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DERELICTS 
 
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF 
 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 
 IDOLS 
 
 SEPTIMUS 
 
 DERELICTS 
 
 THE USURPER 
 
 WHERE LOVE IS 
 
 THE WHITE DOVE 
 
 SIMON THE JESTER 
 
 A STUDY IN SHADOWS 
 
 THE BELOVED VAGABOND 
 
 AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA 
 
 THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE 
 
 THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE 
 
DERELICTS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM J. LOCKE 
 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXI 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
 

 Copyright i8q7 
 By John Lane 
 
DERELICTS 
 Part I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BEYOND THE PALE 
 
 " Warm day," said the policeman. 
 
 The man thus addressed looked up from 
 the steps, where he was sitting bareheaded, and 
 nodded. Then, rather quickly, he put on his 
 hat. 
 
 " Not much Bank Holiday hereabouts." 
 
 " So much the better," said the man. 
 • "It 's all very well for them as likes it," 
 said the policeman, wiping his forehead. 
 
 It was the first Monday in August, and his 
 beat was not a lively one. Curiosity had at- 
 tracted him toward the sitting figure, and the 
 social instinct prompted conversation. Receiv- 
 ing, however, an uninterested nod in reply to 
 his last remark, he turned away reluctantly and 
 continued his slow tramp up the street 
 
 227602 
 
Derelicts 
 
 The man took no notice of his departure, 
 but, resting his chin on his hands, gazed wist- 
 fully across the road. Why he had come 
 here to Holland Park he scarcely knew. Per- 
 haps, in his aimless walk from his lodgings in 
 Pimlico, he had unconsciously followed a once 
 familiar track that had brought him to a spot 
 filled with sweet and bitter associations. 
 
 The blinds were drawn in the great house 
 opposite that stared white in the noonday sun. 
 A beer-can hanging on the area railings an- 
 nounced the caretaker. Like most of the 
 mansions in the long, well-kept street, it seemed 
 abandoned to sun and silence. 
 
 It was the first time he had seen the house 
 since the cloud had fallen upon his life. Once 
 its interior had been as familiar to him as his 
 own boyhood's home. Its inmates gave him 
 flattering welcome. He was courted for his 
 brilliant promise and admired for ' his good 
 looks. A whisper of feasting and riotous liv- 
 ing that hovered around his reputation caused 
 him to be petted by the household as the prod- 
 igal cousin. The comforts of wealth, the 
 charm of refinement, the warmth of affection, 
 were his whenever he chose to knock for ad- 
 mittance at that door. Now he had lost them 
 
 2 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 all, as irrevocably as Adam lost Eden. He was 
 an outcast among men. Not only had he for- 
 feited his right to mount the steps, but he 
 knew that the very mention of his existence 
 in that household brought shame and fierce 
 injunctions of silence. 
 
 He gazed at the drawn blinds of the deserted 
 house in an agony of hopelessness, craving the 
 warm sympathy, the laughter, the dear human 
 companionship, the mere sound of his Christian 
 name which he had not heard uttered for over 
 two years — ever since he had entered by that 
 gate above which the lasciate ogni speranza 
 seemed written in letters of flame. The lines 
 deepened on his face. The touch of a friendly 
 hand, a kind glance from familiar eyes, the 
 daily, unnoted possession of millions, were to 
 him a priceless treasure, forever beyond his 
 reach. He was barely thirty. His life was 
 wrecked. Nothing lay before him but pariah- 
 dom, and slinking from the gaze of honest men. 
 And within him there burnt no fiery sense of 
 injustice to keep alive the flame of noble 
 impulse — only self-contempt, ignomiay, the 
 ineffaceable brand of the gaol. 
 
 It was on the pavement opposite that he had 
 been arrested. He had tripped down the 
 
 3 
 
Derelicts 
 
 steps in evening dress, his ears buzzing with 
 the laughter within, in spite of tremulous throb- 
 bings of his heart, and had walked into the 
 arms of the two quiet officers in plain clothe? 
 who had been patiently awaiting his exit. From 
 that moment onward his life had been one pain 
 and horror. Regained freedom had brought 
 him little joy — had brought him in fact in- 
 creased despair. During the last few months 
 of his imprisonment he had yearned sicken- 
 ingly for the day of release. It had come. 
 Sometimes he regretted the benumbed hours 
 of that mid-time in gaol, when pain had been 
 lost in apathy. He had been free for five 
 months. In all probability he would be free 
 for the rest of his life. Sometimes he shud- 
 dered at the prospect. 
 
 The policeman again passed by, and thi« 
 time eyed him askance. Why was he sitting 
 on those steps ? A suspicion of felonious 
 purpose relieved the monotony of his beat. 
 
 " You '11 be moving on soon," he said 
 H You must n't doss on them doorsteps al. 
 day." 
 
 The man looked at him rather stupidly* 
 His first impulse was one of servile obedience 
 — an instinct of late habit, and he rose from 
 
 4 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 his seat. Then his sense of independence 
 asserted itself, and he said, in a somewhat 
 defiant tone : — 
 
 u I felt faint from the heat. You have 
 no right to molest me." 
 
 The policeman glanced at him from head to 
 foot. A gentleman evidently, in spite of well- 
 worn clothes and gloveless hands thrust into 
 trousers pockets. He wore no watch-chain, 
 and his shirt-cuffs were destitute of links. 
 u Down upon his luck," thought the policeman ; 
 u ill too." The man's face was pinched, and 
 of the transparent white of a thin, fair man with 
 delicately cut features. His eyes were heavy, 
 deeply sunken, and wore an expression of 
 weariness mingled with fear. The side muscles 
 by his mouth were relaxed, as if a heavy droop- 
 ing moustache had dragged them down ; the 
 scanty blonde hair on his upper lip, curled up 
 at the ends, contrasted oddly with this impres- 
 sion. He looked careworn and ill. His clothes 
 hung loosely upon him. The policeman sur- 
 rendered his point. 
 
 "Well, you ain't obstructing the traffic," he 
 replied good-humouredly ; and again he left 
 the man done, who reseated himself on the 
 shady steps, as if disinclined to stir from com- 
 
 5 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Portable quarters. But the spell of his medita- 
 tions had been broken. He leaned his head 
 against the stone pillar of the balustrade and 
 tried to think of occupation for the day. He 
 longed for to-morrow, when he could resume 
 his weary search for work, interrupted since 
 Saturday noon. At rirst he had plunged 
 into the hopeless task with feverish anxiety, 
 humiliated by rebuffs, agonised through the 
 frustration of idle hopes. Now it had grown 
 mechanical, a daily routine, devoid of pain or 
 joy, to drag himself through the busy streets 
 from office to office and from shop to shop. 
 He resented the Sunday cessation of work, as in- 
 terfering with the tenor of his life. This Bank 
 Holiday added another Sunday to the week. 
 
 The heat and glare and soundless solitude 
 of the street made him drowsy. The thought 
 of death passed through him : an euthanasia — 
 to fade there peacefully out of existence. And 
 then to be picked up dead on a doorstep — a 
 fitting end. Finis coronat opus. He sniffed 
 cynically at the idea. The minutes passed. 
 The shade gradually encroached upon the 
 sunlight of the pavement. A cat from one 
 of the great deserted houses drew near with 
 meditative step, smelt his boots, and, ift the 
 
 6 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 bored manner of her tribe, curled herself up 
 to slumber. A butcher's cart rattling past 
 awoke the man, and he bent down and stroked 
 the creature at his feet. Then he became 
 aware of a figure approaching him, along the 
 pavement — a tiny woman, neatly dressed. 
 He watched her idly, with lack-lustre gaze. 
 But when she came within distance of saluta- 
 tion, their eyes met, and each started in recog- 
 nition. He rose hurriedly and made a step 
 as if to cross the road, but the little lady 
 stopped still. 
 
 " Stephen Chisely ! n 
 
 She moved forward and laid a detaining touch 
 upon his arm, and looked up questioningly 
 into his face : — 
 
 " Won't you speak to me ? " 
 
 The voice was so soft and musical, the 
 intonation so winning, that he checked his 
 impulse of flight; but he stared at her half 
 bewildered. 
 
 u You have n't forgotten me — Yvonne 
 Latour ? " she continued. 
 
 " Forgotten you ? No," he replied, slowly. 
 tc But I am not accustomed to being recog- 
 nised." 
 ** c The world is very full of hateful people," 
 7 
 
Derelicts 
 
 she said. " Oh ! how wretchedly ill you are 
 looking! That was why you were sitting 
 down on the doorstep. My poor fellow ! " 
 
 There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes 
 He turned his head away quickly, 
 
 " You must n't talk to me like that," he 
 said, huskily. " I *m not fit for you to speak to. 
 When I went under, I went under — for good 
 and all. Good-bye, Madame Latour — and 
 God bless you for saying a kind word to me." 
 
 "Why need you go away? Walk a little 
 with me, won't you? We can go along to 
 the Park and sit quietly and talk." 
 
 " Do you really mean it — that you would 
 walk with me — in the public streets?" 
 
 " Why, of course," she replied, with a little 
 air of surprise. " Did we not have many walks 
 together in the old days ? Do you think I 
 have forgotten ? And you want friends so, so 
 badly that even poor little me may be of some 
 good. Come." 
 
 They moved away together, and walked 
 some steps in silence. He was too dazed 
 with the sudden realisation of his yearning for 
 human tenderness to find adequate speech. 
 At last he said harshly : — 
 
 u You know what you are doing ? You are 
 8 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 in the company of a man who committed a 
 disgraceful crime and has rotted in a gaol for 
 two years." 
 
 " Ah, don't say such things/* said Madame 
 Latour. "You hurt me. There are hun- 
 dreds of people in this great London, hon- 
 oured and respected, who have done far worse 
 than you. Hundreds of thousands," she 
 added, with exaggerated conviction. " Be- 
 sides, you are still my good, kind friend. 
 What has passed cannot alter that." 
 
 * I can't understand it yet," he said lamely. 
 " You are the first who has said a kind word 
 to me." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Yvonne again. 
 
 They emerged into the Bayswater Road. 
 Before he had time to remonstrate, she had 
 hailed an omnibus going eastward. "We 
 will get out at the corner of the Park. You 
 mustn't walk too much. 
 
 The 'bus stopped. He entered with her 
 and sat down by her side. When the con- 
 ductor came for the fares, Yvonne opened her 
 purse quickly ; but a flush came over her 
 companion's pale face as he divined her inten- 
 tion. " You must let me, ' he said, producing 
 a couple of pence from his pocket. 
 
 9 
 
Derelicts 
 
 The rattling of the vehicle prevented serious 
 conversation. The talk drifted naturally into 
 the desultory commonplace. Madame Latour 
 explained that she had been giving the last 
 singing lesson of the season at a house on 
 the other side of Holland Park, that her pupil 
 had neither ear nor voice, and that by the time 
 she had learned the accompaniment to a song it 
 had already grown out of date. " People are 
 so stupid, you know." 
 
 She said it with such an air of conviction, as 
 if she had discovered a brand-new truth, that 
 the man smiled. She noted it with her quick, 
 feminine glance, and felt gladdened. It was so 
 much better to laugh than to cry. She was 
 encouraged to chatter lightly upon passing 
 glimpses of people in the street, of amusing 
 incidents in her profession as a concert singer. 
 When the 'bus stopped, she jumped out, dis- 
 regarding his gravely offered hand, and laughed, 
 her face glowing with animation. 
 
 " Oh, how nice it is to be with you again ! " 
 she said, as they crossed to the entrance gate of 
 Kensington Gardens. " Say that you are glad 
 you met me ! 
 
 " It is like a drop of water on the tongue of 
 the damned/' he said in a low voice — too low, 
 
 10 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 however, for her to hear, for she continued to 
 look up at him, all smiles and sweetness. 
 
 She seemed a thing of warmth and sunshine,- 
 too impalpable for the rough uses of the world. 
 One would have said she was the embodied 
 spirit of the warm south of Keats's ode. Her 
 dark hair, massed in a hundred little waves over 
 her forehead and temples, gave an indescribable 
 softness to her face. A faint tinge of rose 
 shone through her dark skin. Her great brown 
 eyes contained immeasurable depths of tender- 
 ness. A subtly-mingled, all-pervading sense of 
 summer and the exquisitely feminine enveloped 
 her from the beautiful hair to her tiny feet. 
 She was in the sweetest bloom of her woman- 
 hood and she had all the unconscious, half- 
 pathetic charm of a child. In a crowded 
 ball-room, amidst dazzling dresses and flashing 
 arms and necks and under the electric light, 
 Yvonne's beauty might have passed unnoticed. 
 But there, in the shady walk upon which they 
 had just entered, in that quiet world of cool 
 greens and shadowed yellows, she appeared to 
 the man's weary eyes the most beautiful thing 
 on the earth. 
 
 " How sweet it is here," she said, as they sat 
 down upon a bench. 
 
 II 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Incomprehensibly sweet," he replied. 
 
 His tone touched her. She laid her tiny- 
 gloved hand upon his arm. 
 
 " I wish I could help you — Mr. Chisely," 
 she said gently. 
 
 " That is no longer my name/' he said. 
 " And so you must n't call me by it. I have 
 given it up since — since I came out. Would 
 you care to hear about me? It would help me 
 to speak a little." 
 
 "That's why I brought you here/' said 
 Yvonne. 
 
 He bent forward, elbows on knees, covering 
 his face in his hands. 
 
 " I don't know, after all, that there 's much 
 to say. My poor mother died while I was 
 in prison — you know that ; I suppose I broke 
 her heart. Her money was sunk in an an- 
 nuity. The furniture and things were sold 
 to pay outstanding debts of mine. I came out 
 five months ago, penniless. Everard's bankers 
 communicated with me. As the head of the 
 family he had collected a lump sum of money, 
 which was given to me on condition that I 
 should change my name and never let any 
 of the family hear of my existence again. My 
 mother's people refused to have anything to 
 
 12 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 do with me. God knows why I was sitting 
 outside their house to-day. Perhaps you think 
 I ought n't to have accepted Everard's gift. A 
 man hasn't much pride left after two years' 
 
 hard labour I took the name of Joyce. 
 
 I saw it on a tradesman's cart as I reached the 
 street after the interview. One name is as 
 good as another." 
 
 " But you are still Stephen ? " said Yvonne. 
 
 " I suppose so. I have hardly thought of 
 
 it. Yes, I suppose I keep the Stephen 
 
 I am husbanding this money. I have only 
 that between me and starvation, if anything 
 happened, you know. What I have passed 
 through is not the best thing for one's health. 
 Meanwhile, I am trying to get work. It is a 
 bit hopeless. I know I ought to go out of 
 England, but London is in my blood somehow. 
 I am loth to leave it. Besides, what should I 
 do in the colonies ? I am not fit for hard 
 manual labour. They tried it in there, and I 
 broke down ; I made sacks and helped in the 
 kitchen most of my time. If I could earn a 
 pound a week in London, I should n't care. It 
 would keep body and soul together. Why 
 I should want to keep them together I don't 
 know. I suppose my spirit is broken, and I 
 
 13 
 
Derelicts 
 
 am too apathetic to commit suicide. If I had 
 the spirit of a louse I should do so. But I 
 have n't." 
 
 He stopped speaking and remained with his 
 head bowed in his hands. Yvonne could find 
 no words to reply. His almost brutal terse- 
 ness had given her a momentary perception of 
 his self-abasement which surprised and fright- 
 ened her. Generous and tender-hearted as she 
 was, she had ever found men insoluble enigmas. 
 They knew so much, had so many strange 
 wants, seemed to exist in a world of ideas, feei- 
 ings, and actions beyond her ken. Here was 
 one with nameless experiences and shames. She 
 shrank a few inches along the seat, not from 
 repulsion, but from a sudden sense of her own 
 incapacity of comprehension. She felt tongue- 
 tied and helpless. So there was a short 
 silence. 
 
 Joyce noticed the lack of spontaneous sym- 
 pathy, and, raising a haggard face, said : — 
 
 " I have shocked you." 
 
 "You talk so strangely," said Yvonne — 
 " as if you had a stone instead of a heart." 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, softening at the sight 
 of her distress. " I am ungrateful to you. I 
 ought to be happy to-day. I will be happy. 1 
 
 14 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 should like to bend down and kiss your feet for 
 sitting here with me." 
 
