrubbery outside the two 
 windows. I thought the place peculiarly quiet, 
 with an atmosphere of suspense in it which sug- 
 gested the inaudible whisperings of some infernal 
 inquisition. Nothing was watching me : the green 
 eyes of the man were fixed eternally on the face 
 opposite ; and yet I was being watched by every- 
 thing. It was indescribable, maddening. Deter-
 
 304 THE FABULISTS 
 
 mined not to succumb to what I still insisted to 
 myself was a mere trick of the nerves, I walked 
 manfully up to the oval portrait to examine it at 
 close hand. A name and date near the lower 
 margin caught my eye T. Lawrence, 1828. I 
 fairly gasped, reading it. A ' Lawrence/ and of that 
 remoteness ? Then it was not our host's sister ! 
 I turned sharply, hearing light breathing and there 
 she was behind me. 
 
 " ' What are you doing here ? ' she said, in a 
 small, cold voice. ' Don't you know it is my room ? ' 
 
 " How can I convey the impression she made 
 upon me by daylight ? I can think only of one 
 fantastic image to describe her complexion the 
 hands of a young laundress, puffed and mottled and 
 mealily wrinkled after many hours' work at the 
 tub. So in this face was somehow spoilt and 
 slandered youth, subdued, like the dyer's hand, to 
 ' what it worked in.' And yet it was the face of 
 the portrait, even to the dusty gold of the hair. 
 
 " I made some lame apology. She stamped her 
 foot to end it and dismiss me. But as I passed her 
 to go, she spoke again : ' You will never find it. 
 It is only faith that can move such mountains.' 
 
 " I encountered J. B. in the morning-room, and we 
 breakfasted alone together. Howick did not appear 
 purposely, I think. I felt somehow depressed 
 and uneasy, but resolved to hold fast to myself 
 without too many words. Once I enlightened 
 Lamont : 'That portrait,' I said, ' is not of Howick 's
 
 THE MASK 305 
 
 sister.' J. B. lifted his eyebrows. ' O ! ' said he, 
 ' you have been paying it a morning visit, have you ? 
 No, it is a portrait of Maud Howick, daughter to 
 Roger, the man who hangs opposite her.' It was my 
 turn to stare. ' Howick has been giving you his 
 family history ? ' I asked. J. B. did not answer for 
 a minute ; then he said : ' I hope you won't take 
 it in bad part, Penn-Howard ; but yes, he has 
 been talking to me. I know, I think, all there is 
 to know.' I had some right to be offended ; and 
 he admitted it. ' Howick would put it to me,' 
 he said. ' He was struck, it seemed, by something 
 I said that night at Lady Caroon's ; and he thinks 
 you at heart a polite sceptic.' ' Well,' I said, 
 ' have you solved the mystery, whatever it is ? ' He 
 answered no, but that he had a theory ; and asked 
 me if I had formed any. ' Not a ghost of one,' I 
 replied ; ' and so Howick was certainly right in 
 confiding first in you first and last, indeed, if I am 
 to be kept in the dark.' ' On the contrary,' said 
 J. B. ; ' I am going to repeat every word of Howick's 
 story to you only in a quiet place.' 
 
 " We found one presently, out in the fields in 
 the shadow of a ruined byre. It stood up bare and 
 lonely, like a tattered baldachin, and far away under 
 the stoop of its roof we could see the walls of the 
 moat-house rising lean and brown into a cloudless 
 sky. Lamont began his narration with a question : 
 ' How old would you suppose this Miss Ruth 
 Howick, the sister, to be ? ' I was about to answer
 
 306 THE FABULISTS 
 
 promptly, recalled my perplexity, and hesitated. 
 ' Tell me, without more ado/ I responded. ' Nine- 
 teen,' he said, and shut his lips like a trap. Some- 
 thing caught at me, and I at myself. ' Go on/ I 
 said ; ' anything after that/ And J. B. responded, 
 speaking in his abrupt, incisive way : 
 
 " - This James Ho wick came into his own here 
 some year and a-half ago. There were only himself 
 and his sister to whom he was and is devoted 
 the sole survivors of a once considerable family. 
 Their father, Gilbert Howick, son of Paul, who 
 was younger brother to the Roger of the portrait 
 married one Margaret (a beautiful ward of 
 Paul's, and brought up by him as a member of his 
 own family) about whose origin attached some 
 mystery, which was only made clear to her husband 
 on the occasion of their marriage. Margaret, in 
 brief, was then revealed to Gilbert for his own first- 
 cousin once removed, being the natural daughter 
 of his cousin Maud, one of the two children of 
 Roger. I know nothing about the liaison which 
 necessitated this explanation, nor do we need to 
 know. Its results are what concern us. Roger, 
 it is certain, took his daughter's dereliction in a 
 truly devilish spirit. He was an evil, dark man, 
 it was said, pledged to the world and its pride, 
 and once a notorious liver. There is none so 
 extreme in fanaticism as a convert from irreligion ; 
 none so damnably righteous as a rake reformed. 
 Having committed the fruits of her sin to the merci-
 
 THE MASK 807 
 
 ful custody of his younger brother a very different 
 soul, of a humane and pious disposition Roger 
 turned his attention to the moral and physical 
 ruin of the sinner. He swore that she should forfeit 
 the youth she had abused ; and he was as good 
 as his word. No one knows how it happened ; 
 no one knows what passed in that dark and haunted 
 house. But Maud grew old in youth. She had 
 been spoiled and petted for her beauty ; now the 
 spirit broke in her, and she seemed to shrink and 
 disappear behind the wrinkled, crumbling veil of 
 what had been like a snake, Penn-Howard, that 
 struggles and cannot cast its dead skin. She grew 
 old in youth. That portrait of her was painted 
 when she was nineteen.' 
 
 " I cried out. ' It was impossible ! ' 'It would 
 seem so,' said Lament. ' By what infernal arts he 
 held her to his will holds her now it is sickening 
 to conjecture.' I turned to look at him. ' Holds 
 
 her now ! ' I repeated. ' Then you mean ' ' Yes,' 
 
 he said ; ' it is her imprisoned youth that is for 
 ever trying to escape, to emerge, like the snake, 
 from its dead self. That is the secret of the room. 
 At least, such is my theory.' 
 
 " I sat as in a dream, awed by, yet struggling to 
 reject, a conclusion so fantastic. ' Well, grant your 
 theory,' I said at length, with a deep breath; 
 ' how does it affect this woman or girl this 
 Ruth ? ' 
 
 " ' Think,' said Lamont. ' She is actually that
 
 308 THE FABULISTS 
 
 erring child's grand-daughter. It seems wonderfully 
 pitiful to me. Her own mother died in that house, 
 during a visit, in giving birth to her. At the time, 
 the son, Roger's son, was master of Haggarts. He 
 was a poor-witted creature, Howick tells me ; but 
 he lived, as the imbecile often will, to a ripe old age. 
 Ruth was born prematurely. Her mother, it was 
 said, fell under the cursed influence of the place, 
 and withered in her prime. Maud herself, according 
 to the story, had already died in that very room 
 was found dead there, little more than a child still 
 in years, a poor, worn ghost of womanhood in seem- 
 ing. Since then, the room has always had an evil 
 reputation with what justice Howick never knew 
 or regarded, until the death of his uncle put him, 
 a year and a-half ago, in possession of the place.' 
 
 " ' But this Ruth ' 
 
 " ' It came upon her, it seems, gradually at first, 
 then more rapidly. She lost her health and vivacity ; 
 she was for ever haunting the room. When we 
 first met Howick, she was already horribly changed. 
 Ten months have passed since then. He has tried 
 to hide it from the world ; has made practically a 
 hermit of himself. The servants of that date have 
 been changed for others, and changed again. She 
 feels, it must be supposed, what we felt a ceaseless 
 anguish to release something nothing a mere pent 
 shadow of horror. And more than that : the sin 
 of the mother is being visited on the child of the 
 child and through the same diabolical agency.
 
 THE MASK 809 
 
 Lament paused a moment, staring before him, and 
 knotting his fingers together till they cracked. 
 ' Penn-Howard,' he said, ' I believe I do believe, 
 on my soul, that the secret, whatever it is, lies at the 
 hands of that devil portrait.' 
 
 " ' Then why, in God's name, not remove and 
 burn the thing ? ' 
 
 " ' He has offered to. It had a dreadful effect 
 upon her. She cried that so the clue would be lost 
 for ever. And so it affects her to be excluded from 
 the room. He has had to give it all up as hopeless.' 
 
 " He rose, and I rose with him, not in truth con- 
 vinced, but oddly agitated. 
 
 " ' Well,' I said, ' what do you propose doing ? ' 
 
 " He seemed deep in thought, and did not answer 
 me. At the house door we parted. Entering alone, 
 I met Howick in the hall. He looked at me search- 
 ingly in his lank, haggard way, then suddenly 
 took my hand. ' You know ? ' he said. ' He has 
 told you ? Mr. Penn-Howard, she was such a 
 bright and pretty child.' I saw tears in his eyes, 
 and understood him better from that moment. 
 
 " Lamont was absent all day, and returned late 
 from a prolonged tramp over the hills. The poignant 
 subject was tacitly shelved that night, and we went 
 to bed early. 
 
 " The next morning, after breakfast, J. B. turned 
 upon our host. ' I want/ he said, ' that room to 
 myself, possibly for the whole morning, possibly 
 for longer. Can you secure it to me ? ' Howick
 
 310 THE FABULISTS 
 
 nodded. I could detect in his eyes some faint 
 reflection of the strong spirit which faced him. 
 Somehow one never despairs hi J. B.'s presence. 
 ' I will say you are looking for it,' he said. ' She 
 will not disturb you then.' ' There is a closet,' 
 said Lamont, ' in my bedroom which will do very 
 well for a dark room.' 
 
 " He disappeared soon after with his camera. 
 It was his business, and I seldom disturbed him at 
 it. We left him alone, and tried to forget him, 
 though I could see all the morning that Howick 
 was in a state of painful nervous tension. Not till 
 after lunch did we hear or see anything of my 
 colleague, and then he came in, descending from his 
 improvised dark room. He held a negative in his 
 hand, and he shut the door behind him like a man 
 who had something of moment to reveal. ' Mr. 
 Howick/ he said, straight out and at once, ' I am 
 going to ask you to let me destroy that portrait of 
 your great-uncle.' 
 
 " The words took us like a smack ; and, as we 
 stood gaping, J. B. held out his negative. ' Look at 
 this,' he said, and beckoning us to the window, let 
 the light slant upon the thing so as to disclose its 
 subject. ' The secret stands revealed, does it not ? ' 
 said he, quiet and low. ' A long, a very long 
 exposure, and the devil is betrayed. O, a wonderful 
 detective is the camera.' 
 
 " I heard Howick breathing fast over my shoulder. 
 For myself, I was as much perplexed as astonished.
 
 THE MASK 311 
 
 ' It is the portrait,' I muttered, ' and yet it is not. 
 There is the ghost of something revealing itself 
 through it.' ' Exactly/ said J. B. drily and went 
 and put the negative behind the clock on the mantel- 
 piece. ' Well, shall we do it ? ' he asked, turning to 
 our host. Howick's face was ghastly. He could 
 hardly get out the words, ' In God's name, do what 
 you will ! Better to dare and end it all than live 
 on like this.' J. B. stood looking at him earnestly. 
 ' No/ he said. ' You go to her. Penn-Howard 
 and I will manage the business/ 
 
 " We left him, and went to the room and locked 
 ourselves in. I confess my blood was tingling. 
 So shut in with it, the unspeakable atmosphere of 
 that place seemed to intensify to a degree quite 
 infernal. I seemed to realise in it a battle of two 
 wills, Lament's and another's. My friend's face 
 was a little pale ; but the set of its every feature 
 spoke of an inexorable purpose. As we handled the 
 portrait to lower it, it fell heavily and unaccountably 
 forward, an edge of the massive frame just missing 
 J. B/s skull by an inch. ' That miscarriage does 
 for you, my friend/ he said, showing his teeth a 
 little, like a dog. Portrait and frame lay apart on 
 the floor ; the shock had disunited them. Lament 
 knelt, and went over the former unflinchingly. 
 The green eyes, caught from their age-long inquisi- 
 tion of the face on the wall opposite, seemed to glare 
 up into his in hate and fury. ' Get out your knife/ 
 I cried irresistibly, ' and slash the cursed thing to
 
 812 THE FABULISTS 
 
 pieces." ' No,' he answered ; ' that is not at all my 
 purpose.' 
 
 " What was his purpose ? I knew in a moment. 
 He fetched out his knife indeed, and, hunting over 
 the surface of the thing, found a blister in the paint, 
 cut into it, seized an edge between thumb and 
 finger, and, flaying away a long strip, uttered a loud, 
 jubilant exclamation. ' Look at this, Penn-Howard. ' 
 I bent over and then I understood in a flash. It 
 was but a strip exposed ; but it was like a chink of 
 dazzling daylight let through. There was another 
 portrait painted underneath. 
 
 " Artists tell me that when one oil-painting is 
 superimposed on another within a few years of the 
 production of the first, only exceptional circum- 
 stances can render their successful separation 
 possible. I know nothing about the technical 
 difficulties ; I know only that in this case we were 
 able to remove the over-lying skin, strip by strip, 
 almost without a hitch, until the whole of the upper 
 portrait lay in flakes of rubbish upon the floor 
 to be delivered within a few minutes to consuming 
 fire. And the thing revealed ! I cannot describe 
 the beauty of that vision, bursting into flower out 
 of its age-long Cimmerian darkness. It was the 
 personification of youth a young girl (she might 
 have been sixteen), laughing and lovely, the most 
 wilful, bewitching face you could imagine Maud 
 Ho wick." 
 
 Once more Penn-Howard fell silent. The room
 
 THE MASK 318 
 
 by now was dark ; his figure was indistinguishable, 
 and his voice, when he spoke again, seemed a shadow 
 borne out of the shadows : 
 
 " While we gazed, fascinated, there came a knock 
 on the door. It was Howick. His face was trans- 
 figured his eyes glowed. ' She has fallen asleep,' 
 he said ; ' and that is not all. My God, what has 
 happened ? ' We took him in and showed him the 
 portrait. He broke down before it. ' The little 
 grandmother ! ' he said, ' the poor, erring child ! 
 And it was of that, and by that damnable method, 
 that that fiend incarnate robbed her ! To imprison 
 her youth within his wicked soul, drawn by him out 
 of the mirror to stand for ever at sentry over her 
 lest she escape. And she pined and withered in 
 that hideous bondage, until he could show her, in 
 that other, what his hate had wrought of her. But 
 she is free at last her soul is free to fly for ever this 
 dark house of its captivity.' 
 
 " J. B. looked at him searchingly. ' And your 
 sister ? ' he said. Howick did not answer ; but he 
 beckoned us to follow him, and he led us into the 
 drawing-room where she lay. Fast in dreamless 
 slumber as the sleeping beauty. But the change ! 
 God in heaven ; she was already a child again ! " 
 
 The speaker halted for the last time. It was 
 minutes before he took up the tale, in a constrained 
 and hesitating way : 
 
 " I saw all this, I tell you saw it with these eyes. 
 We stayed there yet a week longer ; and I left her
 
 814 THE FABULISTS 
 
 in the end a radiant, laughing child, a joyous, capti- 
 vating little soul, who remembered, or seemed to 
 remember, nothing of the fearful months preceding. 
 And yet, now I am away, I doubt. It is the curse 
 of my disposition. What, for instance, if one were 
 to yield her one's soul and discover, too late, that one 
 had succumbed to some unreal glamour, to the arts 
 of a veritable and most feminine Lamia. I believe 
 it is not so ; I know it is not so and yet, the 
 incredible " 
 
 His voice died out. I saw how it was, and 
 answered, I am afraid, brutally : 
 
 " You aren't really in love with her, of course. 
 That is as clear as print." 
 