 The change in his tone brought the colour 
 back into Yvonne's face and the sun into her 
 eyes. She was a creature of quick impulses. 
 
 " Have I really made you happy ? I am so 
 glad. I seem to be always trying to make 
 people happy and never succeeding." 
 
 " They must be strange people you have 
 dealt with," said Joyce with a weary smile. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders expressively. 
 
 " I suppose it is that other people are so 
 strange and I am so ordinary." 
 
 " You are the kindest, sunniest soul on 
 earth," said Joyce. " You always were." 
 
 " Oh, how can you say so ? " she cried, shak- 
 ing her head. She was all brightness again. 
 " I am such an insignificant little person. 
 Everything about me seems so small. I have 
 a small body, a small voice, a small sphere, a 
 small mind, and oh ! I live in such a small, tiny 
 flat. You must come and see me. I will sing 
 to you — that is my one small talent — and 
 perhaps that will cheer you. You must be 
 so lonely ! " 
 
 " Why are you so good to me?" Joyce 
 asked. 
 
 15 
 
Derelicts 
 
 <c Because you look wretched and ill and 
 miserable/* she said impulsively, "and I cant 
 bear it. You were good to me once. Do you 
 remember how kindly you settled everything 
 for me after Amedee left me ? I don't know 
 what I should have done without you. And 
 then, your mother. Ah, I know," she continued, 
 lowering her voice a little, " I know, and I 
 cried for you. I saw her just before the end 
 came and she spoke of you. She said ' Yvonne, 
 if ever you meet Stephen, give him a kind word 
 for my sake. He will have the whole world 
 against him/ And I promised — but I should 
 have done just the same if I had n't promised. 
 There is n't any goodness in it." 
 
 He pressed her hand dumbly. Her eyes 
 swam with starting tears, but his were dry. 
 Sometimes when he thought of the devastation 
 his crime had wrought, he would fall on his 
 knees and bury his face, and long that he could 
 ease his heart in a storm of weeping. But it 
 seemed too dead for passionate outburst. Yet 
 he had never felt so near to emotion as at that 
 moment. 
 
 They talked for a short while longer, of old 
 days and home memories, bitter-sweet to the 
 young man, and of his present position, whose 
 
 16 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 hopelessness Yvonne refused to allow. She 
 was anxious to effect a reconciliation between 
 him and his family. His mother's relations 
 who lived in Holland Park she did not know. 
 But his cousin, Everard Chisely, Canon of 
 Winchester, might be brought to more Christian 
 sentiments of forgiveness. She would plead 
 with the Canon the first time that she met him. 
 But Joyce shook his head. No. He was the 
 black sheep. Everard had behaved generously. 
 He must go his own way. No modern Chris- 
 tianity could make a man forget the disgrace 
 that had been brought upon his name by felony. 
 Besides, Everard never went back upon his 
 word. Like Pilate, what he had written, he 
 had written, and there was an end of the 
 matter. 
 
 " But how do you come to know Everard ? " 
 asked Joyce, wishing to turn the conversation. 
 
 " I met him several times at your mother's," 
 replied Yvonne. " He used to be so kind to 
 her. And there he heard me sing — and some- 
 how we have become immense friends. He 
 comes to see me, and I sing to him. Dina 
 Vicary says he comes up to town on purpose. 
 Did you ever hear such a thing ? But I can't 
 you how respectable it makes me feel — so 
 
 2 iy 
 
Derelicts 
 
 impressive you know — a real live dignitary. 
 Once he came when Elsie Carnegie and Van- 
 deleur were there showing me her new song 
 and dance. You should have seen their faces 
 when he came in. Van, who sings in the 
 choir of a West End church, began to talk 
 hymns for all he was worth, while Elsie flicked 
 her lighted cigarette into a flower-pot. It was 
 so funny." 
 
 Yvonne broke into a contagious ripple of 
 laughter. Then, remembering the flight of 
 time, she looked at her watch and rose quicklv 
 from the seat. 
 
 " I had no idea it was so late ! I am going 
 out to lunch. Now you will come and see me, 
 won't you ? Come to-morrow evening. I live 
 at 40 Aberdare Mansions, Marylebone Road. 
 By the way, do you still sing ? " 
 
 " I had forgotten there was such a thing as 
 song in the world," said Joyce sadly. 
 
 " Well, you '11 remember it to-morrow even- 
 ing," said Yvonne. " I have an idea. Au 
 revoir, then." 
 
 " God bless you," said Joyce, shaking hands 
 with her. 
 
 She nodded brightly, and tripped away up 
 the path. Joyce watched her dainty figure 
 
 18 
 
Beyond the Pale 
 
 until it was out of sight, and then he wandered 
 aimlessly through the Park, thinking of the 
 past hour. And, for a short while, some of the 
 contamination of the gaol seemed to be wiped 
 away. 
 
 *9 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 YVONNE 
 
 That evening Yvonne was standing by the 
 door of a concert-hall, as her friend and fellow- 
 artist Vandeleur adjusted a red wrap round her 
 shoulders. He was a burly, pudding-faced 
 Irishman with twinkling dark blue eyes and a 
 persuasive manner. His fingers lingered about 
 the wrap longer than was necessary. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Yvonne, " and thank you." 
 She was feeling a little upset. Vandeleur, a 
 popular favourite, had preceded her on the 
 programme, and his song had been met with 
 rapturous applause. 
 
 " You have f queered ' me, Van," she had 
 said, in pure jest. 
 
 Whereupon, he had returned to the platform 
 to give his enthusiastically demanded encore, 
 and, to the disappointment of the audience, 
 had sung the most villainous drawing-room 
 ballad he could think of, without an attempt 
 
 20 
 
Yvonne 
 
 at expression. The applause had been per- 
 functory, and Yvonne's appearance had created 
 a quickening of interest. Vandeleur's unnec- 
 essary quixotism put Yvonne into a false 
 position. So she thanked him shyly. 
 
 " Let me just have ten minutes of a cigarette 
 at home with you," he pleaded. 
 
 Yvonne was tired. It was very hot ; she had 
 been running hither and thither about London 
 since the morning, and was longing in a femin- 
 ine way to free herself of hampering garments, 
 and to lie down with a French novel for an 
 hour before going to bed. But when a man 
 spoke to her with that note of entreaty in his 
 voice she did not know how to refuse. She 
 nodded assent. Vandeleur called a cab and 
 they drove together to her flat. 
 
 It was up many flights of stairs — the. pas- 
 sage was very narrow, the drawing-room very 
 tiny. The big Irishman standing on the 
 hearthrug seemed to fill all the space left by 
 the grand piano. How this article of furniture 
 was ever brought into the flat puzzled Yvonne's 
 friends as much as the entrance of the apples 
 into the dumplings puzzled George III., 
 until some one suggested the same solution 
 of the problem — the flat had been built round 
 
 21 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the piano. Everything else in the room was 
 small, like Yvonne herself, the armchairs, the 
 couch, the three occasional tables. A few 
 water-colours hung around the walls. The 
 curtains and draperies were fresh and tasteful. 
 All the room, with its dainty furniture and 
 pretty feminine knick-knacks, was impressed 
 with Yvonne's graceful individuality — all ex- 
 cept the immense grand piano, which asserted 
 itself loudly, a polished rosewood solecism. It 
 seemed such a very big instrument for so small 
 a person as Yvonne. 
 
 She threw herself into an armchair by the 
 fire, with a little sigh. She had been unusually 
 quiet during the drive home. 
 
 " And what 's making you miserable ? " 
 asked Vandeleur, in a tone of concern. 
 
 " I wish you had n't done that, Van," she said, 
 with a wistful puckering of her forehead. 
 
 cC Ah, there! now you're vexed with me. 
 There never was an animal like me for tread- 
 ing on my dearest friends. I 'm like the 
 elephant you may have heard of, that squashed 
 the mother of a brood of chickens by mistake, 
 and, taking it to heart, just like me, gathered 
 the little ones under his wing, and, sitting 
 down upon them, said : c Ah, be aisy now, 
 
 22 
 
Yvonne 
 
 I '11 be a mother to you ' ; he did n't hurt the 
 chickens' feelings exactly — but it was mistaken 
 kindness. Was it your feelings I trampled on ? " 
 
 "Ah, no, Van," said Yvonne, smiling. " But 
 don't you see, it was doing a thing I can never 
 pay you back for." 
 
 " Faith, the sight of your sweet face is 
 payment enough." 
 
 " But you can have that for nothing — 
 as it is." 
 
 " It 's the sweetest face that ever was mac 
 said the Irishman, flinging a freshly-lighted 
 cigarette into the grate behind him. " I 'd 
 cut off my head any day to get a sight of it 
 But are you wanting to pay me more than 
 that ? By my soul, there 's just an easy way 
 out of your difficulty, Yvonne ! " 
 
 He looked down at her, his face very red, 
 and questioning in his eyes. She caught his 
 glance and sat upright, stretching out her hand 
 appealingly. Men had looked at her like that 
 before, — craving for something she had not in 
 her to give. She had always, on such occa- 
 sions, felt what a shallow, poverty-stricken 
 
 tie soul she was. What was in her that 
 could bring the trouble into men's eyes ? 
 Here was Van, the kind friend and good 
 
 23 
 
Derelicts 
 
 comrade, going the way of the others. She 
 was frightened and distressed. 
 
 " Oh, Van, don't ! " she cried. " Not that. 
 I can't bear it ! " 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, as he 
 came quickly forward and leaned over her chair. 
 
 " Just a tiny bit of love, Yvonne. So small 
 that you would n't miss it. I could do with it 
 all, but I know I can't get that. I only ask 
 for a sample. Come, Yvonne." 
 
 But Yvonne shook her head. 
 
 " Don't, Van," she repeated, piteously ; 
 €< you 're hurting me." 
 
 Her tone was so pathetic that the big man 
 drew himself up, thumped his chest, and seized 
 his hat. " I 'm a great big brute to come and 
 take advantage of you like this. Of course 
 you could n't care about a great fat bounder 
 like me. And you 're half dropping with 
 weariness. It 's a villain I am. I '11 leave 
 you to your sleep, poor little woman. Good 
 night." ' 
 
 He held out his hand, and she allowed hers 
 to remain in it for a moment. 
 
 " I have n't been ungrateful to you, have 
 I ? " she asked. " I did n't mean to be. But I 
 thought you were different." 
 
 24 
 
Yvonne 
 
 m How, different ? " 
 
 " That you would never make love to me. 
 Don't, Van, please. It would spoil it all." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it would," replied Vandeleur, 
 philosophically. " Only it is so devilish hard 
 not to make love to you when one 's got the 
 chance. And, begad ! if you *d just give up 
 looking like a little warm, brown saint, it 
 would be better for the peace of mind of the 
 men." 
 
 He stooped and touched her hand 
 lips and strode buoyantly out of the ruum. 
 She heard him humming one of his songs 
 along the passage, then the slam of the front 
 door; then there was silence, and Yvonne 
 went to bed with a grateful sense of escape 
 from unknown dangers. Still, she was sorry 
 for Vandeleur, although she had a dim per- 
 ception of the superficiality of his passion. It 
 would have been nice, had it been possible, to 
 make him happy. She had a queer, unreason- 
 able little feeling that she had been selfish. 
 She sighed as she settled herself to sleep. The 
 ways of the world were very complicated. 
 
 To fhose who knew her it was often a sub- 
 ject for marvel that she was not crushed in the 
 fierce struggle of life. A creature so yielding, 
 
 2S 
 
Derelicts 
 
 so simple, so unaffected by experience or the 
 obvious external lessons of the world, and yet 
 standing serenely in the midst of the turmoil, 
 seemed an incongruity — gave a sense of shock, 
 a prompting to rescue, such as would arise 
 from tne sight of a child in the middle of a 
 roadway clashing with traffic. She was made 
 for protection, tenderness, all the sheltering 
 luxuries and amenities of life. It was a flaw 
 in the eternal fitness of things that she was 
 alone, earning her livelihood, with nothing 
 but her sweetness and innocence to guard her 
 from buffeting and downfall. 
 
 Yet it was her very simplicity that saved her 
 from outward strain ; and inward stress was as 
 yet spared her, through her unawakened child- 
 nature. She laughed when folks pitied her. 
 To earn her living was an easy matter. Born 
 in the profession, trained for it from her earliest 
 days, she had taken to it as a young swan to 
 the water. Engagements came like the winds, 
 the visits of her friends, and other such natural 
 and commonplace phenomena. She sang, or 
 gave her lessons, and the money was paid 
 in to the branch of the City Bank close by 
 her flat, and when she needed funds for her 
 modest expenses she wrote a cheque and sent 
 
 26 
 
Yvonne 
 
 nor maid to cash it. When her balance was 
 getting low, she practised little economies and 
 postponed payment of bills ; when it was high, 
 she settled her debts, bought new clothes, and 
 had a dozen oysters now and then for supper. 
 It was very simple. She did not pity herself 
 at all. Nor did she feel the trouble of her past 
 married life. It had gone by like a cloudy 
 day, forgotten in succeeding sunshine, and had 
 left singularly little trace upon her character. 
 Even the period of unhappiness had not 
 weighed unduly. A more resistful nature 
 might have been wrecked irretrievably ; but 
 Yvonne had been cast upon the shoals only 
 for a season. 
 
 When Amedee Bazouge, a Parisian tenor 
 who had settled in London, first met her, he 
 was surfeited with various blonde beauties of the 
 baser sort, and in a sentimental mood, during 
 which he frequently invoked the memory of 
 his mother, he chose to fall desperately in love 
 with little brown Yvonne, likening her to th« 
 Blessed Virgin and as many saints as he recol 
 lected. Yvonne was very young ; this sudden 
 worship was new to her ; the pain in his heart 
 that he so passionately dwelt upon seemed a ter- 
 rible thing for her to have caused. She married 
 
 27 
 
Derelicts 
 
 him because he said that his life was at stake. 
 She gave him herself as she would have given 
 sixpence to a poor man in the street. Why she 
 was necessary to his life's happiness she could 
 not guess. However, Amedee said so, and she 
 took it on faith. 
 
 For a while she was mildly content in his 
 exuberant delight. He whispered, in soft honey- 
 moon hours, " niaimes-tu ? " — and she said 
 " Yes," because she knew it would please him ; 
 but she was always happier at other times, when 
 she was not called upon for display or expres- 
 sion of feeling. She liked him well enough. 
 His somewhat common handsomeness pleased 
 her, his effervescent fancy and boulevard wit 
 kept her lightly amused, and his vehement 
 passion provided her with an interest strangely 
 compounded of fright, wonder, and pity. 
 
 But Amedee Bazouge was not made either 
 by nature or education for the domestic virtues. 
 His repentant mood passed away ; he forgot 
 the memory of his mother, and found Yvonne's 
 innocence grow insipid. He hankered aftei 
 the strange goddesses with their full-flavoured 
 personalities, their cynicism, their passions, and 
 their stimulating variety. Regret came to him 
 for having broken with the last, who always 
 
 28 
 
Yvonne 
 
 kept him in a state of delicious uncertainty 
 whether she would overwhelm him with pas- 
 sionate kisses or break the looking-glass in a 
 tempest of wrath. So, gradually, he sought 
 satisfaction for his reactionary yearnings and 
 drifted away from Yvonne. And then she 
 grew unhappy. He did not treat her unkindly. 
 In all their dealings with each other a harsh 
 word never passed the lips of either. But she 
 felt cold and neglected. Instead of being met 
 after a concert and accompanied to their little 
 house at Staines, she went the long journey 
 done. The quiet evenings of music and sing- 
 ing together were hings of the past. Often a 
 week elapsed without their meeting. To com- 
 plete her trouble, her mother died suddenly, 
 and Yvonne felt very lonely. She would sit 
 sometimes and cry like a lost child. 
 
 At last they parted. Amedee returned to 
 Paris, and Yvonne took her little flat in the 
 Marylebone Road. The clouds passed by and 
 Yvonne was happy again. She had retained 
 professionally her maiden name of Latour, and 
 now she assumed it altogether, only changing 
 the former " Mademoiselle " into " Madame." 
 Her husband faded into a vague memory. 
 When she received news of him it was through a 
 
 29 
 
Derelicts 
 
 paragraph in the " Figaro," announcing his 
 death in a Paris hospital. She wore a little 
 crape bonnet to notify to the world the fact of 
 her widowhood, but she had no tears to shed. 
 When friends condoled with her over her sad 
 lot, she opened her round eyes in astonishment. 
 