 He rose at once. " That decides it," he said. " I 
 shall go back and ask her to be my wife." 
 
 But he did not do so. Two days later I met him 
 in the street. His manner was quite breezy and 
 insouciant. " O, by the by!" he said, in a break 
 of our conversation, " did I tell you that I had 
 heard f rom J . B . ? He and Miss Ho wick are engaged. ' '
 
 CHIVALRY 
 
 Heriot Sings. 
 
 God made the world, but England Chivalry, 
 No nobler 'prentice-work since Time began, 
 
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 Fair play, frank honour to the better man, 
 
 Small hurts forborne in strength, allowances 
 For other vogues, no mean advantage ta'en; 
 
 Large views and scopes, a manly tenderness, 
 A heart to conquer and a hate to pain. 
 
 And sweet and above all the steadfast face 
 Set to the truth, though slanderous foes decry. 
 
 O, my England, so thou fallest in thy place, 
 Let all the world die ! 
 
 LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS, LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH
 
 BT 
 
 CHARLES DAWBARN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FRANCE AND THE FRENCH " 
 
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 Jehanne of the Golden Lips . Srd Edition F. G. Knowles-Foater. 
 
 The Written Law F. G. Knowles-Foster. 
 
 The Net of Circumstance .... Mr. &Mrs. O. L'Artsau. 
 
 The Confessions of Arsene Lupin . . Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 813 Snd Edition Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 The Frontier Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 The Phantom of the Opera .... Gaston Leroux. 
 
 The Mutiny of the Elslnore .... Jack London. 
 
 John Barleycorn .... Srd Edition Jack London. 
 
 The Valley of the Moon . . 6th Edition Jack London. 
 
 South Sea Tales Jack London. 
 
 Smoke Bellew . . . Uh Edition Jack London. 
 
 A Son of the Sun . . . Srd Edition Jack London. 
 
 When God Laughs . . . Snd Edition Jack London. 
 
 The House of Daffodils Louise Mack. 
 
 I
 
 " There is always a new Mills 8 Boon Novel " 
 
 The Music Makers Louise Mack. 
 
 The Marriage of Edward .... Louise Mack. 
 
 Attraction Louise Mack. 
 
 Outlaw's Luck Dorothea Mackellar. 
 
 Through the Window Mary B. Mann. 
 
 Bound Together . . . . ind Edition Mary E. Mann. 
 
 Men and Dreams . . . ind Edition Mary E. Mann. 
 
 The Yoke of Silence (5.) .... Amy McLaren. 
 
 The Prince Thomas Metcalfe. 
 
 The Cost Snd Edition L. G. Moberly. 
 
 Wilsam Snd Edition S. C. Nethersole. 
 
 Mary up at Gaffries . . . l*th Edition 8. C. Nethersole. 
 
 Ripe Corn 2nd Edition 8. C. Nethersole. 
 
 Calico Jack 3rd Edition Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Sins of the Children . Snd Edition Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Eating Miracle Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 Quppy Quyson W, M. O'Kane 
 
 With Poison and Sword W. M. O'Kane. 
 
 Harm's Way Lloyd Osbonrne. 
 
 The Boomers Roy Norton. 
 
 The Plunderer ........ Koy Norton. 
 
 Stories without Tears . . Snd Edition Barry Pain. 
 
 The Adventures of Captain Jack 3rd Edition Max Pemberton. 
 
 Lily Magic Mary L. Tendered. 
 
 Phyllida Flouts Me Mary L. Pendered. 
 
 An Englishman ....... Mary E. Pendered. 
 
 At Lavender Cottage Mary L. Pendered. 
 
 Two Young Pigeons Mrs. H. H. Penrose. 
 
 Something Impossible Mrs. H. H. Penrose. 
 
 Burnt Flax Mrs. H. H. Penrose. 
 
 The Brat Mrs. H. H. Penrose. 
 
 The Tracy Tubbses (St. 6d.) .... Jessie Pope. 
 
 The Stairway of Honour . . tnd Edition Maud Stepney Rawson. 
 
 The Relations Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 The Swashbuckler Mrs. BaiUie Reynolds. 
 
 The Silence Broken . . . Snd Edition Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 The Queen's Hand . . . Snd Edition Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 Nigel Ferrard .... Snd Edition Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 Long Furrows ...;... Mrs. Fred Reynolds. 
 
 An Absent Hero Mrs. Fred Reynolds. 
 
 The Gondola ' Rothay Reynolds. 
 
 The Valiants of Virginia . . Snd Edition Hallie Erminie Rives. 
 
 Her Last Appearance . . . . . A. Nugent Robertson. 
 
 Force Majeure Patrick Rushden. 
 
 Mr. Sheringham and Others .... Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. 
 
 One Man Returns Harold Spender. 
 
 4
 
 Mills S Boon's Six-Shilling Novels 
 
 The Call of the Siren . . Snd Edition Harold Spender. 
 
 Kicks and Ha'pence Henry SUce. 
 
 Allward B. 8. Stevens. 
 
 Sarah Eden 3rd Edition E. 8. Stevens. 
 
 The Long: Engagement . . 3rd Edition E. 8. Stevens. 
 
 The Veil 7th, Edition E. S. Stevens. 
 
 The Mountain of God . . Uh. Edition E.S.Stevens. 
 
 The Lure 3rd Edition E. S. Stevens. 
 
 The Earthen Drum . . . Snd Edition E. S. Stevens. 
 
 Beyond the Shadow Joan Sutherland. 
 
 Cophetua's Son .... fnd Edition Joan Sutherland. 
 
 The Hidden Road . . . 3rd Edition Joan Sutherland. 
 
 Moyle Church Town John Trevena. 
 
 Stormlight Lady Tronbridge. 
 
 The Girl with the Blue Eyes . . . Lady Troubridge. 
 
 The Woman who Forgot Lady Troubridge. 
 
 The First Law .... 2nd Edition Lady Troubridge. 
 
 The Cheat ........ Lady Tronbridge. 
 
 Body and Soul .... Snd Edition Lady Troubridge. 
 
 A Creature oi Circumstance .... Lady Tronbridge. 
 
 Orizel Married . Mrs. G. de H. Vaizey. 
 
 The Adventures of Billie Belsbaw . . Mrs. G. de H. Vaizey. 
 
 An Unknown Lover Mrs. G. de H. Vaizey. 
 
 Sport of Gods .... 3rd Edition H. Vanghan-Sawyer. 
 
 The Lizard H. Vaughan -Sawyer. 
 
 Big Tremaine ....... Marie van Vorst. 
 
 His Love Story (5*.) Marie van Vorst. 
 
 The Two Faces Marie van Vorst. 
 
 First Love Marie van Vorst. 
 
 The Girl from His Town Marie van Vorst. 
 
 Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill . Snd Edition Hugh Walpole. 
 
 The Prelude to Adventure . Snd Edition Hugh Walpole. 
 
 The Unknown Woman Anne Warwick. 
 
 Toddie Srd Edition Gilbert Watson. 
 
 Chapman's Wares ...... H. B. Marriott Watson. 
 
 Its and Ans ........ H. B. Marriott Watson. 
 
 Tess of Ithaca Grace Miller White. 
 
 The Wind among the Barley Snd Edition M. P. Willcocks. 
 
 Memoirs of a Buccaneer Robert Williams. 
 
 The Friendly Enemy T. P. Cameron Wilson 
 
 The Prince and Betty P. G. Wodehonse. 
 
 The Honourable Derek R. A. Wood-Seys. 
 
 The Court of the Gentiles . . . Mrs. Stanley Wrench. 
 
 Ruth of the Rowidrich . 
 
 The Temple of Dawn 
 
 The Red Mirage . 
 
 The Daughter of Brahma 
 
 The Rajah's People . 
 
 Dividing Waters. 
 
 In Different Keys . . 
 
 . Mrs. Stanley Wrench, 
 
 . I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 Itth Edition I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 5th Edition I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 8th Edition I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 Uh Edition I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 , . I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 5
 
 MILLS & BOON'S SHILLING NOVELS 
 
 Picture Covers. Crown 8vo. Is. net. 
 
 THE NEW YORK HERALD says: " They have long ago 
 acquired the reputation for the production of original books." 
 
 Ashes of Incense' . . . The Author of " Mastering Flame." 
 
 Eve Spinster Anon. 
 
 Shop Girls Arthur Applin. 
 
 The Butcher of Bruton Street .... Arthur Applin 
 
 The Woman Who ! Arthur Applin. 
 
 The Girl who Saved His Honour .... Arthur Applin. 
 
 Cardillac Robert Barr. 
 
 *The Bill-Toppers Andr6 Castaigne. 
 
 His First Offence . . . . . . . J. Storer Clouston. 
 
 The Peer' s Progress J. Storer Clouston. 
 
 The Prodigal Father J. Storer Clouston. 
 
 Tales of King Fido J. Storer Clouston. 
 
 *Within the Law M. Dana and B. Forest. 
 
 The Blue Bird's-Eye George Edgar. 
 
 Swift Nick of the York Road George Edgar. 
 
 When the Red Gods Call . .... Beatrice Grimshaw. 
 
 The Bolster Book Harry Graham. 
 
 Sons of State ........ Winifred Graham. 
 
 The Love Story of a Mormon Winifred Graham. 
 
 The Needlewoman Winifred Graham. 
 
 The Enemy of Woman Winifred Graham. 
 
 Mary Winifred Graham. 
 
 Pollyooly ..'..' Edgar Jepson. 
 
 The Confessions of Arsene Lupin .... Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 813 (.\ New Arsene Lupin Adventure) .... Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 * Arsene Lupin . . . Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc. 
 
 The Square Mile Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Socialist Countess Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Sins of the Children Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Lonely Lovers Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 Sparrows: The Story of an Unprotected Girl . Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 Lena Swallow: A Sister to " Sparrows" . . Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 Living Pictures Horace W. C. Newte. 
 
 The Adventures of Captain Jack .... Max Femberton. 
 
 Beware of the Dog Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 Thomas Henry W. Pett Ridge. 
 
 *D'Arcy of the Guards L. E. Shipman. 
 
 Santa Claus (The Fairy Story of the Play) . . Harold Simpson. 
 
 *The Marriage Market Harold Simpson. 
 
 *The Dollar Princess Harold Simpson. 
 
 The Count of Luxembourg Harold Simpson. 
 
 The Mountain of God E.S.Stevens. 
 
 The Veil E.S.Stevens. 
 
 John Cave W. B. Trites. 
 
 Life W. B. Trites. 
 
 The Cheat Lady Troubridge. 
 
 The Woman who Forgot Lady Troubridge. 
 
 Body and Soul Lady TTonbridge. 
 
 The Prelude to Adventure Hugh Walpole. 
 
 Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill Hugh Walpole. 
 
 The Daughter of Brahma I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 The Rajah's People I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 Dividing Waters .... ... I. A. R. Wylie. 
 
 For Church and Chieftain May Wynne. 
 
 Novel of the Play. 
 6
 
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 Is. net each volume (postage 3d.) 
 
 The volumes include Novels and General Literature by the finest writers 
 of the day. In a number of cases the books will be published for the first 
 time, two of these being by the American " Kipling " Jack London and 
 published exclusively in this library, never having before been issued in 
 Great Britain and the Colonies. The First volumes will be : 
 
 South Sea Tales JACK LONDON. 
 
 When God Laughs JACK LONDON. 
 
 The Road. (Entirely New) JACK LONDON. 
 The House of Pride. (Entirely New) JACK LONDON. 
 
 A Son of the Sun JACK LONDON. 
 
 Smoke Bel lew JACK LONDON. 
 
 The Children of the Frost JACK LONDON. 
 
 The Cruise of the Snark JACK LONDON. 
 
 The Iron Heel JACK LONDON. 
 
 John Barleycorn JACK LONDON. 
 
 Son of the Wolf JACK LONDON. 
 
 Valley of the Moon JACK LONDON. 
 
 The Call of the Siren HABOLD SPENDER. 
 
 The Frontier MAURICE LEBLANC. 
 
 The Room in the Tower E. F. BENSON. 
 Down our Street. ("The Yorkshire Classic") 
 
 J. E. BUCKROSE. 
 
 Love in a Little Town J. E. BUCKROSE. 
 
 Because of Jane J. E. BUCKROSE. 
 
 Aunt Augusta in Egypt J. E. BUCKROSE. 
 
 Twenty -Four Years of Cricket A. A. LILLEY. 
 
 The Czar's Spy WILLIAM LE QUEUX. 
 
 Who Qiveth this Woman WILLIAM LB QUEUX. 
 
 The Hidden Road JOAN SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Life W. B. TRITES. 
 
 Cumner's Son SIR GILBERT PARKEB. 
 
 The Haven EDEN PHILLPOTTS. 
 
 The Order of Release H. DB VERB STACPOOLE. 
 
 Sporting Stories THORMANBY. 
 
 Daily Expresi. " The best collection of anecdotes of this generation." 
 
 When the Red Gods Call BEATRICE GRIMSHAW. 
 
 Guinea Gold BEATRICE GRIMSHAW. 
 
 The Man from Nowhere VICTOB BRIDGES. 
 
 The Rajah's People I. A. E. WYLIE. 
 
 The Red Mirage L A. B. WYLIE. 
 
 The Valiants of Virginia EALLIE ERMINIE HIVES. 
 
 In Search of Each Other SOPHIE COLE.
 
 MILLS & BOON'S 
 
 SIXPENNY NOVELS 
 
 Picture Covers. Demy Svo. 
 
 MILLS & BOON are issuing a new series of Copyright Novel* 
 by the foremost Novelists of the day. They are printed 
 from large type on good paper. The first volumes are: 
 
 Calico Jack. By HORACE W.C. NEWTE, Author of "Sparrows." 
 Globe." Calico Jack is no mere creature of invention, but the real thing." 
 
 The Sins of the Children. By HORACE w. C. NEWTE. 
 
 Globe. " A strong convincing picture of life." 
 
 Lena Swallow. By HORACE W. C. NEWTE. 
 Living Pictures. By HORACE W. C. NEWTE. 
 
 Glasgow Herald. "None of them is leas than brilliant." 
 
 The Lonely Lovers. By HORACE W. C. NEWTE. 
 
 Daily Chronicle. " A very vivid rendering of tense human passion and 
 
 emotion." 
 
 The Summer Book. By MAX PEMBERTON. 
 
 The Adventures of Captain Jack. By MAX PEMBER- 
 
 TON, Author of " The Summer Book." 
 
 Punch. " What he has to tell is so deftly told that I spent an excellent 
 afternoon a-reading his volume (Mills &, Boon)." 
 
 A Golden Straw. By J. E. BUCKROSE, Author of "' Down 
 
 Our Street." 
 Daily Graphic. "A story of invincible freshness and charm." 
 
 The Pilgrimage of a Fool. By J. E. BUCKROSE. 
 
 Globe. " Far and away above the ordinary novel." 
 
 Fame. By B. M. CROKER. Author of " Angel." 
 
 n. "A clever workmanlike novel, always bright and entertaining. 
 
 The End and the Beginning. By COSMO HAMILTON. 
 
 Obitrcer." An ideal little story." 
 
 The Quaker Girl. The Novel of the Play. By HAROLD 
 
 SIMPSON. 
 