 " But, my dear, I am as happy as I can 
 possibly be," she would say in remonstrance. 
 And it was true. She had come through the 
 ordeal of an unhappy marriage, pure and child- 
 like, her heart unruffled by passion and her soul 
 unclouded by disillusion. 
 
 There are some women born to be loved by 
 many men, yielding, trustful, appealing irre- 
 sistibly to the masculine instincts of protection 
 and possession. Sometimes they are carried off 
 by one successful owner and bear him children, 
 and hear nothing of the hopeless loves that they 
 inspire. Sometimes, like Yvonne, they are at 
 the mercy of every gust of passion that stirs 
 the hearts of the men around them. They are 
 too innocent of the meaning and scope of love 
 to bide the time when love shall take them in 
 its grip ; too weak, tender, and compassionate 
 to harden their hearts against the sufferings of 
 men. If they fall, the world is unsparing in 
 condemnation. If happy circumstance shel- 
 
 30 
 
Yvonne 
 
 ters them, they are canonised for virtues that 
 stop short of their logical conclusion. Where- 
 fore we are tempted to say hard things of the 
 world. 
 
 Fate, however, had dealt not unkindly with 
 Yvonne. At times her path had been sadly 
 tangled and she had sighed, as she did this 
 night after Vandeleur's unexpected declara- 
 tion. But chance had always come to her aid 
 and cleared her way. She trusted to it now as 
 she fell asleep. 
 
 31 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 
 
 " If you step this way, the manager will see 
 you," said the clerk, lifting the flap of the 
 counter. 
 
 Joyce rose from the cane-bottomed chair 
 on which he had been sitting, and followed the 
 clerk through the busy outer office into the 
 private room beyond. An elderly man in 
 gold spectacles looked up from his desk. 
 
 " What can I do for you ? " 
 
 " I am seeking employment," said Joyce, 
 " can you give me any ? " 
 
 " Employment ? " 
 
 If Joyce had asked him for Prester John's 
 cap, or the Cham of Tartary's beard, his tone 
 could not have expressed more surprise. 
 
 " Yes," replied Joyce. " I don't mind what 
 it is — clerk, copyist, handy-man, messenger — 
 so long as it *s work." 
 
 " Utterly impossible," said the manager, 
 shortly. 
 
 32 
 
In the Depths 
 
 " Would it be of any use to leave my ad- 
 dress ? " asked Joyce. 
 
 " Not a bit. Good day to you." 
 Joyce walked out apathetically on to the 
 landing. It was a nest of city offices in a great 
 block of buildings in Fenchurch Street, a 
 labyrinth of staircases, passages, and ground- 
 glass doors black-lettered with the names of 
 firms. He was going through them systemati- 
 cally. Often he could not gain access to a 
 person in authority. When he succeeded, it 
 was the same history of rebuff. He felt some- 
 what downcast at the result of this last inter- 
 view, the cheerful alacrity with which he had 
 been received having given him an unreason- 
 able hope. He paused for a few moments 
 deciding upon what door to try next. Some 
 names looked encouraging, others forbidding — 
 a futile superstition, yet one not without in- 
 fluence upon his unfed mind. Why " Griffith & 
 Swan " should have attracted and " Willoughby 
 Bros." repelled him is a psychological problem 
 that must forever remain insoluble. It is none 
 the less a fact that he bent his steps along the 
 passage to the door of the first-mentioned firm. 
 But there he was repulsed at the outset. The 
 chiefs were engaged. Had he an appointment ? 
 3 33 
 
Derelicts 
 
 What was his business ? The only way to see 
 the chiefs was by writing to fix an interview. 
 Joyce retired, climbed wearily up the stone 
 staircase to the next floor. Everywhere the 
 same monotonous result. 
 
 At last his application was seriously enter- 
 tained. His heart beat anxiously. It was at a 
 firm of shipping agents. Two clerks had gone 
 on their holiday, another one had just that morn- 
 ing fallen ill. They were short-handed. The 
 junior partner, a brisk young fellow, looked 
 shrewdly at Joyce, divining his education and 
 capacity. 
 
 " I could give you some temporary work, 
 certainly. Only too glad, for we are in a hole. 
 But of course we must have some references." 
 
 " I am afraid I can give you none," replied 
 Joyce. " I have had a good education and 
 business training, and I could do your work. 
 But I 'm a lonely man — without friends." 
 
 " What have you been doing lately for a 
 living." 
 
 The matter-of-fact question turned his heart 
 sick. He had known that he would have to 
 answer it before he could enter upon any em- 
 ployment; but he had always shrunk from 
 formulating a plausible reply, weaklv trusting 
 
 34 
 
In the Depths 
 
 to his mother-wit when the dreaded moment 
 should come. Now his mother-wit deserted 
 him. He could think of nothing but the past 
 reality. 
 
 " I would rather tell you nothing about my- 
 self," he said lamely. 
 
 The young partner shrugged his shoulders 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 " Well, that 's your affair. But you see we 
 can't take a stranger into our office without 
 his giving us some formal voucher for his 
 honesty." 
 
 Joyce looked at him appealingly, with glisten- 
 ing eyes, a new Moses on Mount Nebo. Only 
 then did he fully realise the utter hopelessness 
 of his position. The veriest office-boy needed 
 a certificate of character. He had none. 
 
 The partner, clean-shaven, ruddy-cheeked, 
 was lounging against the mantel-piece, hands in 
 pockets, a whimsical smile playing around the 
 corners of his mouth. His speech, though 
 business-like, was kindly. He looked a gentle- 
 man. Joyce was seized with a mad, despairing 
 impulse. He flushed to the roots of his hair, 
 clenched his hands by his sides and advanced 
 an involuntary step towards his interlocutor. 
 
 " I will tell you the truth," he cried breath- 
 35 
 
Derelicts 
 
 lessly. u I must find work soon or I shall 
 starve. Give it to me and I will work night 
 and day for you. I took a double first at 
 Oxford. I practised as a solicitor. I lived 
 beyond my means and misappropriated trust- 
 money. I could not pay it back. My name 
 was struck off the rolls and I had two years' 
 hard labour. I have been looking for work 
 every day for five months. I am not such a 
 fool as to risk that hell again. For God's sake 
 give me a chance and set me on my feet again." 
 
 His voice rang with the agony of entreaty. 
 His lips quivered. When he ceased speaking 
 he was shaking from head to foot. 
 
 The young man shifted the crossing of his 
 feet and put up an eyeglass that had been 
 dangling on his waistcoat. 
 
 " Well, you have pretty damned cheek, I 
 must say ! " he remarked, with a drawl. 
 
 Joyce stared at him for a moment stupidly, 
 and then turned away without a word, crushed 
 and humiliated to his soul. Round and round 
 the rectangular well-staircase he went, dizzy 
 with the reaction. He could knock at no more 
 doors. The names seemed to swell large and 
 to jeer at him as he passed. A burst of laughter 
 from two men, issuing from some office above, 
 
 36 
 
In the Depths 
 
 echoed and rattled down the staircase and jarred 
 upon every nerve of his body. He quick- 
 ened his pace to a run, and did not stop until 
 he reached the sweltering street. White and 
 faint he leant against the wall, vaguely conscious 
 of the ceaselessly hurrying mass that passed 
 him by. After a minute or two he recovered 
 self-possession enough to move onwards with 
 the westward stream on the pavement. His 
 quest of work was abandoned. He could only 
 feel sickening regret for having given way to 
 his insane impulse and shrink from the echoing 
 tones of the other man's cynical contempt. 
 The last shred of his self-respect was torn away. 
 He seemed to be the naked gaol-bird before 
 those thousand eyes that glanced upon him. 
 The idea grew into morbid exaggeration. A 
 man or woman making way for him to pass 
 appeared to be shrinking from the soil of his 
 touch. Every policeman was identifying him. 
 A penny-toy man by the Mansion House, who 
 had taken off his cap and was scratching a 
 closely-cropped head, grinned at him with the 
 familiarity of an old acquaintance. 
 
 It became unbearable. He fled into a pub- 
 lic-house in Cheapside and ordered a glass 
 of whisky. The spirit ran through his veins 
 
 37 
 
Derelicts 
 
 comfortingly. He drank another, and went 
 out into the street. Soon the spirit, acting on 
 an empty stomach, dulled his senses and pro- 
 voked a vague suggestion of debauch as the 
 only consoler. In the days of his vanity Joyce 
 had known the flush of wine on joyous nights, 
 but drunkenness had always been hateful to him. 
 Yet now, in his morbid state, the temptation was 
 irresistible. He went from tavern to tavern 
 with dull, stupid recklessness, cognisant only of 
 the motive to drink and of his own mechanical 
 personality. At last, staggering out of a public- 
 house in Fleet Street, he tripped at the thresh- 
 old and fell insensible on the pavement. 
 
 When he recovered consciousness it was 
 quite dark. For a few moments he did not 
 seek to discover where he was. But a chance 
 movement caused him nearly to fall from where 
 he lay, and he started to a sitting posture. His 
 feet touched the ground sooner than he ex- 
 pected ; the slight shock completed his awaken- 
 ing. Where was he ? He stretched out his 
 hand and felt the wall. It was stone. Stone, 
 too, was the floor, as he found by stamping his 
 foot. Then the truth burst upon him with 
 indescribable terror. It was the cell of a police 
 station. Although his head swam and his eye- 
 
 38 
 
In the Depths 
 
 balls ached, the fright of the discovery had 
 thoroughly sobered him. It was the final 
 calamity and degradation of the day. He was 
 in prison again. He would again have to put 
 on the hateful clothes and cower beneath the 
 warder's glance. Once more he would have to 
 go through that dreadful ignominy. Exagger- 
 ating the consequences of his misdemeanour, 
 he conjured up all the horrors of his previous 
 term. A sense of utter self-loathing swelled 
 within him like a nausea. He crouched on 
 the narrow bench, holding his hair in a feverish 
 grasp. The gaol had got him, body and soul. 
 It was all that he was fit for. 
 
 An hour passed. Then the door opened 
 and a policeman appeared in the light of the 
 passage. Joyce looked up at him haggardly. 
 
 " Oh, you 're all right now, are you ? Better 
 come up and see the Inspector." 
 
 Joyce staggered to his feet and clutched the 
 policeman's supporting arm. 
 
 " I was in great trouble," he said hoarsely. 
 " And then the heat — an empty stomach — 
 a few glasses knocked me over." 
 
 " Explain that upstairs," replied the other. 
 " Bless you, it '11 be all square." 
 
 Brought before the Inspector, he pulled him- 
 39 
 
Derelicts 
 
 self together and pleaded his cause with an 
 intensity that amused the officials. They could 
 see nothing tragic in a " drunk and incapable." 
 
 " Very well," said the Inspector at last. " I 
 see it was an accident. Call it heat-apoplexy. 
 I shaVt charge you. You had better get 
 home to bed." 
 
 Joyce grew faint with the revulsion of feel- 
 ing, and steadied himself by the iron railing. 
 One of the men took him to the door, hailed 
 a passing cab and helped him in. At first, ill 
 and dizzy as he was, he felt the animal's in- 
 stinctive joy in suddenly regained liberty. The 
 non-fulfilment of his agonising forebodings 
 filled him with a wondering sense of relief. 
 But this did not last long. Despair and self- 
 abhorrence resumed their hold upon him, 
 causing him to shiver in the cab as with an 
 ague. 
 
 He crawled upstairs to his attic, and after 
 having procured some food, of which he ate as 
 much as he could swallow, he went to bed and 
 fell into a heavy sleep. In the middle of the 
 night he woke with a start. The recollection 
 of his engagement with Yvonne Latour had 
 penetrated through the sub-consciousness of 
 half-awakening. He uttered a cry of dismay. 
 
 40 
 
In the Depths 
 
 All the previous evening and all that morning 
 he had thought of the promised visit. To sit 
 in a lady's room, to live for a moment a bit of 
 the old life, to forget his pariahdom in Yvonne's 
 welcoming smile, to have the comfort of her 
 exquisite pity — the prospect had rendered him 
 almost buoyant during the early part of his 
 round. But the pain and fever of after-events 
 had driven her from his mind. Now, in his 
 suffering state, it seemed as if he had lost an 
 offered corner of Paradise, rejected the one 
 hand that was stretched out to save him from 
 perdition. He lay awake many hours. At last, 
 toward dawn, he fell asleep again and did not 
 wake till mid-day. 
 
 He rose, rang for his breakfast, which was 
 brought him, as usual, on a tray, by the slat- 
 ternly maid-of-all-work. He was still feeling 
 prostrated in mind and body. Having eaten 
 what he could, he drew up the blind to look at 
 the day. The fine weather was still lasting. 
 But he felt no desire to go out. What was 
 the use ? Judging by the lesson of yesterday 
 it would be futile to continue his search for 
 employment. As he turned away from the 
 window, he caught sight of his white haggard 
 face and bloodshot eyes in the mirror, and he 
 
 41 
 
Derelicts 
 
 shrank back, as though it revealed to him the 
 miserable weakness of his soul. Then he 
 threw himself half-dressed upon the bed, and 
 there he remained, abandoning himself to the 
 hopeless inaction of defeat, and eating his 
 heart out in remorse for the shipwreck he had 
 made of his life. 
 
 He did not pose before himself as a victim 
 to circumstance. Could he have done so, he 
 might have found some poor consolation. His 
 criminal folly lay as much upon his soul as its 
 punishment. Again, it had not been a grand 
 stroke of villainy requiring for its execution 
 a masterly coolness and genius for which he 
 might at least have had an intellectual admira- 
 tion. But it had been of the same petty sort 
 as that of the shop-boy led astray by low turf 
 associates, who pilfers day by day from his 
 master's till, hoping the luck will turn and 
 enable him to replace the stolen shillings. The 
 difference had been merely one of degree. 
 His operations had been on a larger scale, his 
 vices more fastidious, his circle of loose friends 
 more aristocratic. But he had had the same 
 contemptible motives for his crime, and the 
 same contemptible excuses. He spared him- 
 self no arrow of self-scorn. 
 
 42 
 
In the Depths 
 
 Latterly, through sheer weariness, he had 
 grown apathetic, taking his self-abasement as 
 one of the conditions of life. A man is not 
 physiologically capable of continuous outburst. 
 But now the iron had entered deep into his 
 soul, causing him to writhe in torment. 
 
 What would be the end ? The question 
 haunted him, and yet it seemed scarcely worth 
 consideration. There was no employment to 
 be obtained by such as he. He would eke 
 out his small capital as far as possible, and when 
 that was exhausted, he could put an end to his 
 worthless life. Or would his cowardice drag 
 him down among the class of habitual crimi- 
 nals, lead him to crime as a means of liveli- 
 hood ? He shuddered, remembering his short 
 spell of agony in the cell of yesterday. 
 
 The hours passed. Towards evening he 
 dressed himself and went out to a dingy Italian 
 restaurant near Victoria station, where he 
 usually dined. On coming out again into the 
 street he hesitated for some time as to what he 
 should do next. He thought of Yvonne with 
 wistful longing, but had not the courage to go 
 and seek her. The sense of degradation was 
 too strong upon him. He shrank with morbid 
 sensitiveness from taking advantage of her 
 
 43 
 
Derelicts 
 
 guilelessness by bringing his contamination 
 into her presence. For, paradoxical as it may 
 seem, an instinctive pride still remained in the 
 man. Had he chosen to lay it aside, doubtless 
 more than one of his former friends would have 
 consented to receive him on some sort of terms 
 of acquaintanceship. But he had sought out 
 none, and if chance brought him into sight of a 
 familiar face in the street, he effaced himself and 
 hurried on. Yvonne was the only figure out 
 of the past with whom he had communicated. 
 And now he had cut himself adrift from her. 
 