 The Education of Jacqueline. By CLAIRE DE PRATZ, 
 
 Author of " Elisabeth Davenay." 
 Observer. "Jacqueline is a darling." 
 
 The Silence Broken. By Mrs. BAILLIE REYNOLDS, Author 
 
 of "Nigel Ferrard." 
 
 Freeman's Journal." A most suitable bookfor the summer holidays, filled. 
 from cover to cover with love and romance."
 
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 MY YEAR SERIES 
 
 My Spanish Year. By Mrs. BERNARD WHISHAW. 
 
 With 20 Illustrations from Photographs. Demy 8vo. 
 
 10.?. Gd. net 
 
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 people." 
 Daily Nats. "An admirable volume in an admirable series." 
 
 My Japanese Year. By T. H. SANDERS, illus- 
 trated. Demy 8vo. 10*. 6d. net. 
 
 My Italian Year. By RICHARD BAGOT. with 25 
 
 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Second Edition. 10s. &d. net. 
 The Observer. " 'My Italian Year' will tell the reader more about the 
 
 real present-day go-ahead Italy than any other book that has come to our 
 
 notice." 
 
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 Truth. " The best -informed book which has appeared of late on Italy." 
 
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 My Parisian Year. By MAUDE ANNESLEY. With 
 
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 Demy Svo. Second Edition. 10*. 6d. net. 
 
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 Standard." Gives many delightful little pictures of the people, their 
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 British Weekly. " Will take its place among the best of Sudanese travel- 
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 Dundee Advertiser. " Really delightful. . . . Those -who remember Miss 
 Stevens's Sudanese pictures in the second half of 'The Lure' will know 
 what to expect, and it is very high praise to say they will not be disap- 
 pointed." 
 
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 10
 
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 RAMBLES SERIES 
 
 "-So auspiciously inaugurated with Miss Wylie's and Mrs. 
 Goatling's volumes." LIVERPOOL COURIER. 
 
 " They teem with interesting information about people and 
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 Rambles Around French Chateaux. By 
 
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 Rambles in the Black Forest. By I. A. R. WYLIE, 
 
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 12
 
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 ROMANTIC HISTORY 
 
 The Hero of Brittany : Armand de Chateau- 
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 Spectator. " Should certainly be read by all students of the revolution ; 
 an exceedingly interesting and readable book." 
 
 Atherweum. "Not a single uninteresting page. We had no idea so good 
 a book could be written on such a story." 
 
 Truth. " Excellent ... picturesque and impartial." 
 
 The Court of William HI. By EDWIN and 
 
 MARION SHARPE GREW. With 16 Illustrations. 
 Demy 8vo. 15*. net. 
 
 Morning Post. " Done with fairness and thoroughness. . . . The book 
 baa many conspicuous merits." 
 
 10
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue 
 The Romance of the Oxford Colleges. By 
 
 FRANCIS GRIBBLE. Popular Edition, with 12 Illus- 
 trations. 2s. Gd. net. 
 Westminster Gazette. " Does not contain a dull page." 
 
 The Romance of the Cambridge Colleges. 
 
 By FRANCIS GRIBBLE. With 16 Illustrations. Crown 
 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Times. "May be cordially recommended." 
 
 Truth. " The history of the colleges in a bright and readable form with 
 an abundance of anecdotes." 
 
 Aberdeen free Frets. " Not a dull page." 
 
 The Romance of the Men of Devon. By 
 
 FRANCIS GRIBBLE, Author of "The Romance of the 
 Oxford Colleges," etc. With a Photogravure Frontispiece 
 and 16 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Tlit Lady. " A delightful Tolume." 
 
 Dundee Advertiser. "Written with a charm and ease which are de- 
 lightful." 
 
 The Story of the British Navy. By E. KEBLE 
 CHATTERTON. With a Frontispiece in Colour and 50 
 Illustrations from Photographs. Demy 8vo. 10*. Qd. net. 
 
 Naval and Military Record, "Contains practically everything which the 
 average individual wishes to know." 
 
 Royal Love-Letters : A Batch of Human 
 
 Documents. Collected and Edited by E. KEBLE 
 CHATTERTON. With 12 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 
 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 The Petticoat Commando : or, Boer Women 
 
 in Secret Service. By JOHANNA BRANDT. With 
 13 Illustrations and a Map. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 6s. 
 
 Globe " This is a book of unusual and fascinating interest. It is a real 
 life romance of the Boer Secret Service, and of the extraordinary courage 
 and heroism of the Boer -woman. The whole story is told with great skill, 
 and the book, as a -whole, is worth keeping as a memorial of the great 
 South African War." 
 
 Da,Uy Graphic. "As valuable as it is interesting. None who are in- 
 terested in South Africa's future should fail to read it." 
 
 17
 
 FOR EVERYDAY LIFE 
 
 Nerve in War Time. By EDWIN L. ASH, M.D. 
 
 (Lond.). Crown 8vo. Is. net. 
 
 Nerves and the Nervous. By EDWIN L. ASH, 
 
 M.D. (Lond.). New Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Daily Express. " One of the most refreshing books published for some 
 
 time. Dr. Ash not only probes into exactly what one feels when one is 
 
 nervous or worried, but the treatment is so free from fads that it does even 
 
 an nnnervy person good." 
 
 Mental Self-Help. By EDWIN L. ASH, M.D. (Lond.), 
 
 Assistant Physician Italian Hospital, London ; Physician 
 for Nervous Diseases to the Kensington and Fulham 
 General Hospital. Author of " Nerves and the Nervous." 
 Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 Athenaeum. "A lucid little book. His style is clear and convincing." 
 
 About Baby. By FRANCIS TWEDDELL, M.D., 
 
 Alumnus Bellevue Hospital, New York, and W. BARK- 
 LEY, M.B., B.CH. (Southfields). With an Introduction 
 by the Matron of the Hospital for Sick Children, Great 
 Ormond Street. Crown 8vo. Is. net. 
 
 Hearth and Home, " A most comprehensive guide to the correct bringing 
 up of a child from birth." 
 
 " Can't Waiters" ; or How You Waste Your Energies. 
 
 By EDWIN L. ASH, M.D. (Lond.). Crown 8vo. 1*. net. 
 
 A Manual for Nurses. By SYDNEY WELHAM, 
 
 M.R.C.S. (late Resident Medical Officer, Charing Cross 
 Hospital). With Diagrams. Crown 8vo. 2s. Gd. net. 
 Paper cover, Is. net. 
 
 British Medical Journal. "A useful reference work for nurses both 
 early and late in their career." 
 
 Child Nurture. By EONNOR MORTEN, Author of 
 
 " The Nursery Nurse's Companion," " The Nurse's Dic- 
 tionary." With a Frontispiece in Photogravure. Crown 
 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Standard. " Admirably practical full of useful knowledge." 
 
 Household Accounts. By RUPERT DEAKIN, M.A., 
 
 and P. J. HUMPHREYS, B.Sc. Fourth Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. &d. net. 
 
 This little book contains information which is of real value to every one 
 who has the control or management of a house. 
 18
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES 
 
 England v. Australia. By p. F. WARNER. Popular 
 
 Edition. Demy 8vo. Is. <od. net. 
 Sporting Life. " The book is one that every cricketer should possess." 
 
 Twenty-four Years of Cricket. By AETHUK A. 
 
 LILLE Y. Popular Edition. 1*. net. 
 
 The Beaufort Hunting Diary. By H. STUART 
 
 MENZIES. With an Introduction by the DUKE OF 
 BEAUFORT. Size 13J x 8J. Cloth, Is. 6d. net. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 Morning Post. "The thanks of many a hunting man will have been 
 earned by Mr. Stuart Menzies." t 
 
 Ladies' Ftild. " The very sight of this well-arranged diary reminds one 
 how much one has lost by not keeping an exact diary." 
 
 The Motorist's Pocket Tip Book. By GEOFFREY 
 
 OSBORN. With 13 Full-page Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. 
 Leather. 5s. net. 
 
 Scottish Field. "Contains in the clearest, most condensed, and most 
 practical form just the information one wants." 
 
 The Chauffeur's Companion. By "A FOUR-INCH 
 
 DRIVER." With 4 Plates and 5 Diagrams. Waterproof 
 Cloth. 2s. net. 
 
 The Lady Motorist's Companion. By " A FOUR- 
 INCH DRIVER." With 7 Plates and 4 Diagrams. 2s. U. 
 net. 
 
 British Mountain Climbs. By GEORGE D. ABRA- 
 HAM, Author of "The Complete Mountaineer." With 
 18 Illustrations and 21 Outline Drawings. Pocket size. 
 Leather, 7s. &d. net. Cloth, os. net. 
 Sportsman. "Eminently a practical manual." 
 
 Swiss Mountain Climbs. By GEORGE D. ABRA- 
 HAM. With 24 Illustrations and 22 Outline Drawings 
 of the principal peaks and their routes. Pocket size. 
 Leather, Is. 6d. net. Cloth, 5*. net. 
 Country Life. " As essential as good climbing boots." 
 19
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue 
 The Golfer's Pocket Tip Book. By G. D. FOX, 
 
 Part- Author of "The Six Handicap Golfer's Companion." 
 Fully Illustrated. Pott 8vo. Leather. 5s. net. 
 HARBT YARDON says : " It is a very handy little book." 
 
 The Six Handicap Golfer's Companion. By 
 
 "TWO OF HIS KIND." With Chapters by H. S. COLT 
 and HAEOLD H. HILTON. Illustrated with 15 Photo- 
 graphs of JACK WHITE (ex open champion). 2s. Gd. net. 
 Popular Edition. Paper cover, 1*. net. 
 
 Golf Illustrated. "The author's aim is to teach inferior players how to 
 reduce their handicaps to at least six. There is a great deal of sound advice 
 in the book, and its value is greatly increased by two excellent chapters by 
 Mr. H. H. Hilton and Mr. H. 8. Colt." 
 
 First Steps to Golf. By G. s. BROWN, with 94 
 
 Illustrations by G. P. ABRAHAM, F.R.P.S., and 9 Dia- 
 grams. Crown 8vo. 2s. &d. net. 
 Daily Graphic. " A most lucid guide for the benefit of the beginner." 
 
 Letters of a Modern Golfer to his Grandfather. 
 
 Arranged by HENRY LEACH. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Outlook. "A book in which the human interest is as marked as the 
 practical instruction." 
 
 Club Bridge. By ARCHIBALD DUNN, Author of 
 
 "Bridge and How to Play it." Crown 8vo. Popular 
 Edition. 3*. net. 
 Evening Standard. "This is, in fact, 'THE BOOK."' 
 
 Royal Spade Auction Bridge. By ARCHIBALD 
 
 DUNN. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s. &d. net. 
 Birmingham Pogt. "A.n exhaustire discussion of the many debatable 
 points in connection with the systems of play at present in force. Mr. 
 Drum's reasoning is logical and his suggestions Taluable." 
 
 The Rifleman's Companion. By L. R. TIPPINS. 
 With 6 Illustrations. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 The Aviator's Companion. By D. and HENRY 
 FARMAN and Others. With 21 Illustrations. 2s. &d. net. 
 20
 
 TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE 
 
 The Philippines Past and Present. By DEAN 
 
 C. WORCESTER. With 128 Full-page Illustrations. 
 2 Vols. Demy 8vo. 30*. net. 
 
 Morning Pott. " Mr. Worcester's knowledge of the Philippines is un- 
 surpassed." 
 
 The New Russia. By A. B. LETHBRIDGE. illus- 
 trated. Demy 8vo. 16*. net. 
 i 
 
 The Cruise of the Snark. By JACK LONDON. 
 
 With 119 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10*. 6d. net and 
 1*. net. 
 
 Scotsman " Hakes a fresh and strong appeal to all those who love high 
 adventure and good literature." 
 
 Daily Graphic. " We have to thank Hills & Boon for publishing this 
 remarkable world's cruise." 
 
 Two Years with the Natives in the Western 
 
 Pacific. By DR. FELIX SPEI8ER. With 40 Illustra- 
 tions. Demy 8vo. 10*. &d. net. 
 
 Jllv-strated Sporting and Dramatic Newt. "A really valuable book of 
 travel. " 
 
 Daily Chronicle. "Supplies valuable material for a knowledge of race* 
 low down in the scale of culture in bia detailed account of their social life, 
 belief, and customs." 
 
 The Wonderful Weald and the Quest of the 
 Crock of Gold. By ARTHUR BECKETT, Author 
 
 of " The Spirit of the Downs." With 20 Illustrations in 
 Colour and 43 Initials by ERNEST MARILLIER. Demy 
 8vo. 10*. 6d. net. Popular Edition. Large Cr. 8vo. 6*. 
 Daily Telegraph. " A charmingly discursive, gossipy volume." 
 
 Sunday Times. " He adopts the quest in the Stevensonian manner, and 
 creatus the right atmosphere for the vivid presentment of the history and 
 romance of the Weald. He knows the Weald so well, and can chat about 
 it with such unobtrusive communicativeness, such a charm of literary 
 allusion, and such whimsical humour, that we journey with him delightedly, 
 and come to its end with regret." 
 
 21
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue 
 The Holy Russian Land. By ROTHAY REYNOLDS, 
 
 Author of My Russian Year. Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 
 8*. net. 
 
 Tramps through Tyrol. By. F. w. STODDARD 
 
 (" Dolomite "). With 20 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 
 Second Edition. 7s. Gd. net. 
 
 Standard. " The outcome not of a mere holiday scamper, but of Ions; 
 residence. In his good company we explore the Dolomites, the Brenner 
 Pass, cross the Fanes Alp, and make acquaintance with such delectable 
 places as San Martino, Molveno, and Cortino to say nothing of Innsbruck 
 and Meran. He tells us a good deal about shooting and fishing and the 
 delights of the swift ski. Altogether ' Tramps through Tyrol ' is an alluring 
 book. ' Try,' we say, therefore, ' Tyrol,' and take Mr. Stoddard's delightful 
 4 Tramps' with you." 
 
 From Halifax to Vancouver. By B. PULLEN- 
 
 BURRY. With 40 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. 
 net. 
 Daily Chronicle. "Well written, well arranged, full and complete." 
 
 Turkey and the Turks. By z. D. FERRIMAN, 
 
 Author of " Home Life in Hellas." With 16 Illustrations. 
 Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. " This extremely fascinating and instructive volume 
 is peculiarly welcome just now." 
 
 Birmingham Daily Post. " An attractive book which helps us to see the 
 Turk as he is, with occasional glimpses of the Turk's wife and children." 
 
 Home Life in Hellas : Greece and the Greeks. 
 
 By Z. DUCKETT FERRIMAN. With 19 Illustrations. 
 Demy 8vo. 8s. net. 
 
 Morning Post. ''Possesses the great merit of being written by an 
 author who not only knows but also sympathises with the people whose 
 life he describes." 
 
 British Weeliy.' ' Full of up-to-date information. It is good as a tourist's 
 handbook, and still better for fireside reading." 
 
 22
 
 BOOKS FOR CHILDREN 
 
 The Children's Story of Westminster Abbey. 
 
 By G. B. TROUTBECK, Author of " Westminster Abbey " 
 (Little Guides). With 4 Photogravure Plates and 21 
 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 5*. net. 
 Popular Edition, Is. net. School Edition, Is. 
 