 After a few undecided turns up and down 
 the pavement, he directed his steps mechani- 
 cally to a customary haunt of his, the billiard- 
 room of a public-house in Westminster. It 
 was better than the wearying streets and the 
 choking solitude of his attic. A couple of 
 shabby men in dingy shirt-sleeves were playing 
 at the table. On the raised divan, in the gloom 
 of the walls, sat a silent company of lookers-on. 
 With a group of these, Joyce exchanged nods, 
 and took his place sombrely among them. 
 They were a depressed, out-at-elbows crew, 
 who came here night after night, speaking 
 little, drinking less, and never playing billiards 
 at all. They watched the game, now and then 
 
 44 
 
In the Depths 
 
 applauded, oftener condoled with the loser than 
 congratulated the winner. They formed an 
 orderly and appreciative gallery, and set, as it 
 were, a tone of decorum in the room ; and for 
 this reason their presence was not discouraged 
 by the landlord. Eight was their average num- 
 ber. They were mostly men in the prime of 
 life, and belonged, as far as one could judge by 
 their voluntary confidences, to the obscure 
 fringes of journalism, the stage, and independ- 
 ence. Those who occupied the last position 
 lived chiefly on their wives. There was a de- 
 cayed medical student who did Heaven knows 
 what for a living, and a red-headed, vulgar 
 man, who gave out that he had thrown up 
 a country rectorship, through conscientious 
 scruples. Differing widely as they did in per- 
 sonality, yet they retained one common char- 
 acteristic. Failure seemed written on each 
 man's face. A kind of mutual affinity had 
 drawn them together. To Joyce's cynical 
 humour it appeared as if something more than 
 mere chance had caused him to stumble upon 
 them one evening two months before. 
 
 I 'm afraid I have left my 'baccy at home,' 
 the man sitting next to Joyce, who was 
 g his pipe. " Thank you very much. A 
 45 
 
Derelicts 
 
 change in tobacco is very gratifying at times ttf 
 the palate." 
 
 He was a man of singular appearance. The 
 bones in his face were very large, the flesh 
 scanty ; his nose hooked, his eyebrows black 
 and meeting. His long upper-lip and his chin 
 were shaven ; but he wore thick black mutton- 
 chop whiskers which contrasted oddly with 
 a bush of whitening hair above his temples 
 and at the back of his head. Whether he was 
 bald or not, no one ever knew, as he always 
 retained his hat fixed in one never-changing, 
 respectable angle. This hat was very, very old, 
 an extravagantly curled silk hat of the masher 
 days in the early eighties. But the most strik- 
 ing feature of his costume consisted in a long 
 thick Chesterfield overcoat which he obviously 
 wore without coat or waistcoat beneath. In 
 the sultry August weather the sight of him 
 made the beholder perspire. Although there 
 was no trace of linen at his wrists or down the 
 arms as far as one could see, a dirty frayed collar 
 and a shirt-front adorned with a straight black 
 tie appeared above the tightly buttoned over- 
 coat. Joyce knew him by the name of Noakes. 
 
 He looked at Joyce, as he spoke, out or 
 pale-blue, unspeculative eyes, and returned the 
 
 46 
 
In the Depths 
 
 tobacco-pouch. " You had better take another 
 fill or two, while you are about it," said Joyce. 
 
 u I don't like to trespass upon your gener- 
 osity," said Noakes. But he helped himself 
 plentifully, tying up the tobacco in his pocket- 
 handkerchief. They smoked on during a long 
 silence, broken only by the click of the billiard- 
 balls, the monotonous cry of the marker, and 
 occasional murmurs of applause. The air was 
 heavy with drink and tobacco-smoke, fresh and 
 stale. *v 
 
 " I must be getting back to work," sjpa 
 Noakes at last. V 
 
 The word roused Joyce from the lethargy 
 into which he had fallen. He had never 
 associated Noakes with definite employment. 
 For a moment he envied him. 
 
 " I wish to heaven I could," he said. 
 
 " A man of your attainments," replied 
 Noakes, respectfully, " ought never to be at 
 a loss. Now I should say you have been to a 
 public school ? " 
 
 Joyce nodded. 
 
 " And the university ? " 
 
 Joyce did not reply, but Noakes went on : 
 " Yes ; one can see it. Somehow a man ot 
 acute observation can always tell. I remember 
 
 47 ' 
 
Derelicts 
 
 your correcting me the other night when 1 
 spoke of Plato's dramatic unities. I looked 
 up the matter in the British Museum, and 
 found that you were right in attributing them 
 to Aristotle. As I said before, a man of your 
 education ought to have no difficulty." 
 
 " You might suggest something," said Joyce, 
 with a shade of irony. 
 
 " Authorship." 
 
 " Are you an author ? " 
 
 " With all due modesty, I may say that 1 
 am," returned Noakes, gravely. " I don't 
 find it very remunerative, but I attribute that 
 solely to the deficiencies in my education." 
 
 " What do you write ? " asked Joyce, inter- 
 ested in spite of himself in this odd, pathetic 
 figure. 
 
 " I have adopted two branches of the pro- 
 fession — one, the literary advertisement ; the 
 other, popular fiction." 
 
 He drew a halfpenny evening paper from 
 his pocket, and, designating a half-column 
 with his thumb, handed it to Joyce. It was 
 headlined " Nihilism in Russia," opened with 
 an account of Siberian horrors, and ended, or 
 course, with somebody's pills. 
 
 " I always pride myself upon there being 
 48 
 
In the Depths 
 
 more literary quality in my work than is 
 usually given to that class of thing," he re- 
 marked complacently, while Joyce idly ran 
 through the column. " And in my fiction 
 I always try to keep the best models before 
 me, Stevenson and Mayne Reid. I happen 
 to have a copy of one of my latest works in my 
 pocket. Perhaps it might interest you to 
 glance through it. In return for the tobacco, 
 — with the author's compliments." 
 
 Joyce received into his hands a thin volume 
 in a gaudy paper wrapper. It was entitled 
 "The Doom of the Floating Fiend." The 
 printing, in packed double-column, and the 
 paper were execrable. The author's name 
 did not figure beneath the title. From the 
 most cursory glance through the pages, Joyce 
 could see they were deluged in blood. 
 
 " I shall be glad to read it," he said, men- 
 daciously, putting it into his pocket. 
 
 "If you find anything noteworthy of criti- 
 cism in my style, I should feel grateful for you 
 to tell me," said Noakes. " My ambir 
 write some day for a more cultured r 
 have a pastoral idyll that I shall wri 
 I have time. But, you see, there is a contiguous 
 market for books of adventure." 
 4 49 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He spoke in a toneless, even voice, without a 
 shade of enthusiasm or regret appearing in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Do you think it would be of any use for an 
 outsider to try it — one not in the swim with 
 the publishers ? " asked Joyce, curiously. 
 
 " Certainly. But one needs the imaginative 
 faculty. If you'll look at my forehead, you 
 will see I have it firmly developed. Allow me 
 to look at yours. Yes ; I see it there. Once 
 started, it is constant employment. They pay 
 half a crown per thousand. words. I do my 
 three thousand a day." 
 
 Noakes rose to depart. 
 
 "Thanks for the information," said Joyce. 
 " I may try my hand. Won't you have a 
 glass with ro~ before you go?" 
 
 "No, tha< k you," said Noakes. "I find 
 stimulants interfere with brain-work. Good 
 evening." 
 
 Noakes gone, Joyce found himself next to 
 the red-headed ex-rector, who was fast asleep, 
 his dirty, pudgy fingers clasped in his lap. 
 He remained, therefore, solitary, and after 
 having looked for some time dejectedly at 
 the three ever-clicking balls on the table, he 
 went out again into the street. 
 
 50 
 
In the Depths 
 
 Noakes's hint had taken root in his mind. 
 If that dilapidated man could maintain himself 
 honestly by " popular fiction," surely he could 
 do so too. Off and on during the last five 
 months he had striven to write an article or 
 short story, but his mind had refused to work. 
 The conviction that his intellect had been shat- 
 tered during those two awful years had added 
 to his despair. But now he told himself that 
 this was work in which intellectual subtlety and 
 fastidiousness would prove a hindrance. The 
 one thing needful was imagination : also a ter- 
 rible faculty for continuous quill-driving. To 
 gain a livelihood there would have to be 
 written daily stuff equal to three columns of 
 the " Globe " newspaper. And seven-and- 
 sixpence as the reward ! A noble end, he 
 thought bitterly to himself as he walked along, 
 to the ambition of Stephen Chisely, double- 
 first of New College, Oxford — to become 
 a writer of " penny bloods." 
 
 Still, the suggestion had acted as a stimulus. 
 When he entered his room, he did not feel so 
 broken and purposeless as when he had left 
 it. The intellectual effort he had made whilst 
 walking home in scheming out an experimental 
 chapter had broken the spell of morbid intro- 
 
 51 
 
Derelicts 
 
 spection. As soon as he had lit the gas, he 
 drew out writing materials, and, sitting before 
 his dressing-table, began the scene of slaughter 
 he had arranged. At the end of a couple of hours 
 he found he had written two slips of one hundred 
 and fifty words each. He regarded them rue- 
 fully. At that rate it would take him twenty 
 hours a day to earn his seven-and-sixpence. The 
 idea occurred to him to look at the " Doom of 
 the Floating Fiend." He read a few pages and 
 then dropped the work hopelessly on to the 
 xloor. The instinct of the scholar and man of 
 culture awakened in revolt. His mind would 
 not be prostituted to stuff like that. 
 
 " Sooner death ! " he said to himself, with 
 whimsical bitterness. His own carefully elab- 
 orated efforts he tore up with a sigh. Then, 
 tired out, he prepared to go to bed. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of his undressing, he 
 caught sight, to his immense surprise, of a letter 
 lying on his counterpane, where the maid of all 
 work had carelessly thrown it. From whom 
 could it be ? Letters were things of an almost 
 forgotten past. It was in a woman's hand. 
 Then he remembered he had given his ad- 
 dress to Yvonne. The letter was from her, 
 and ran : — 
 
In the Depths 
 
 "Dear Stephen, — Oh, why didn't you come 
 last night ? I was so disappointed. You surely 
 did n't think I only asked you out of ooliteness. I 
 hope nothing has happened to you. My head was 
 running over all day with a little plan for you. Do 
 come and catch it before it all runs away. I shall 
 be in to-morrow afternoon. 
 
 You know it 's just like old times — writing a silly 
 little note to you. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Yvonne Latour." 
 
 Joyce went to bed and slept the sound sleep 
 of a jaded man. But the letter lay under his 
 pillow. 
 
 53 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 DEA EX MACHINA 
 
 "There 's nothing like leather," cried Yvonne, 
 gaily. " If I had been a milliner, I should 
 have thought what a gentlemanly shopwalker 
 you would have made. As I am a singer, I 
 can only think of the profession. You did n't 
 know I was so philosophical, did you ? " 
 
 " But I can't sing a note now, Madame 
 Latour," said Joyce. 
 
 "We'll try after you have had some tea. 
 But you '11 be good enough for Brum, I 'm 
 quite sure. If he did n't take you on I should 
 never speak to him again." 
 
 With which terrible threat she poured the tea 
 outside the cup into the saucer. 
 
 " It seems too good to be true," said Joyce, 
 in a subdued tone. " It seemed impossible 
 I should ever get work among honest men 
 again. I am deeply grateful to you, Madame 
 Latour — I cannot tell you how deeply." 
 
 54 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 " Here is some tea," said Yvonne, cup in 
 hand, " I have put milk in, but no sugar. 
 I am so glad you like my little scheme. I was 
 afraid it was n't worth your while." 
 
 Joyce, laughed ironically. 
 
 "Ycu wouldn't say that if you knew the 
 posts I have sought after, the advertisements 
 1 h?ve answered. It will be a fortune to 
 me." 
 
 ' c And it may lead — how far, you don't 
 know. Why in two or three years you may 
 be playing a leading part in a West End light 
 opera. Or you may do dramatic business 
 and come to the top. One never can tell. 
 Won't it be nice when you can command your 
 ^£40 or ^50 a week ? " 
 
 Yvonne was very happy. She had con- 
 ceived the plan all by herself and had gone off 
 impulsively to Brum to put it into execution. 
 Joyce's future was assured. His cleverness, 
 of which she used to be a little afraid in earlier 
 years, would soon lift him from the ranks. 
 She was excited over this forecast of his suc- 
 cess. But Joyce could not look so far ahead. 
 All he could feel was a wondrous relief to 
 find a door still open for him, gratitude to the 
 woman who had led him to it. His spirit 
 
 55 
 
Derelicts 
 
 was too shrouded to catch a gleam of her en- 
 thusiasm. She strove to brighten him. 
 
 " You will find Brum all right. He has 
 always been good to me, since I stepped into 
 a gap for him once at a charity matinee — 
 a medley entertainment, you know. When he 
 has a theatre in London he always sends me 
 a box, if there 's one vacant. You see, I knew 
 he was taking out c The Diamond Door/ into 
 the provinces, and he pays pretty high salaries 
 all round — so I did n't see why you should n't 
 have a chance in the chorus. Oh, you '11 like 
 me stage so much. I wish I were on, instead 
 of singing at concerts. I have always han- 
 kered after it." 
 
 " Why don't you make the change ? " asked 
 Joyce. 
 
 " I 'm not good enough. I am too insigni- 
 ficant. But I don't really mind. I love singing 
 for singing's sake, no matter where it is. I only 
 have one great anxiety in life — that I should 
 lose my voice. Then I should put my head 
 under my wing and die, like the cigale. That 
 is to say, if the cigale has wings — has she ? " 
 
 " Yes, pretty brown wings — as yours must 
 be. I believe you have them somewhere 
 hidden from us." 
 
 56 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 " You must n't make pretty speeches," said 
 Yvonne, pleased. 
 
 "It expresses clumsily what I feel," said 
 Joyce, with a sudden rush of feeling. " I have 
 been asking myself what are the common 
 grounds on which we can meet — you, a pure, 
 bright, beautiful soul — and I, a mean, de- 
 graded man, who knows it to be almost an 
 outrage upon you to cross your threshold. 
 I feel we are not of the same human clay. I 
 wonder how it is that the sight of me does n't 
 frighten you. Thank God you don't see me 
 as I see myself." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Yvonne,, gently. 
 
 She glanced at him in a puzzled way, unable 
 to comprehend. She knew that he felt his 
 disgrace very deeply, but she could not under- 
 stand the way in which he related it with her- 
 self. Beyond looking careworn and ill, he 
 seemed almost the same externally as in the 
 days of their former intimacy ; and more so 
 now than on the occasion of their meeting on 
 the Bank Holiday, when he was shabbily 
 attired. Now he was wearing a new blue serge 
 suit and a carefully tied cravat — he had bought 
 the clothes on the chance of his being suddenly 
 required to be correctly dressed, and this was 
 
 57 
 
Derelicts 
 
 his first time of wearing them — and looked at 
 all points the neat, well-groomed gentleman 
 she had always known ; so that she found it 
 difficult to realize fully even the change in his 
 material fortunes. The blight that had come 
 over his soul was altogether beyond her power 
 of perception. She could find no words to 
 supplement her sympathetic exclamation, and 
 so there was silence. When she looked at him 
 again, as he sat opposite, his cheek resting on 
 his hand, and his mournful eyes fixed upon 
 her, she found herself thinking what a good- 
 looking fellow he was, with his clear-cut face, 
 refined features and trim blonde moustache. 
 It was a pity he had those deep lines on each 
 side of his mouth and wore so unsmiling an 
 expression. There was sunshine in Yvonne's 
 heart that quickly dissipated clouds. She rose 
 suddenly, and went round to the key-board of 
 the great piano. 
 
 " I '11 sing you something first and then we '11 
 try your voice." 
 
 She paused before she sat down, and asked : 
 
 " Would you like something sad or some- 
 thing gay ? " 
 
 The afternoon light, slanting in through the 
 further unshaded window, fell full upon her, 
 
 58 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the 
 smiling softness of her lips. To have de- 
 manded sadness of her would have been an 
 act of unreason. 
 
 "Something bright," said Joyce, instinc- 
 tively. 
 
 She ran her fingers over the keys and broke 
 into a barcarolle of Theophile Gautier. 
 
 u Dites, la jeune belle, 
 Ou voulez-vous a Her ? 
 La voile ouvre son aile, 
 La brise va souffler ! 
 
 Uaviron est d J ivoire, 
 Le pavilion de moire, 
 Le gouv email d'or Jin ; 
 y ai pour lest une orange. 
 Pour voile une aile d*ange, 
 Pour mousse un serapbin. y1 
 
 Her exquisite voice, sounding like crystal in 
 the little room, seemed to Joyce as if it came 
 from the dainty boat. Her sweet face seemed 
 to peep forth under the angel's wing, mocking 
 the seraphic cabin-boy. 
 
 The setting was as perfect as her rendering. 
 All the joy and inconsequence of life rang from 
 her lips. She came to the last verse. 
 
 59 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Dites, la jeune belle, 
 Ou voulez-vous aller ? 
 La voile ouvre son aile, 
 La brise va souffler ! 
 
 — Menez-moi, dit la belle, 
 A la rive Jidele 
 
 Oil r on aime toujours. 
 
 — Cette rive, ma cbere, 
 On ne la conn ait guere 
 Au pays des amours" 
 
 When she had finished, she looked up at 
 him, as he leaned over the tail of the piano, 
 with laughter in her eyes. 
 
 " I adore that song. It is so lovely and 
 irresponsible. Canon Chisely says it is cynical. 
 But it always puts me in mind of a dragon- 
 fly." 
 
 " I am afraid Everard is right," replied 
 Joyce, with a smile. " But if you live in the 
 fairyland of love, constancy must be a serious 
 hindrance to affairs." 
 
 " Oh, now you talk just as you used to ! ' 
 cried Yvonne, " I '11 sing you something else/ 
 She scamped the prelude in her impulsive 
 way, and began, " Coming thro* the Rye." 
 His black mood was lifted. The tender, mis- 
 chievous charm of her voice held him in a 
 
 60 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 spell, and he smiled at her like " a* the lads " 
 in the song. 
 
 " Now it is your turn," she said, reaching 
 towards a pile of songs. " Help me to choose 
 one. 
 
 He selected one that he used to sing and 
 commenced it creditably. But after a few 
 bars he broke down. Yvonne encouraged 
 him to take it again, which he did with greater 
 success. But his voice, a high baritone, was 
 wofully out of condition. At a second break- 
 down, he looked at her in dismay. 
 
 " I fear it 's no good," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes it is," said Yvonne. " They don't 
 want a Santley in the chorus of the provincial 
 company of a comic-opera. We'll have a good 
 long time now. You shall do some scales. And 
 you can come in to-morrow morning, before you 
 go to Brum, and have half-an-hour more, and 
 that will set you right." 
 
 The little authoritative air sat oddly upon 
 her. Vandeleur used to say that Yvonne in 
 a business mood was even more serious than 
 a child playing at parson. But she knew she 
 was giving a professional opinion ; and that 
 was bound to be serious. Taking him through 
 the scales, then, in her best professional 
 
 61 
 
Derelicts 
 
 manner, she brought the practice to a sat- 
 isfactory conclusion. Then she became the 
 sunny Yvonne again, and, after he had gone, 
 sat smiling to herself with the conscious hap- 
 piness of a fairy god-mother. 
 
 The interview with Brum, the manager, was 
 satisfactory, and Joyce after accepting the en- 
 gagement at thirty shillings a week, went 
 straight on to rehearse with the rest of the 
 chorus. And after this there were daily 
 rehearsals extending to the Sunday two weeks 
 ahead when the start was to be made for 
 Newcastle, where the company opened. After 
 the first two or three days, the rather helpless 
 sense of unfamiliarity wore off, and Joyce 
 found his task an easy one. His voice, by 
 comparison, certainly warranted his selection, 
 and in knowledge of music and general ability 
 he was vastly superior to his colleagues, who 
 received rough usage for stupidity at the hands 
 of the stage-manager. He found them mostly 
 dull, uneducated men, two or three with wives 
 in the female chorus, very jealous of their 
 rights and the order of precedence among 
 them, but with little ambition and less capacity. 
 In spite of the old suit, which he was careful 
 
 62 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 to wear, he was looked upon at first, rather 
 resentfully, as an amateur; but he bore dis- 
 paraging remarks with philosophical unconcern, 
 and, after a judicious drink or two at a " pro- 
 fessional " bar near the stage-door of the 
 theatre, he was accepted among them without 
 further demur. 
 
 But Joyce was too much exercised at this 
 time with his own relations to himself to think 
 much of his relations to others. The reaction 
 from the most poignant despair he had known 
 since his freedom, to sudden hope, had set 
 working many springs of resolution. He 
 would banish all thoughts of the past from his 
 mind, forget Stephen Chisely in the new man 
 Stephen Joyce, take up the new threads fate 
 had spun for him, and weave them into a new 
 life without allowing any of them to cross the 
 old: a resolution which would be laughable, 
 were it not so eternal, and so pathetic in its 
 futility. The world will never know the 
 enormous expenditure of will-power by its 
 weak men. 
 
 The fortnight, however, passed in something 
 
 z?iT to contentment and peace of soul. If we 
 
 can cheat ourselves into serenity at times, it 
 
 gift to be thankful for. Besides, occupa- 
 
 63 
 
Derelicts 
 
 tion is a great anodyne to trouble ; and the 
 provincial production of a great London suc- 
 cess offers considerable occupation for those 
 concerned in it. Rehearsals were called twice 
 a day, morning and evening. As Joyce did 
 not leave the theatre until nearly midnight he 
 had no time to look in at the familiar billiard- 
 room, and so Noakes and his " penny bloods " 
 were forgotten. On the other hand he spent 
 several of his afternoons with Yvonne, who was 
 delighted with his accounts of himself, and sent 
 him away cheered and sanguine. 
 
 " The only thing I regret," said Joyce, dur- 
 ing his farewell visit, " is that I shall be cutting 
 myself off from you. I suppose every one 
 is entitled to a grievance. And this is mine. 
 Do you know you are the only friend I have 
 in the world ? " 
 
 As Yvonne knew that the world was very 
 big and that she herself was very small, the 
 fact somewhat awed her. She regarded him 
 pityingly for a moment. "What a dreadful 
 thing it must be to feel alone like that/' 
 
 " I have n't felt it so, since I met you," 
 said Joyce. 
 
 " But you won't have even me, any more. 
 I wish I could help vou." 
 
 64 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 " Help me ? Why, you 've raised me out of 
 the gutter, Madame Latour." 
 
 " Oh, don't call me ' Madame Latour/ " she 
 said, " I don't call you c Mr. Joyce.' I am 
 1 Yvonne ' to all my friends. You used to call 
 me c Yvonne ' once." * 
 
 " You were not my benefactress then," said 
 Joyce. 
 
 " Please don't call me hard names," she re- 
 turned whimsically, "or I shall be afraid of 
 you, as I used to be." 
 
 " Afraid of me ? " echoed Joyce. 
 
 " Yes. Were n't you dreadfully clever ? I 
 was always afraid you would think me silly. 
 And then, often I could not quite understand 
 what you were saying — how much you meant 
 of what you said. Don't you see ? " 
 
 " I see I must have been insufferable," he 
 replied. " It makes what you are to me now 
 all the more beautiful. But I scarcely dare 
 call you ' Yvonne ' — don't you understand ? 
 But it would gladden me to write it. May I 
 write to you on my pilgrimage ? " 
 
 " It would be so good of you, if you would," 
 she answered eagerly. " I do love people to 
 write to me." 
 
 She had unconsciously slipped from her 
 5 6$ 
 
Derelicts 
 
 fairy-godmother attitude. Her simple mind 
 could not look upon welcoming his letters as 
 an act of gracious ness. 
 
 " Would you sing to me once more before I 
 go ? " he asked, a little later. " I don't know 
 when I shall see you again, and I should like to 
 carry away a song of yours to cheer me." 
 
 She sat down at the piano and sang 
 Gounod's Serenade. Something in its yearn- 
 ing tenderness touched the man in his softened 
 mood. The pure passion of Yvonne's voice 
 pierced through the thick layers of shame and 
 dead hopes and deadening memories that had 
 encrusted round his heart, and met it in a 
 tiny thrill. He leaned back in his chair, star- 
 ing at the walls, which grew misty before his 
 eyes. The scene changed and he was back 
 again in his mother's house and Yvonne was 
 singing this song. The benumbing spell that 
 had kept him dry-eyed since the news came 
 to him of his mother's death, was lifted for 
 the moment. But, only when a sudden silence 
 broke the charm, was he aware that tears 
 were on his face. 
 
 He brushed them away quickly, rose, took 
 her hand and kissed it, and then he laughed 
 awkwardly, and bade her good-bye. 
 
 66 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 On his way downstairs he brushed against a 
 man ascending. It was a squarely-built, keen- 
 faced man of forty in clerical attire. Each 
 stepped aside to apologise, and then came the 
 flash of recognition. Joyce looked down in 
 some confusion. But Canon Chisely turned 
 on his heel and continued his ascent. 
 
 Joyce walked away moodily. His cousin's 
 cut brought back the old familiar sense of 
 degradation which Yvonne had charmed away. 
 Again he realised that he was an outcast, a 
 blot upon society, an object of scorn for men 
 of good repute. No one but Yvonne could 
 have befriended him and forgotten what he 
 was. And Yvonne herself, — was her friend- 
 ship not perhaps solely due to her childlike 
 incapacity to appreciate the depths of his dis- 
 grace ? He would have given anything not tc 
 have met the Canon on the stairs. 
 
 Three weeks afterwards Yvonne was at 
 Brighton for change of air and holiday, ac- 
 companied by Geraldine Vicary, her dearest 
 friend, confidante, and chastener. They had 
 taken lodgings in Lansdowne Place, where 
 they shared a sitting-room and discussed 
 Yvonne's prospects and peccadilloes. Not 
 
 67 
 
Derelicts 
 
 but what the discussion was continued out of 
 doors, on the Parade, or in a quiet nook on 
 the sands at Shoreham ; but it proceeded 
 much more effectively within four walls, where 
 there was nothing to distract Yvonne's atten- 
 tion. Miss Vicary had her friend's good most 
 disinterestedly at heart, and Yvonne herself 
 loved these discussions, very much as she 
 loved church. She felt a great deal better 
 and wiser, without in the least knowing why. 
 In intervals of leisure they idled about, f dis- 
 sected passing finery, and ate prodigious quan- 
 tities of ices — which, as all the world knows, 
 is the proper way to enjoy Brighton. 
 
 They were sitting in one of the shelters on 
 the cliff overlooking the electric toy-railway. 
 It was a lovely day. A sea-breeze ruffled the 
 blue Channel into a myriad dancing ridges, 
 and blew Yvonne's mass of dark hair further 
 back from her forehead. Suddenly she slipped 
 her hand into her friend's. 
 
 " Oh, Dina, is n't this delicious ! " 
 
 " Rapturous," said Geraldine, with a smile. j 
 She was a tall, plainly-dressed young woman, 
 some four years older than Yvonne, with a 
 pleasant, frank face and a decided manner. , 
 She wore a plain sailor-hat, a blouse, and a 
 
 68 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 grey-stuff skirt that hung rather badly beneath 
 a buff belt; thus contrasting with Yvonne, 
 who suggested dainty perfection of attire, from 
 the diminutive bonnet to the toe of her little 
 brown shoe. Miss Vicary gave the impression 
 of the typical schoolmistress, which she would 
 most probably have been, had not the posses- 
 sion of a magnificent voice decided her career 
 otherwise. 
 
 " I mean it 's delicious being here alone 
 with you," returned Yvonne. " Away from 
 men altogether." 
 
 "They are a horrid lot," said Geraldine, 
 drily. " I wonder you see as much of them 
 as you do." 
 
 " But how can I help it? They will keep 
 coming my way. Oh, I wish they were all 
 women. It would be so much nicer!" 
 
 Geraldine broke into a laugh. 
 
 " You goose ! " she said. " You would n't 
 have the women falling in love with you as 
 the men do ! " 
 
 " But I don't want them to v fall in love with 
 me," cried Yvonne. " It is so stupid. I don't 
 fill in love with them." 
 
 /" Then why do you give them encourage- 
 ment? I am always at you about it." 
 
 69 
 
Derelicts 
 
 -* 1 am only kind to them, as any one else 
 would be." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks, my dear. You should keep 
 them in their place." 
 
 " But what is their place ? " asked Yvonne, 
 pathetically. " I never know. That is why I 
 wish they were women. Oh, I love so being 
 here with you, Dina. I wish I had a lot of 
 women friends that I could talk to when I 
 can't see you. But you 're the only real 
 woman friend I 've got." 
 
 " You dear little mite ! " exclaimed Geral- 
 dine, with sudden impulse. " I can't see why 
 women don't take to you. And I can under- 
 stand all the men falling in love with you. 
 Even the Canon." 
 
 " Oh, how can you say such a thing ? " cried 
 Yvonne, quickly, the colour coming into her 
 cheeks. 
 
 cc By reason of the intelligence that God has 
 given me, my dear," replied Geraldine. " I 
 would send him packing if I were you." 
 
 " It is very kind indeed of a man like that to 
 come and see me." 
 
 " And to pick you out from among all the 
 concert singers in London for his musi \ 1 
 festival?" 
 
 70 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 " But we 're old friends, Dina. He is only 
 doing me a good turn." 
 
 " So as to deserve another, you simple 
 darling. In the meantime, I would n't en- 
 courage Vandeleur or your new protegt, the 
 Canon's unmentionable cousin/' 
 
 "You know, I once thought there was 
 something between you and Van," remarked 
 Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence. 
 
 " Rubbish ! " said Miss Vicary. And then 
 she added, rising hastily, after a moment's 
 silence, " Look, you are getting chilly in this 
 cold wind, — and I am sure you have next 
 to nothing underneath." 
 
 To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other 
 pretexts for catching cold was one of Miss 
 Vicary's self-imposed tasks, and she sought 
 to compensate Yvonne's reckless exposure of 
 herself when alone by excess of vigilance on 
 her own part when Yvonne was under her 
 control — which is not an uncommon irra- 
 tionality in women, who, geniuses or not, have 
 an infinite capacity for taking superfluous pains. 
 However, in spite of her maternal precautions, 
 it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or 
 three days afterwards with a cold which flew at 
 once to her throat. Although in no way seri- 
 
 7i 
 
Derelicts 
 
 ous, it filled her with dismay. She knew her 
 throat to be delicate. That her voice might 
 one day fail her was the dread of her life. 
 
 " What does he say about me?" she asked, 
 pathetically, when Geraldine had returned from 
 a short consultation with the doctor. " Is it 
 going to hurt my voice ? Oh, do tell me, 
 Dina?" 
 
 "You mustn't talk, or else it will," replied 
 Geraldine, severely. 
 
 Then she threw off the chastener, put on the 
 consoler, and, sitting on the bed, petted Yvonne 
 until she had restored her mind to a measure of 
 peace. 
 
 " Then I must throw up my engagements ? " 
 Yvonne asked, wistfully, after a while. 
 
 " Certainly the one here next week. But 
 don't bother your dear little head about it." 
 
 " And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon 
 Chisely. I must get well for them, Dina." 
 
 £C Why, of course you will," replied Geral- 
 dine. " They are weeks and weeks ahead. 
 Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho ! " 
 
 " Why are you so hard upon Canon 
 Chisely ? " asked Yvonne. 
 
 "A case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. I don't 
 like his always hanging about you." 
 
 72 
 
Dea ex Machina 
 
 Yvonne burst out laughing. 
 " I believe you are jealous, Dina," she cried, 
 Miss Vicary's retort was checked by the 
 entrance of the landlady with Yvonne's sup- 
 per. She busied herself with the arrangement 
 of plates and dishes on the tray. But all the 
 time the expression on her face was that of a 
 woman who foresees a considerable amount 
 of trouble to come. 
 
 73 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE COMIC MUSE 
 
 The common dressing-room appointed for 
 the male members of the chorus was crowded 
 with half-attired men, strangely painted and 
 moustachioed. The low, blackened ceiling 
 beat down the heat from the gas-jets over the 
 dressing-ledges, and the air reeked of stuffi- 
 ness, tobacco, and yellow soap. Everywhere 
 was a confusion of garments, grease-paints, 
 open bags, beer bottles, and half-emptied 
 glasses. It wanted only five minutes to the 
 rise of the curtain, and hurry prevailed among 
 belated ones, who got in each other's way and 
 swore lustily. 
 