 Scotsman. " A volume with many merits as a gift-book for the yonns,' 
 is 'The Children's Story of Westminster Abbey, 1 of which the author is 
 G. B. Troutbeck. It is attractively written, and contains many splendid 
 photographs. Its chief object is to point out to British children how they 
 may follow the great outlines of their country's history in Westminster 
 Abbey, from the days of the far-off legendary King Lucius to those of 
 King Edward VII." 
 
 Stories from Italian History Re-told for 
 
 Children. By G. E. TROUTBECK, Author of "The 
 Children's Story of Westminster Abbey." With 22 Illus- 
 trations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 5*. net. 
 
 Tatter. "These stories are so vivid and so' interesting that they should 
 be in every schoolroom." 
 
 Kings and Queens of France. A Concise History 
 
 of France. By MILDRED CARNEGY. With a Preface 
 by the BISHOP OF HEREFORD. With a Map and 4 
 I ull-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3*. &d. 
 
 Westminster Gazette." Miss Carnegy has arranged her work so well that 
 the chief periods of the romantic history of France stand clearly out, and 
 she has chronicled the most dramatic events in a manner which is bound to 
 grip the young imagination. The book serves a good and a double 1 purpose ; 
 it is pleasantly and accurately instructive, and it has its use as an easy 
 reference book to the more obvious events in French his'.ory." 
 
 Queery Leary Nonsense. Being a Lear Nonsense 
 Book, with a long Introduction and Notes by the EARL 
 OF CROMER, and edited by LADY STRACHIE of Sutton 
 Court. With about 50 Illustrations in colour and line. 
 Crown 4to. 3s. &d. net. 
 
 Daily Telegraph. "A book full of fascinating absurdity, and the trus 
 spirit of the King of Nonsense." 
 
 The Lear Coloured Bird Book for Children. 
 
 By EDWARD LEAR. With a Foreword by J. ST. LOE 
 STRACHEY. 2s. Gd. net. 
 28
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue 
 The Zoo Conversation Book (Hughie's First 
 
 Visit). By EDMUND SELOUS, Author of "Tommy 
 Smith's Animals." With 12 Full-page Illustrations by 
 J. A. SHEPHERD. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. School 
 Edition, Is. 
 
 The animals dealt with are : the beaver, lion, tiger, Indian 
 elephant, African rhinoceros, hippopotamus, giraffe, grizzly 
 bear, polar bear, bison, crocodile and alligator, python, cobra, 
 kangaroo, ostrich. 
 
 The Zoo Conversation Book (Hughie's Second 
 
 Visit). By EDMUND SELOUS, Author of " Tommy 
 Smith's Animals." With 12 Full-page Illustrations by 
 J. A. SHEPHERD. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 The animals dealt with are : the wapiti, sloth bear, hysena, 
 puma, jaguar, wolf, pinniped, baby sea-elephant, emu, wild 
 boar, springbuck, hunting dog, wolverine. 
 
 Weetminster Gazette. " Hughie's second visit is even more crowded with 
 fun and good entertainment than was the first." 
 
 A Little Girl's Cookery Book. By c. F. BENTON 
 
 and MARY F. HODGE. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. Paper, 
 1*. net. 
 
 volume contains excellent recipes for dishes which children will find qnite 
 easy to make, and their elders to eat without misgivings. Every father, 
 mother, uncle, and aunt should make a point of presenting their child 
 friends with a copy of this useful and practical book." 
 
 A Little Girl's Gardening Book. By SELINA 
 
 RANDOLPH. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 2*. Qd. net. Paper, 
 
 1*. net. 
 
 Aberdeen Free Press. "A first-rate book." 
 
 Manchester Courier." All children love gardens. This book will make 
 them genuine gardeners." 
 
 Letters to Children about Drawing, Painting. 
 
 and Something More. By JOHN MEADE. Crown 8vo. 
 2s. (id. net. 
 A charming book which will fulfil a long-felt want. 
 
 24
 
 ON MATTERS THEATRICAL 
 
 A Century of Great Actors (1750-1850). By 
 
 CECIL FERARD ARMSTRONG, Author of "The 
 Dramatic Author's Companion," etc. With 16 Illustra- 
 tions. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d net. 
 
 Standard. "An interesting series of pithy biographies concise and 
 entertaining." 
 
 World. " An interesting and useful book." 
 
 Bookman. " Very alert, very scholarly, and entirely readable." 
 
 A Century of Famous Actresses (1750-1850). 
 
 By HAROLD SIMPSON, Author of "Yvette Guilbert," 
 "A Century of Ballads," etc., and MBS. CHARLES 
 BRAUN. With 18 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 lUuttrated London News. " We have seen no book of bygone actors 
 giving a tetter idea of their acting." 
 
 A Century of Ballads (1810-1910), Their 
 Composers and Singers. By HAROLD SIMP- 
 SON. With 49 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10*. 6d. net. 
 Popular Edition. Large Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Daily Exprest. " Deals brightly with a most fascinating subject," 
 
 The Garden of Song. Edited by HAROLD SIMPSON. 
 
 Fcap. Svo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 Scotsman. "An excellent anthology of lyrics that have been set to 
 music. They are, for the most part, songs that have enjoyed a wide 
 popularity, and this collection of lyrical gems forms a very desirable 
 little volume." 
 
 Shakespeare to Shaw. By CECIL FERARD ARM- 
 
 STRONG, Author of "The Dramatic Author's Com- 
 panion." Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 Athen&um. " The dramatists Shakespeare, Congreve, Sheridan, Robert- 
 son, Sir A. W. Pinero, and Mr. Shaw have been selected as landmarks 
 of English drama. The method adopted by the author is the separate 
 examination of every play of his subjects with criticism of the qualities 
 of each." 
 
 25
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue 
 
 An Actor's Hamlet. With full notes by LOUIS 
 
 CALVE RT. Crown 8vo. 2s. &d. net. 
 Daily Chronicle. "Full of illuminating insight." 
 
 The Dramatic Author's Companion. By CECIL. 
 
 F. ARMSTRONG. With an Introduction by ARTHUR 
 BOURCHIER, M.A. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 Times. " This is a very useful book, and there seems little omitted which 
 will be of practical service to an aspiring playwright. All about different 
 kinds of plays and their production, contracts, placing MSS. (with an 
 excellent covering letter), facsimile MS., copyrights, etc." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. " The best book of its kind we have seen. Its author 
 has not only a wide knowledge of plays, but a sound judgment both from 
 the artistic and popular standpoint. His advice is always practical and 
 seems to cover the whole field. The study of the book will save dramatists 
 from many costly errors." 
 
 Westminster Gazette. " Of books of the kind this is the most modest and 
 most useful." 
 
 The Actor's Companion. By CECIL F. ARM- 
 STRONG. With an Introduction by ARTHUR BOUR- 
 CHIER, M.A. Crown 8vo. 2s. Qd. net. 
 
 Whilst having no pretensions to teaching the difficult art of acting, this 
 book will be found to contain many practical and useful hints to the 
 young actor. The author, associated as he has been for many years with 
 one of the larger West End theatres, has had exceptionally good 
 opportunities of studying the inner workings of a theatre, the technical 
 requirements of the actor, and the many considerations besides that of 
 mere talent necessary to ensure success on the stage. Two special chapters, 
 one dealing with Scientific Voice Production and the other with the Art 
 of Gesture, are contributed by well-known experts. There is a chapter for 
 amateurs. 
 
 Peter Pan: The Fairy Story of the Play. 
 
 By G. D. DRENNAN. With a Photogravure of Miss 
 PAULINE CHASE as Peter Pan. Fcap. 8vo. Leather, 
 2s. Sd. net. Popular Edition, Crown 8vo. Paper, &d. 
 School Reader Edition, with an Introduction by A. B. 
 PICKLES, M.A. Cloth, &d. 
 
 Santa-Claus : The Kinemacolour Fairy Play. 
 
 By HAROLD SIMPSON. With 34 Illustrations. Crown 
 4to. 1*. net. 
 