 Joyce had finished dressing. He wore a 
 mandarin's hat, a green robe, a pigtail, and 
 long, drooping moustaches, like the rest of his 
 companions. Having nothing more to do, he 
 was leaning back against the dressing-table with 
 
 74 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 folded arms, and staring absently in front of 
 him. 
 
 " You are looking down in the mouth, old 
 man," said the man who dressed next to him, 
 turning away from the mirror and buttoning 
 his robe. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, McKay ? " said Joyce ; 
 with a start. 
 
 " I asked why you were so blooming cheer- 
 ful," answered the other. 
 
 " I was only thinking," said Joyce. 
 
 " It seems to be an unpleasant operation, old 
 man." 
 
 " Don't you see it 's of her ? " said another 
 man standing by. " They 're always like 
 that." 
 
 " Perhaps it 's better to put her out of your 
 mind and grin — is n't it ? " retorted Joyce, 
 pointedly, for the railer's quasi-matrimonial 
 squabbles had already become a byword in 
 the company. McKay burst into a loud 
 laugh, in which those who heard joined, and 
 the railer retired in discomfiture. 
 
 "Had him there," said McKay. "Well, 
 how 's the world, anyway ? " 
 
 " Oh, all right ! " replied Joyce, vaguely. 
 
 " Blake and I took his missus and two of 
 7S 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the girls for a sail to-day," said the other. 
 "If the whole crew had n't been sick, we 
 should have had a gay old time. Been doing 
 anything ? " 
 
 " No. What is there to do ? " 
 
 "At Southpool? Why, there's no end of 
 things. I wish we went to some more seaside 
 places, late as it is." 
 
 " I don't think it matters much where we 
 go," said Joyce. " Life is just the same." 
 
 " I suppose it is, if you moon around by 
 yourself. Why don't you get a pal ? " 
 
 " Masculine or feminine ? " asked Joyce ; 
 for there was as much pairing in the company 
 as in the Ark. 
 
 "Whichever you please. You pays — no 
 you don't — you takes your choice here 
 without paying your money. But take my 
 tip and keep clear of women. You never 
 know when they'll turn round and scratch 
 you — like cats. After all, what can you 
 expect of 'em ? I 've done with 'em all long 
 ago." 
 
 " What about the sea-sick girls to-day ? " 
 
 " I would n't touch any of 'em with a ten- 
 foot pole," replied the misogynist, with bitter 
 scorn. " I never was in an engagement where 
 
 76 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 there was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don't 
 know where the management picked them up. 
 And to think of the number of nice girls in 
 London simply starving for work." 
 
 "They seem right enough," said Joyce, 
 indifferently. 
 
 " Gad ! You should have been with me in 
 c Mother Goose ' at Leeds this winter. I was 
 playing one of the men in the moon — they 
 noticed me from the front. You should have 
 seen the slap-up lot we had there. What kind 
 of shop were you in for the winter ? " 
 
 " I was in another walk of life," replied 
 Joyce, with a curl of his lips. 
 
 At that moment the call-boy's voice was 
 heard in the passages : " Beginners for the 
 first act ; " and then he appeared himself at 
 the door. 
 
 " Everybody on the stage." 
 
 They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and 
 along the dusty passages and through the 
 wings on to the stage, where they were met 
 by the ladies of the chorus, who came on 
 from the other side ; and then all grouped 
 themselves in their customary attitudes under 
 the stage-manager's eye. Joyce was posed, 
 second on the left, with a girl resting her 
 
 77 
 
Derelicts 
 
 head on his knee. He greeted her as she 
 took her place. 
 
 " How are you to-night, Miss Stevens ? " 
 he whispered. 
 
 " Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing- 
 room is awful." 
 
 " So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don't 
 all melt together in a sticky lump." 
 
 "It is the worst arranged theatre I was 
 ever in." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Joyce, " you look tired." 
 
 " Hush — the orchestra — " 
 
 The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare 
 of the footlights and the vague cavernous dark- 
 ness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as 
 they reclined on the stage, through the band 
 of unburned gases above the jets. 
 
 The opening chorus began with its nod- 
 ding-mandarin business, followed by eccentric 
 evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. 
 He jostled Joyce who was standing near the 
 entrance. 
 
 " Damn it, don't take up all the stage," 
 he muttered irritably under cover of the radiant 
 expression demanded by the business. 
 
 He broke into his song, the chorus lining 
 the sides. Then two minor characters ap- 
 
 ,8 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 peared, and after some dialogue, interrupted 
 by Chinese exclamations of delight on the 
 part of the chorus, the latter danced off in 
 pairs. 
 
 " I do call that cheek," said Miss Stevens, 
 as soon as they had reached the wings, " why 
 could n't he look where he was going to ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was his fault," said Joyce. 
 
 " That 's the way with all these light tenors 
 — simply eaten up with conceit. If I were 
 you I 'd give him a piece of my mind and 
 ask him what the something he meant by 
 it." 
 
 " I have n't enough individuality here to 
 make it worth while," replied Joyce with a 
 shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 The girl did not quite understand, but she 
 caught enough of his drift to perceive that 
 he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she 
 thought him a poor-spirited fellow. " Oh, 
 well — if you like being insulted — " she 
 said, turning away toward a group of girls. 
 
 Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What 
 did it matter whether a coxcomb had cursed 
 him ? What did it matter, either, whether he 
 had fallen in Miss Stevens's estimation ? In 
 fact, what did anything matter, so long as star- 
 
 79 
 
Derelicts 
 
 vation was not staring you in the face, or your 
 companion was not pointing at the trace of 
 black arrows ? He turned also and joined in 
 desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. 
 At the end of the first act, men and women 
 went off at different sides to their dressing- 
 rooms. It was only during a wait in the 
 second act that he found himself next to Miss 
 Stevens again. 
 
 "Are you going to see me home again to- 
 night after the performance ? " she asked. 
 
 " If you will allow me/' replied Joyce. 
 
 " I 'm sorry I was short with you," she said, 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " Oh, it was nothing." 
 
 The polite indifference in his tone rather 
 piqued her. She was naturally a plain, anaemic 
 girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint 
 did not render her more attractive at close 
 quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her 
 the more. / 
 
 <c You don't seem to care about anything." 
 
 " I don't much," said Joyce. 
 
 At that moment the leading lady came off 
 the stage and passed by them as they stood 
 leaning against the iron railings of the stair- 
 case. She was wearing the minimum of costume 
 
 80 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked very 
 fresh and charming. 
 
 " Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, are n't you ? " she 
 said, pausing at the top of the stairs ; and, as 
 Joyce bowed, — " Some one told me you were 
 a friend of Yvonne Latour's." 
 
 " Yes," said Joyce, " I have known her for 
 a very long time." 
 
 ' How is she ? I have n't seen her for ages." 
 
 She moved down a couple of steps, so Joyce 
 had to lean over the balustrade to reply. 
 
 % She 's a dear little creature. I used to 
 know her while she was living with that wretch 
 of a husband of hers," said the lady, look- 
 ing up. " He 's dead, or something, is n't 
 he?" 
 
 c Yes, thank goodness," said Joyce, with 
 more warmth perhaps than he was aware of; 
 for she smiled and replied : — 
 
 I You seem to look upon it as a personal 
 favour on the part of Providence." 
 
 ; * I think it is a personal boon to all 
 Madame Latour's friends." 
 
 a Oh, I am delighted," she said, with a touch 
 of raillery. "If ever there was a marriage that 
 ought to have been labelled c made in heaven-' 
 that was one." 
 
 6 81 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of 
 native goods," replied Joyce, with a smile. 
 
 " Well, if you were going to meet her soon, 
 I should ask you to remember me to her ; but 
 as we are on a long tour — " 
 
 " I shall be writing shortly," he interposed. 
 
 "Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. 
 Joyce." 
 
 She disappeared down the stairs. When 
 Joyce turned round, he discovered that Miss 
 Stevens had walked off, perhaps in dudgeon 
 at having been neglected. Joyce felt sorry. 
 She was the only girl with whom he cared to 
 be on friendly terms outside the theatre, and 
 who, accordingly, had manifested any interest 
 in his doings. It would be a misfortune if 
 she were offended. Meanwhile the late unex- 
 pected chat about Yvonne had been very 
 pleasant. Miss Verrinder had been nice and 
 frank, assuming from the first that he was a 
 gentleman, and could be spoken to without 
 restraint. Joyce felt the fillip to his spirits 
 during the rest of the performance. 
 
 When it was over, he dressed as quickly as 
 the crowded confusion of the dressing-room 
 rendered possible, and refusing an invitation 
 on the part of McKay to drink at the adjoining 
 
 *>2 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 public-house, went down the short street that 
 led to the Parade, where he had arranged to 
 meet Miss Stevens. 
 
 She did not keep him long waiting. He 
 relieved her of a bulky parcel she was carrying, 
 and, holding it under his arm, walked gravely 
 bv her side. 
 
 :< I thought you said you were n't an ama- 
 teur," she said suddenly. 
 
 k Neither am I. It's my livelihood." 
 Dh, yes — between you and starvation, I 
 suppose." 
 
 fust so," said Joyce. 
 Could n't you do anything else ? " 
 * I can't get anything else to do." 
 Then how did you manage to come down 
 :e world ? " 
 
 -low do you know I have come down ? " 
 ;ked Joyce, amused at the catechism. 
 
 Can't I see you were up once? Miss 
 nder would n't have talked to you like 
 if you had n't belonged to her set. And 
 I har^e heard of Yvonne Latour. She does n't 
 j friends with the likes of McKay and me 
 the rest of us. So you 're either an ama- 
 teur come for the practice or the fun of the 
 thing, or — " 
 
 83 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " It *s hugely funny, I assure you," he inter- 
 rupted, " to live in a back-street bedroom — 
 1 lodgings for respectable men ' — on thirty 
 shillings a week, and save out of that." 
 
 " Well, then you Ve come a cropper." 
 
 "Really, Miss Stevens," he replied drily, 
 " it would be rather embarrassing to have to 
 account to you for all my misdeeds." 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to hear 'em. Not I — I 'm 
 not that sort. But when I like a man, I like 
 to know just what he is. That's all. Now 
 my father was a butler, and my mother a house- 
 keeper, and they used to let lodgings in Yar- 
 mouth. And they 're dead now, and I shift 
 for myself. Now you know all about me. 
 I think I 'd better carry that parcel." 
 
 She was rather defiant. Joyce could nDt 
 understand her. Surely something more than 
 inconsequent bad taste had prompted her to 
 draw this distinction between their respective 
 origins. But he was too self-centred to specu- 
 late deeply upon feminine problems. He 
 hugged the parcel closer, and said : — 
 
 " Nonsense. The paper is torn and all the 
 stuff will drop out." 
 
 " Oh, then I must carry it," she cried, in 
 quite a different tone. But he refused gallantly., 
 
 84 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 " What 's inside it ? " he asked, glad to 
 divert the conversation into less perplexing 
 channels. 
 
 " It 's a dress — the one I wear in the third 
 act. Well, you can carry it. My head 's 
 splitting. And 1 'm ready to drop." 
 
 They had reached the end of the Parade. 
 Their way lay at right angles through the 
 town. It was a gusty, though warm night, 
 and the cloud-racked sky and sea were dimly 
 visible. 
 
 "Would you like to sit down for a few 
 minutes ? " he asked. 
 
 " Would you like it ? " 
 
 Her white face was turned up earnestly 
 toward his. 
 
 " It might do you good," he replied. 
 
 " No," she said abruptly, after a pause, " Let 
 us get home." 
 
 They walked together in silence. Joyce's 
 thoughts were far away. He parted from her 
 at the door of her lodgings and went on slowly 
 to his own. 
 
 He had accustomed himself quickly to tht 
 aomad life on tour, its mechanical regularity 
 despite the weekly change of scene. Once, 
 perhaps, a round like this among the large 
 
 85 
 
Derelicts 
 
 provincial towns would have been filled with 
 interests. But now it was empty. He tried 
 in vain to whet his dull curiosity, by strolling 
 through the streets and seeking to busy his 
 mind with the industrial or municipal aspects, 
 the art treasures, the historical monuments of 
 the various towns. But all intellectual keen- 
 ness seemed to have been blunted during those 
 deadening years. His lonely walks were at 
 best but an aimless killing of time. All the 
 towns presented to him the same essential 
 features : one busy thoroughfare, the theatre 
 with its flaring bills, and a poverty-stricken 
 side-street where his bedroom was situated. 
 His life was singularly monotonous. The 
 long hours of the day, given up to lounging in 
 solitude, or reading what cheap literature his 
 means would allow, were succeeded by the 
 uninspiring, almost impersonal work at the 
 theatre. All that was required of him was to 
 sing his parts correctly, and to execute auto- 
 matically the "business" in which he had 
 been drilled. It was painfully easy. But he 
 doubted within himself whether he had any 
 dramatic aptitude. He could never divest 
 himself of the self-conscious idea that he 
 looked a fool in theatrical garb. The green 
 
 86 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 robe and pigtail gave him the sense of being 
 a spectacle for gods and men. His spirit was 
 too crushed to look upon life humorously. 
 Still, the great anxiety was lifted from his 
 mind. It was a livelihood, secured for an in- 
 definite time. The tour was booked a year 
 ahead, and, as the outset proved "The 
 Diamond Door" to be as great a provincial 
 success as it had been a London one, there 
 seemed no reason against a continuous run for 
 three or four years. In the meantime, he 
 might advance a step or two. But he did not 
 care to contemplate the future. He was 
 thankful for the dull, unruffled present. He 
 was working again among honest men, reckoned 
 as one himself. Could he dare hope for 
 more ? 
 
 At times he found himself half cynically 
 content with his lot. At others, a yearning 
 rose within him like a great pain to be able 
 to look the world in the face without shrinking 
 from its condemnation. A strange idea began 
 to work in his brain ; to win back by some 
 great deed of sacrifice his self-honour and 
 respect. But he knew himself to be a dreamer 
 of dreams, of too sorry stuff for such stern 
 action He would go whither the wind drifted 
 
 87 
 
Derelicts 
 
 aim. Of this he thought as he walked home 
 after parting with Annie Stevens. 
 
 He met her the next morning on the beach, 
 a long way from the town, sitting, a lonely 
 figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half 
 above the sand. She was resting her chin 
 upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled copy 
 of " Tit-Bits," and she was looking out to sea. 
 Their eight weeks of pairing on the stage had 
 brought to Joyce a feeling of companionship 
 with her, which he did not have as regards 
 the others. Besides, those who were not either 
 domestic or commonplace, belonged to the 
 flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type 
 so common in the lower ranks of the profes- 
 sion. Miss Stevens had a personality which, 
 though unrefined, was at least her own, and he 
 honestly liked her. 
 
 She gave a little start when she was aware 
 of his presence, and a quick flush came into 
 her cheeks. But he did not notice it. With 
 a pleasant greeting he sat down by her side 
 and talked of current trifles. At last sh' 
 broke out suddenly. 
 
 " Oh, don't let 's talk c shop/ I *m sick of 
 the piece and the theatre altogether." 
 
 w Oh, come, it is not so bad," said Joyce, 
 88 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 consolingly. " We both ought to be playing 
 good parts, and having rosier prospects. But 
 things might be very much worse." 
 
 He was feeling brighter this morning. 
 Yvonne had written him a long, gossipy letter, 
 full of encouragement and her own uncon- 
 scious charm, thus lifting him on a little wave 
 of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne 
 and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As 
 for Miss Stevens, he did not see what she had 
 particularly to grumble at. If she had been 
 beautiful or talented, she might have had reason 
 to quarrel with her lot. 
 
 " Besides," he added after a pause. " Look 
 what a lovely day it is ! " 
 
 " So you think we ought to be quite happy ? " 
 
 " Moderately so." 
 
 She was in a taciturn mood, and did not 
 reply, but turned a little away from him and 
 began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. 
 Suddenly she said, rather petulantly : — 
 
 " I wonder if you could ever love a woman." 
 
 He had grown accustomed to her late, dis- 
 crete methods of conversation, so the question 
 scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, 
 so as to enjoy the breeze, and rested both 
 hands at his sides on the drain-pipe. 
 