 Votes for Women. A Play in Three Acts. By 
 ELIZABETH ROBINS. Crown 8vo. 1*.
 
 VOLUMES OF VERSE 
 
 Deport mental Ditties. By HARRY GRAHAM. 
 Profusely Illustrated by LEWIS BAUMER. Fcap. 8vo. 
 Third Edition. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Daily Graphic. " Harry Graham certainly has the knack." 
 
 Daily Chronicle. " All clever, generally flippant, invariably amusing." 
 
 Canned Classics, and Other Verses. By 
 
 HARRY GRAHAM, Author of " Deportmental Ditties," 
 " The Bolster Book," etc., etc. Profusely Illustrated by 
 LEWIS BAUMER. Crown 4to. 3*. Gd. net. Also 
 Fcap. 8vo. 3s. Qd. net. 
 
 Times. " As fresh as ever." 
 
 Evening Standard. " One long delight." 
 
 Founded on Fiction. By LADY SYBIL GRANT. 
 With 50 Illustrations and a Cover Design by GEORGE 
 MORROW. Crown 4to. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 T. P.'s Weekly." A book of chuckles." 
 
 Daily Chronicle. " The vivacious offspring of a witty mind." 
 
 Times. " Mr. Morrow's pictures fit the verses like a glove." 
 
 Ships and Sealing Wax. By HANSARD* WATT. 
 
 With 40 Illustrations by L. R. BRIGHTWELL. Crown 
 4to. 3*. 6d. net. 
 
 Daily Mail. "Very clever and amusing, the humour enhanced by 
 quaint illustrations." 
 
 Through the Loopholes of Retreat. By HAN- 
 SARD WATT. With a Portrait of COWPER in Photo- 
 gravure. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. &d. net. 
 
 Daily Chronicle. " Mr. Hansard Watt has hit upon the happy plan of 
 placing poet and letter-writer side by side, so that the two voices may 
 blend in unison. The volume has a select passage of prose and verse for 
 every day in the year, and the whole is a pleasant and snrpriseful store- 
 house of good things. Mr. Watt prints for the first time a letter from 
 Cowper to his friend Joseph Hill: it is full of interest, and lends an 
 additional charm to the volume." 
 
 27
 
 FOR THE CONTEMPLATIVE MIND 
 
 Involution. By LORD ERNEST HAMILTON. DemySvo. 
 
 Is. 6d. net. 
 
 Daily Graphic. " Extremely interesting, an honest and lofty endeavour 
 to seek the truth." 
 
 The New Theology. {Sixteenth Thousand.) By the 
 REV. R. J. CAMPBELL, M.A. Fully revised, and with 
 a New Preface. Crown 8vo. 1*. net. 
 
 St. Clare and Her Order : A Story of Seven 
 
 Centuries. By the Author of " The Enclosed Nun." 
 With 20 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Is. 6d. net. 
 Catholic Times. " Fills a gap in our religious literature." 
 
 The Town of Morality : or, the Narrative of One 
 who Lived Here for a Time. Ry C. H. R. Second 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Daily Graphic. " In short C. H. R. has written a new ' Pilgrim's Progress, 1 
 a passionate, a profound and stirring satire on the self-satisfied rcorality of 
 Church and of Chapel." 
 
 The Enclosed Nun. Fcap. Svo. New Edition. Cloth, 
 2s. Qd. net ; Paper, Is. net. 
 
 Pali Mall Gazette. " A remarkably beautiful piece of devotional 
 writing." 
 
 Unposted Letters. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Daily Express. "Full of tender memories. There is something about 
 them peculiarly touching and very human." 
 
 Morning Post. " They have a style of their own which must attract 
 every reader of taste." 
 
 Out of the Ivory Palaces. By P. H. DITCHFIELD, 
 M.A., F.S.A., F.R.S.L., F.R.Hist.S., Author of "The 
 Parson's Pleasance." With 12 Illustrations. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 Globe. " The author gives much curious and out-of-the-way information 
 in these very readable pages." 
 
 28
 
 FOR POLITICIANS AND 
 OTHER READERS 
 
 Makers of New France. By CHARLES DAWBARN. 
 Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 This volume will be found of intense interest, dealing as it 
 does with the most prominent figures of present day France 
 in Politics, Literature, Philosophy, the Drama, etc. It in- 
 cludes studies of Monsieur Poincar6, General Joffre, Anatole 
 France, Eugene Brieux, Henri Bergson, Louis Bleriot, and 
 many others. 
 
 The Kaiser's Heir. With 12 Illustrations. Crown- 
 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Times. "Shows a minute knowledge both of the Prince's career and of 
 German conditions generally, which makes it a really valuable contribution 
 to current history." 
 
 Home Life in Ireland. By ROBERT LYND. With 
 
 18 Illustrations. Third and Popular Edition, with a New- 
 Preface. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Spectator. "An entertaining and informing book, tha work of a close 
 and interested observer." 
 
 The Book of This and That. By ROBERT LYND. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. net. 
 A collection of brilliant Essays by a talented Irishman. 
 
 Captive of the Kaiser in Belgium. By 
 
 GEORGES LA BARRE. With 7 Illustrations by the 
 Author. Paper Cover. 1*. net. 
 
 Pall Mall. "A vivid and taking little book a most convincing 
 story." 
 
 Military Mail. " One of the best and most reliable personal narratives. 
 of the state of Belgium at the time of the German invasion." 
 
 Physical Training for Boy Scouts. By LIEUT. 
 
 A. G. A. STREET, R.N., Superintendent of Physical 
 Training to the School Board of Glasgow, with a 
 Foreword by SIR R. S. S. BADEN-POWELL, K.C.B, 
 With 29 Diagrams. Paper Cover. Id. net. 
 
 Morning Post. "An excellent little Manual, it should be invaluabl* 
 to Scout Masters." 
 
 29
 
 Mills & Boon's Catalogue. 
 The Italians of To-day. By RICHARD BAGOT, 
 
 Author of " My Italian Year." Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 
 2s. Gd. net. 
 
 Scotsman. " Shows the same intimate knowledge of Italian life and 
 character as ' My Italian Year.' " 
 
 The German Spy System in France. Trans- 
 lated from the French of PAUL LANOIR. Crown 8vo. 
 5s. net. Paper Cover. Gd. net. 
 
 T.P.'a Weekly. " Abook that should awaken the public and the authori- 
 ties to a condition of things that can only cease to be alarming if prompt 
 action is taken." 
 
 The Pocket Gladstone : Selections from the 
 Writings and Speeches of William Ewart Gladstone. 
 
 Compiled by J. AUBREY REE8, with an Introduction 
 by the Rt. Hon. Sir ALGERNON WEST, P.O., G.C.B. 
 Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, 2s. net. Paper, 1*. net. 
 
 The Pocket Disraeli. By J. B. LINDENBAUM, M.A. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, 2*. net. Paper, 1*. net. 
 
 The Pocket Asquith. By B. B. MORTON. Fcap. 
 
 8vo. Cloth, 2s. net. Paper, 1. net. 
 Spectator. " Should be useful to the student of contemporary politics." 
 
 The Bolster Book. A Book for the Bedside. By 
 
 HARRY GRAHAM, Author of " Deportmental Ditties." 
 With an illustrated cover by LEWIS BAUMER. Third 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. Gs. Popular Edition, Is. net. 
 
 Daily Chronicle. " Humorists are pur benefactors, and Captain Graham 
 being not only a humorist, but an inventor of humour, is dearer to me 
 than that ' sweet Tuxedo Girl ' of a famous song, who, ' though fond of fun,' 
 is 'never rude.' I boldly assume that Biffin, like 'the Poet Budge' and 
 Hosea Biglow, is a ventriloquist's doll a doll more amusing than any 
 figure likely to appear in the dreams of such dull persons as could be put to 
 sleep by articulate laughter." 
 
 Daily Graphic, " Most refreshingly and delightfully funny." 
 30
 
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