 8 9 
 
Derelicts 
 
 w I suppose I could if I tried," he said care- 
 lessly, " but I 'm very much better as I am. 
 Why do you ask ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " I don't know. I thought I 'd say some- 
 thing. We were n't having exactly a rollicking 
 time, you know." 
 
 This time the acerbity in her tone did strike 
 him. Something had gone wrong with her. 
 He bent forward so as to catch a sight of her 
 averted face. 
 
 " What is the matter, Miss Stevens ? " he 
 asked concernedly. " You are not yourself. 
 Could I be of any service to you ? " 
 
 She did not reply. Her silence seemed 
 an encouragement to press his sympathy. It 
 was a new thing to be of help to a human 
 being. He put his fingers on her sleeve and 
 added : — 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 She drew away her arm and started to her 
 feet. 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you. I 've been making 
 a miserable little fool of myself. Let *s go 
 back." 
 
 Joyce rose and walked by her side. 
 
 " You are not by any chance embarrassed 
 90 
 
The Comic Muse 
 
 in money matters ? " he asked, in as delicate 
 a tone as he could. 
 
 " Money ! " 
 
 She looked at him incredulously for a mo- 
 ment, then broke into hysterical laughter. 
 
 " Money ! " she repeated. " Oh, you are 
 too comic for anything!" 
 
 9i 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MELPOMENE 
 
 Two weeks passed and Joyce found himself 
 in Hull. During the previous week Miss 
 Stevens had lodged quite near to the theatre, 
 and there had been no occasion for his escort 
 after the performance. Besides, she had main- 
 tained a distant attitude toward him which 
 precluded further offer of sympathy in her 
 affairs. He was sorry for her ; she seemed 
 lonely, like himself, and, like himself, to have 
 some inward suffering that made life bitter. 
 He was glad, then, to find at Hull that they 
 lodged in the same street, some distance away 
 from the Theatre Royal, >s o that he could pro- 
 pose, as a natural thing, the resumption of their 
 former habit. She had .icquiesced readily on 
 the Monday night, and they had met as a 
 matter of course on the four succeeding even- 
 ings. Her late aloofness was followed by a 
 more intimate and submissive manner. There 
 
 92 
 
Melp 
 
 omene 
 
 were no more defiant utterances and fits of 
 petulance. She seemed anxious to atone for 
 past irritability, and Joyce, vaguely remem- 
 bering a spring-tide cynicism of his, that one 
 must be astonished at nothing in a woman, re- 
 ceived these advances kindly, and looked upon 
 their friendly relations as consolidated. 
 
 He also found himself progressing in favour 
 with the rest of the company. Several desul- 
 tory chats with Miss Verrinder, the friend of 
 Yvonne, had not only brightened the dul- 
 ness of the theatre life, but also given him a 
 little prestige among his colleagues. For there 
 is a good deal of humanity in man, including 
 the chorus of comic opera. So, such as it 
 was, Joyce's contentment rose to high-level 
 at Hull. He did not couple the town with 
 Hell and Halifax in his litany of supplication, 
 but, on the contrary, found it a not unpleas- 
 ant place, which, moreover, was in process of 
 undergoing a rare week of sunshine. 
 
 His favourite spot was the Corporation 
 Pier, with its double deck and comfortable 
 seats and view across the Humber. His well- 
 worn clothes were in harmony with its frequent- 
 ers, and he felt more at ease than on the Parade 
 of a seaside resort thronged with well-dressed 
 
 93 
 
Derelicts 
 
 people. Here he brought his book and pipe, 
 read discursively, watched the shipping, fell 
 into talk with seafaring men, who told him 
 the tonnage of vessels and the ports from 
 which they came. Often a great steamer 
 performing the passenger service across the 
 North Sea would come into the docks close 
 by, and he would go and watch her land her 
 passengers and cargo. The hurry and move- 
 ment were welcome to him, breaking, as they 
 did, the lethargy of the day. If the docks 
 were quiet, there was always the mild excite- 
 ment of witnessing the arrival of the Grimsby 
 boat at the pier. 
 
 On Saturday morning this last incident had 
 attracted him from his seat on the lower gallery 
 to the little knot of expectant idlers gathered 
 by the railing. The steamer was within a quar- 
 ter of a mile, the churn of her paddles the only 
 breajc visible in the sluggish water of the river. 
 He stood leaning over, pipe in mouth, idly 
 watching her draw near. When she was moored 
 alongside and the gangway pushed on to the 
 landing-stage below, he moved with the others 
 to the head of the slope to watch the pas- 
 sengers ascend. Why he should particularly 
 interest himself in the passage of humdrum 
 
 94 
 
Melpomene 
 
 labourers, fishwives, artisans, and young women 
 come to shop in Hull, he did not know. He 
 watched them, with unspeculating gaze, pass 
 hurrying by, until suddenly a pair of evil eyes 
 looking straight into his own made him start 
 back with a shiver of dismay. 
 
 Escape was impossible; in another moment 
 the man was by his side. 
 
 " Hullo, old pal ! Who would have thought 
 of seeing you ? " 
 
 Joyce did not take the dirty hand that was 
 proffered. He stuck his own deep in his 
 pockets, frowned at the man, and turned 
 away. But the other followed. 
 
 " Look here, old pal, I don't call this a 
 friendly lead — bust me if I do. You might 
 pass the time of day with a bloke — especially 
 as it is n't so long ago " 
 
 The man's voice was loud, the pier busy 
 with people. The air seemed to Joyce filled 
 with a thousand listening ears. His blood 
 tingled with shame. He faced round with 
 an angry look. 
 
 " What do you want with me ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't take on, old pal," replied the 
 other, in lower tones. " I ain't going to give 
 you away — don't you fear. It 's only pleas - 
 
 95 
 
Derelicts 
 
 ant to meet old pals again — in better circs. 
 Ain't it?" 
 
 Joyce had always loathed him — a flabby, 
 sallow, greasy-faced fellow, with blear eyes and 
 a protruding under-lip. He had been sen- 
 tenced for a foul offence against decency. 
 Joyce's soul used to revolt at the sight of 
 him as they sat on either side of the reeking 
 tub washing up the cooking utensils in the 
 prison kitchen. The hateful stench rose again 
 to his nostrils now and turned his stomach. 
 
 " Can't you see I am going to have nothing 
 to do with you ? " he said angrily. 
 
 " Come, don't be hard on a bloke when 
 he 's down," replied the man. " It ain't every- 
 one that gets on their legs again when they 
 comes out. I 've been out two months, and I 
 have n't had a job yet. S'welp me ! And 
 there 's the wife and the kids starving. Give 
 us a couple of cuid to send to 'em and make 
 'em happy again. Just two thick uns." 
 
 Joyce stared at him, breathless with indigna- 
 tion at his impudence. 
 
 " I '11 see you damned first ! " he cried 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the 
 price of a drink, old pal. You can't leave 
 
 96 
 
Melpomene 
 
 an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck 
 will turn agen you." 
 
 He leered up into Joyce's face, disclosing a 
 jagged row of yellow teeth. But Joyce started 
 forward and took him by the collar. 
 
 " If you try to blackmail me," said he, 
 pointing to a policeman on the quay, " I '11 
 give you in charge. Just stay where you 
 'are and let me go my ways." 
 
 He released him and marched off. But 
 the man did not attempt to follow. He 
 slipped into a seat close by and sang out sar- 
 castically : "If you '11 leave your address, I '11 
 send you a mourning card when the kids is 
 dead ! " 
 
 Joyce caught the words as he hurried down 
 the stairs. When he had crossed the quay 
 to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and 
 saw the man leaning over with a grin on his 
 face. It was only when he reached his lodging 
 that he breathed freely again. 
 
 What he had long expected had come to 
 pass — recognition by a fellow-prisoner. It was 
 a horrible experience. It might occur again 
 and again indefinitely. He walked agitated 
 up and down his poorly-furnished bedroom. 
 Could he do nothing to guard against such 
 7 97 
 
Derelicts 
 
 things in the future ? If he could only dis- 
 guise himself! Then he remembered that the 
 moustache which might have served him as 
 a slight protection against casual glances had 
 been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He 
 ground his teeth at the futility of the idea. 
 And at intervals wrath rose up hot within him 
 at the man's cool impudence. Two pounds — 
 more than a week's salary, — to be thrown 
 away on swine like that ! He laughed savagely 
 at the thought. 
 
 He grew calm after a time, lay down on 
 his bed and opened a book. But the face of 
 the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in 
 which they had been associated came between 
 his eyes and the page. 
 
 " Anyhow, it 's over," he exclaimed at last, 
 with a determined effort to banish the memo- 
 ries. " And, thabk God, it 's Saturday, and I 
 shall be in Leeds to-morrow." 
 
 To avoid the chance of meeting him in the 
 streets, however, he stayed at home all day, 
 sending round a note of excuse on the score 
 of seediness to Miss Stevens, with whom he 
 had arranged to take an afternoon stroll. On 
 his way to the theatre he caught sight of tht 
 man standing by a gas-lamp at a street-corner 
 
 98 
 
Melpomene 
 
 on the other side of the way. He hurried on, 
 glad at his escape, for the glance of the man's 
 eyes resting upon him was abhorrent. 
 
 For the first time since he had started on 
 the tour the rough companionship of the dress- 
 ing-room was a comfort and delight. Here 
 were kindly words, welcoming faces, the pleas- 
 ant familiarity of common avocation. He 
 forgot the heat, and the crush, and the tom- 
 fool aspect the dressing had always presented. 
 The place was home-like, familiar, sheltering. 
 His costume, as he took it down from the peg, 
 seemed like an old friend. The jolly voices 
 of his companions rang gratefully in his ears. 
 The disgust of the day faded into the memory 
 of a nightmare. This was a reality — this 
 hearty good-fellowship with uncontaminated 
 men. 
 
 When he went out with them on to the 
 stage, before the curtain rose, and met the 
 ladies of the chorus, he greeted those that he 
 liked with a newer sense of friendliness. Until 
 then he had never been aware how pleasant it 
 was to have Annie Stevens's head resting on his 
 knee. He thanked God he was a criminal no 
 longer — not as that other man was. Certainly 
 Phariseeism is justifiable at times. 
 
 99 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He was very kind to Miss Stevens all the 
 evening during the waits, when they happened 
 to be together. His apologies for having to 
 put off their engagement met with her full 
 acceptance. She was solicitous as to his health 
 — asked him in her downright fashion whether 
 he ate enough. 
 
 cc You are a gentleman, you know, and not 
 accustomed to poor people's ways and their 
 privations." 
 
 " My dear," he replied, dropping for the 
 first time into the old professional's mode of 
 address. " I Ve gone through privations in my 
 life that you have never dreamed of. This is 
 clover — knee-deep." 
 
 And he believed it; thought, too, what a 
 fool he had been to grumble at this honest, 
 pleasant theatrical life. The reaction had 
 rather excited him. 
 
 " I look upon myself as jolly well off here," 
 he said. " And I eat like an ox, I assure 
 you. Do you know, it 's very good of you 
 to take an interest in me?" 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said the girl, with a 
 little laugh, and turning away her head. 
 
 At the end of the first act a fresh pleasure 
 awaited him. It was a night of surprising sei>- 
 
 ioo 
 
Melpomene 
 
 sations. The stage-manager called him into 
 his room. 
 
 " Walker has been telegraphed for — wife 
 very ill — and he won't be able to play on 
 Monday. Do you think you could play his 
 part till he comes back ? " 
 
 " Rather ! " said Joyce, delighted. 
 
 " You are the only one of the crowd that 
 can sing worth a cent/' said the stage-manager 
 with a seasonable mixture of profanity. " I '11 
 pull you through. Perhaps he 's not coming 
 back at all. One never knows. If he does n't 
 and you go all right, there 's no reason why 
 you should n't stick to it." 
 
 Walker spoke exactly four lines, sang once 
 in a quartette and had a couplet solo. Other- 
 wise he made himself useful in the chorus. 
 But it was a part, his name was down in the 
 bill. The value of the step, moral, pecuniary 
 and professional was considerable. Joyce felt 
 that his luck had turned at last. Here was the 
 gate into the profession proper open to him. 
 
 The news soon spread through the company. 
 A " call " for rehearsal on Monday morning 
 for the chorus and those of the principals con- 
 cerned in the change was posted up. He fe\t 
 himself a person of some importance. McKay 
 101 
 
Derelicts 
 
 congratulated him ; and Blake, although he 
 said, " You swells get all the fat," spoke by no 
 means enviously. The others cracked jokes 
 and suggested drinks all round, which, being 
 sent for by Joyce, were consumed in the dress- 
 ing-room. Annie Stevens squeezed his hand, 
 during their dance together, and whispered a 
 word of pleasure. He had no idea that so 
 infinitesimal a success could have masqueraded 
 as such a triumph. He longed to get back to 
 his room to write it all to Yvonne. 
 
 At the stage-door, after the performance, he 
 met Annie Stevens, who had hurried through 
 her dressing. 
 
 " I 'm glad for your sake, but I 'm sorry for 
 my own," she said, after they had walked a 
 few steps. 
 
 " Why, what difference can it make to you ? M 
 asked Joyce laughing. 
 
 " I shall have to play and sing with some- 
 body else." 
 
 "True. I was forgetting. Yes, it will 
 seem funny. I shall miss you too." 
 
 " I don't believe you care one bit," said the 
 girl. 
 
 To acquiesce- would have been rude. He 
 answered her with vague regrets. She inter- 
 102 
 
Melpomene 
 
 rupted him with a laugh in which was the 
 faintest note of scorn. 
 
 " Oh, you 're very glad to get rid of me, and 
 £he stupid kissing and everything. You won't 
 have to give any one a Chinese kiss now. And 
 they were very Chinese, you know." 
 
 " An English kiss would have been out of 
 the picture," said Joyce. 
 
 " We 're not in the picture now," she said 
 softly. 
 
 Joyce felt that he was doing something very 
 foolish, perhaps dangerous. He had never 
 had the remotest fancy for allowing his com- 
 panionship with her to degenerate into a flirta- 
 tion. But what could he do ? He bent down 
 and kissed her. 
 
 There was an awkward silence for a few yards, 
 which she broke at last in her irrelevant way. 
 
 " I should so like a glass of port wine to- 
 night." 
 
 " So should I," said Joyce, cheerfully. " Or 
 something like it. We '11 go into the Crown 
 yonder." 
 
 Two or three times before they had had 
 
 a glass together on their way home. To-night, 
 
 therefore, the suggestion seemed natural. They 
 
 entered the private bar of the public-house, 
 
 103 
 
Derelicts 
 
 and Joyce ordered the liquors. Only one 
 young man was there, reading a sporting paper 
 on a high stool. It was a quiet place, with the 
 view beyond the counter down the bar cut off 
 by a ground-glass screen, through a low space 
 under which the customers were served. 
 
 Joyce pushed the port wine smilingly to 
 Miss Stevens, and, with his back to the door, 
 was pouring some water into his whisky, when 
 a voice sounded in his ear, causing him to start 
 violently and flood the counter. 
 
 " I say, old pal, are you goin' to help a poor 
 feller?" 
 
 The man was standing behind him, the leer 
 upon his greasy face. Joyce had been bliss- 
 fully unaware that he had dogged his steps 
 from that street corner to the stage-door of the 
 theatre, and from the stage-door hither. The 
 sight of him was a stroke of cold terror. 
 
 " Go away. I '11 give you m charge," he 
 stammered, losing his head for the moment. 
 
 Annie Stevens clutched his arm. 
 
 " Who is this beastly man ? " she said. 
 
 " Only an old pal, miss," said the man, 
 edging towards the door. " We was in quod 
 many months together, and now he won't give 
 me 'arf a crown to keep me from starving." 
 104 
 
Melpomene 
 
 xc By God ! " cried Joyce, making a sudden 
 dash at him. 
 
 But the man was too quick ; he had secured 
 his retreat, and when Joyce reached the pave- 
 ment — the house was at a corner of cross 
 roads — he could not catch the fall of his foot- 
 steps. The man had vanished into the night, 
 and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed 
 with the sudden unexpectedness of a dream. 
 Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried 
 to think. He could scarcely realise exactly 
 what had happened. He seemed to be en- 
 veloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his 
 skin tight like a drum for his heart to beat 
 against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens 
 standing by his side, in the light of the public- 
 house, with anger on her face. 
 
 " What have you got to say for yourself ? " 
 she asked brusquely. 
 
 " Do you believe that man ? " said Joyce, the 
 words coming painfully. 
 
 Their lack of conviction damned him. The 
 girl drew back a step, and looked at him with 
 revulsion in her eyes. 
 
 " You can't deny it ! I see that you can't. 
 You Ve just come out of prison." 
 
 If the world had been at his feet he could 
 105 
 
Derelicts 
 
 not have lied convincingly at that moment. 
 He could only stare at her haggardly and rack 
 his brains for words that would not come. 
 She moved away instinctively from the public 
 glare and turned down the dark street that led 
 toward their destination. 
 
 " It 's a lie," he said desperately, striding t*» 
 her side. 
 
 " No it is n't. It 's truth. I read it on 
 your face. That 's why you 've come down 
 in the world — that 's why you live by your- 
 self — that 's why you did n't dare come out 
 this afternoon — and that 's where you Ve 
 known all those privations I never dreamed 
 of. It 's no good telling lies." 
 
 " Well, it 's true," said Joyce. " And I ve 
 paid the penalty for my folly ten times ovrr 
 Forget all this, Annie, for God's sake." 
 
 " Go away ! " she cried, walking faster. " I 
 don't want to see you again. Oh, to think of 
 it makes me sick ! Go away, do ! " 
 
 But he followed her imploringly. He was 
 at her mercy. 
 
 " I don't care what you think of me," he 
 
 said. " I will keep out of your way as much 
 
 as you like. Only, a word from you would 
 
 ruin me. Keep my story secret, like an hon- 
 
 106 
 
Melpo 
 
 mene 
 
 ourabk woman. I have done nothing to 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, you have ! " she cried, stopping short 
 and facing him. " You have dared to kiss me. 
 Oh — a pretty fine gentleman you are — with 
 your patronising superior ways — and I think- 
 ing myself an ignorant, common girl, not good 
 enough for you ! What were you ? A pick- 
 pocket ? " 
 
 " You abuse me as if I were one," said 
 Joyce, bitterly. "Good-night, Miss Stevens. 
 I shall not molest you any further." He 
 motioned to her with his hand to pass on in 
 front. She regarded him for a moment stonily, 
 and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, 
 swung round sharply and proceeded at a 
 hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted street. 
 Joyce watched her until she was swallowed 
 up in the darkness, and had obtained sufficient 
 start for him to follow in her footsteps without 
 fear of overtaking her. 
 
 But as he walked along, the dread of her 
 indignation seized him. If only he could say 
 another word to her before the morning, he 
 might secure her pity and her silence. The 
 idea grew more and more insistent, until he 
 could bear it no longer. He started off at 
 107 
 
Derelicts 
 
 a run, at first on the pavement of the quiet 
 side street, and then in the roadway by the 
 kerb of the busier thoroughfare into which 
 it led, and regardless of jostling and oaths, con- 
 tinued his way, until he succeeded in catching 
 her up just as she was inserting the latchkey 
 into her door. 
 
 " Annie," he cried, his chest heaving pain- 
 fully from the exertion of running. " Promise 
 me you won't breathe a word of this to any 
 one." 
 
 She let herself in deliberately and stood in 
 the dark passage. 
 
 " I '11 promise nothing. I never want to set 
 my eyes on you again ! " 
 
 And then she slammed the door in his face. 
 
 He turned away sick at heart, and went to his 
 own lodging. Resentment at her coarse anger, 
 and speculation as to the motives of the sudden 
 change from friendliness to hatred were things 
 that did not come to him till afterwards. Suffi- 
 cient for the night was the despair of the sleep- 
 less hours, the dread of the girl's tongue, and the 
 anguish of tottering hopes. He did not write 
 to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening 
 seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning. 
 
 108 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A FORLORN HOPE 
 
 At the railway station the next afternoon he 
 found most of the company already assembled 
 on the platform. Curious glances were cast 
 upon him as he appeared ; there were nudgings 
 and whisperings ; some giggling on the part of 
 the chorus girls standing round Annie Stevens, 
 who was looking paler and more defiant than 
 usual. A group of his colleagues melted away 
 at his approach. He saw at once what had 
 happened. The fears that had haunted him 
 all the night and all that day were realised. 
 He felt his face and lips grow white, and his 
 limbs trembled. With an instinctive remnant 
 of self-assertion, he went up to Blake, who was 
 standing by one of the reserved carriages. It 
 seemed a long time before he could speak. At 
 last he asked him stupidly at what time the 
 train started* 
 
 " Four forty," said Blake, curtly. 
 
 " And when do we get to Leeds i n 
 109 
 
Derelicts 
 
 <c How the devil should I know ? If you 
 want to know, there 's the guard. Ask him." 
 
 With which he moved away and joined two 
 or three others a few steps off. Joyce felt too 
 sick with misery to resent the rudeness. He 
 walked a short distance along the train, and 
 seeing one of his colleagues in a compartment, 
 concluded that it was reserved for the chorus- 
 men and crept into the far corner, where he sat 
 down, holding a newspaper before his face. 
 
 The compartment filled and the train started. 
 At first there was a general constraint in the 
 talk. Then a game at nap was instituted ; 
 but no one spoke to Joyce. At Selby there 
 was over an hour's wait. With a feeling that 
 he must be alone at any cost, he rushed out of 
 the station, and, avoiding the town, wandered 
 aimlessly through lanes and fields until it was 
 time to return. He was too dazed and over- 
 whelmed by this sudden blow to think coher- 
 ently. Now it was the girl's deliberate cruelty 
 that passed his comprehension ; now the sick- 
 ening shame at being known in his true colours 
 to a whole society burned into his flesh. Only 
 one thought stood out from the rest in lurid 
 clearness — the impossibility of his continuing 
 the tour. Even if the management took no 
 no 
 
A Forlorn Hope 
 
 notice of the discovery, he felt he would rather 
 starve to death in a hole than live through that 
 hell of daily aversion and contempt. To return 
 to the company and travel with them as far as 
 Leeds was pain enough. He would face that, 
 however, and then — 
 
 It was gathering dusk when he arrived at the 
 station, just in time to see the guard about to 
 wave the green flag. The handle of the com- 
 partment was in his grasp when he heard 
 McKay say : — 
 
 " Well, because a fellow 's happened to be in 
 quod, that does n't mean he 's likely to sneak 
 your watches out of the dressing-room ! " 
 
 He opened the door and entered amid a 
 dead silence, which lasted, with few interrup- 
 tions, all the rest of the journey. Joyce looked 
 round at his seven companions, with an awful 
 sense of isolation. Only four-and-twenty hours 
 before he had loved them for their warm good- 
 fellowship. He was wrung with the pity of it. 
 McKay's words still sounded in his ear. They 
 were horrible enough, but it was evident they 
 were meant in his defence. Once he met his 
 glance, and read in it a signal of kind intent. 
 But the others steadily looked another way 
 when his eye fell upon them. 
 in 
 
Derelicts 
 
 When they left the train at Leeds, McKay 
 touched him on the shoulder and drew him 
 apart from the hurrying stream of passengers 
 and porters. 
 
 "What's all this yarn that Annie Stevens 
 has been telling us ? " 
 
 "Oh, it's true enough," replied Joyce, 
 wearily. 
 
 "The damned little hell-cat," said McKay. 
 " I told you to keep clear of women." 
 
 " It was bound to come out. One of you 
 fellows might just as well have been with me in 
 the pub last night." 
 
 " Do you think a man would have given 
 you away like this ? " asked McKay, with 
 great scorn. 
 
 " I 've come to the conclusion that any- 
 thing 's possible in this infernal world," said 
 Joyce, bitterly. " I suppose the whole crowd 
 are against me." 
 
 " Well, there is a bit of feeling, certainly," 
 replied McKay, in an embarrassed tone. 
 "And maybe it won't be very pleasant for 
 you. They all talk as if they were plaster 
 of Paris saints, — and, dash it all — they made 
 me sick ; so I thought I 'd come and say I 'd 
 stand by you." 
 
 112 
 
A Forlorn Ho 
 
 pe 
 
 <c Thank you, McKay," said Joyce, touched. 
 " You are a good sort. But I sha'n't ask you. 
 I am not going on with the tour." 
 
 " I think you 're just as well out of it, to tell 
 you the truth," said McKay. Then his anger 
 against Annie Stevens broke out again in an 
 unequivocal epithet. 
 
 " The little ," he said. 
 
 " I suppose it is horrible in a woman's eyes," 
 said Joyce, moving with McKay toward the 
 crowd round the luggage-van. " But I can't 
 see why she should hate me like this, all of a 
 sudden, and wish to ruin me." 
 
 " Can't you ? It 's pretty plain." 
 
 " No," said Joyce. " We have always been 
 the best of friends." 
 
 " Friends ? You don't mean to say you 
 did n't know she was gone on you — clean 
 gone, all off her chump ? No one liked to 
 chaff you about it, because you have an infer- 
 nal sarcastic way of scoring off fellows. But, 
 Gawd ! The way she used to look at you was 
 enough to make a man sick ! " 
 
 "Do you mean she was in love with me?" 
 asked Joyce, falteringly/as the whole situation 
 of affairs, past and present, began to dawn upon 
 him. 
 
 8 1.13 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Well, rather," said McKay, with a chuckle. 
 "What do you think?" 
 
 Several of the company were still around 
 the pile of luggage by the van, claiming their 
 things and waiting for porters. Standing on 
 one side was Annie Stevens, and, as it hap- 
 pened, Joyce recognised his Gladstone bag 
 lying at her feet. He went and picked it 
 up, and was going off silently with it, when 
 he felt her touch on his arm. Dim as the 
 light was, he could see that her face was 
 haggard and drawn. She met his stern gaze 
 beseechingly. 
 
 cc For God's sake, forgive me," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " You have played too much havoc with my 
 life," replied Joyce coldly. 
 
 " I shall kill myself," said the girl. 
 
 " Some people are better dead," said Joyce, 
 turning away, bag in hand. 
 
 On the platform beyond the barriers he met 
 McKay again. 
 
 "Good-bye, McKay," he said. "1 have 
 only two friends in the world who know my 
 story, and you are one." 
 
 " Good-bye, old man," said McKay. " Bet- 
 ter luck next time." 
 
 114 
 
A Forlorn Hope 
 
 They shook hands and parted, McKay to 
 join his friend Blake at the lodgings they had 
 secured already, Joyce to put up for the night 
 at the first cheap hotel he could find. 
 
 The next day he was in London again, in 
 his old room in Pimlico — a broken-hearted, 
 broken-spirited man. For two days he re- 
 mained in a state of stupid misery, yearning 
 for the life he had just abandoned ; tortured, 
 too, by reproaches for his cowardice. Why 
 had he not faced the ignominy, and tried to 
 live it down ? Then the conviction of the 
 hopelessness of the attempt was forced upon 
 him. Even if he had continued in the pro- 
 fession, his name would soon have been known 
 throughout it as the ex-convict, — and he had 
 been in it long enough to perceive how narrow 
 the theatrical circle is, — and all hope of ad- 
 vancement would have been worse than futile. 
 On the third day he went to see Yvonne, but 
 she had just gone out of town. The porter 
 at the flat did not know how long she would 
 be away. She was at Fulminster. Her let- 
 ters were forwarded there. So Joyce wrote 
 her a short note, explaining his situation, 
 and set himself to wait patiently for her 
 coming. 
 
 US 
 
Derelicts 
 
 But on that evening, out of sheer weariness 
 and longing for human companionship, he 
 turned into his old haunt, the billiard-room 
 in Westminster. It seemed just the same 
 as on the last evening he had been there. 
 The occupants of the divan might never have 
 moved from that night to this. His appear- 
 ance was greeted with incurious, uninterested 
 nods. The only one that offered his hand was 
 Noakes, who was sitting at the end, still in his 
 Chesterfield overcoat and old curly silk hat, 
 but looking more woe-begone and pallid than 
 ever. There was a touch of pain, too, in his 
 usually expressionless pale-blue eyes. Joyce 
 took his seat next to him and bent for- 
 ward, elbows on knees and chin resting in 
 his hands. 
 
 " You have been absent from town ? " asked 
 Noakes, in his precise, toneless way. 
 
 Joyce nodded, with a murmur of assent. 
 
 " I, too, have not been here lately." 
 
 " Press of literary work ? " asked Joyce, 
 without looking up. 
 
 The other did not notice the shade of sar- 
 casm. He passed his hand across his eyes and 
 sighed. 
 
 " I have given it up." 
 116 
 
A Forlorn Ho 
 
 pe 
 
 " Have you come into a fortune ? " 
 
 " No. I have had the deadliest misfortune 
 that can befall a man." 
 
 Something genuinely tragic in his tone made 
 Joyce start up from his dejected attitude and 
 look at his neighbour. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said. " I did not 
 know." 
 
 " Of course not ; no one does. At least, no 
 one I can repose any confidence in." 
 
 There was an air of dignity in this oddly 
 attired figure, with the ludicrous silk hat above 
 the black mutton-chop whiskers and bushy 
 white hair, and yet a mute appeal for sym- 
 pathy which Joyce could not but perceive. 
 
 " I, too, have been hard hit lately," he said, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " Ah, not like me," said the other, turning 
 round in his seat, so that his words should 
 reach only Joyce's ear. Cf Until three weeks 
 ago I had a wife and child. No man ever 
 loved as I did. I worked for them till my 
 brain almost gave way — fifteen hours a day, 
 week after week, starved myself for them, 
 denied myself the clothes on my back. Now 
 i have them no longer. Life is valueless to 
 
 me." 
 
 117 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Are they — dead ? " asked Joyce. 
 
 " No. Gone off with the lodger on the 
 first floor," replied Noakes, solemnly. 
 
 Joyce remained silent. What could he say ? 
 He looked sympathetic. Noakes blew his 
 nose in a dirty piece of calico with frayed edges 
 that courtesy called a pocket-handkerchief, and 
 continued : — 
 
 " So my life is wrecked. My imagination 
 is darkened and I can write no more. I have 
 given up my literary ambitions. It is not 
 worth while writing penny bloods at half a 
 crown a thousand for one's own support." 
 
 " What are you going to do then ? " asked 
 Joyce, interested in the quaint creature. 
 
 " I am going abroad. I have come here 
 perhaps for the last time. On the day after 
 to-morrow I sail for South Africa." 
 
 Was it a sudden inspiration ? Was it the 
 coming to a head of vague resolutions, despairs, 
 workings, the final word of a destiny driving 
 him from England ? Was it a sudden sense of 
 protecting brotherhood towards this forlorn, 
 tragic scarecrow of a man ? Joyce never knew. 
 Possibly it was all bursting upon his soul 
 at once. Springing to his feet, he held out. 
 his hand to Noakes. 
 
 118 
 
A Forlorn Hope 
 
 " By all that 's holy, I '11 come with you ! " 
 he cried, in a strange voice. 
 
 The other, after some hesitation, took his 
 nand and looked at him pathetically. 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? M 
 
 "In dead earnest." 
 
 " I am going in the very cheapest possible 
 manner."* 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 " I am going, with a few pounds 1 have 
 scraped together, to try my luck." 
 
 " The same with me. It can't be worse 
 than England ; starvation is certain here. 
 Come, say, honour bright — will you be glad 
 of me as a companion — as a friend if you 
 like? I am a lonely bit of driftwood like 
 yourself." 
 
 Then Noakes rose to his feet and this 
 time squeezed Joyce's hand and his pale eyes 
 glistened. 
 
 " I '11 swear to be your friend in peace and 
 in danger," he said, in his quaint phraseology. 
 " And I thank the God of all mercies for send- 
 ing you to me in my hour of need." 
 
 " All right," said Joyce. " And now let us 
 have some whisky, and talk over details." 
 
 And so, in that dingy billiard-room, un- 
 119 
 
Derelicts 
 
 known to the moulting Bohemians huddled up 
 in somnolent attitudes close by on the divan, 
 and unheeded by the shirt-sleeved men passing 
 around the table intent on their game, was 
 struck the strangest bargain of a friendship 
 ever made between two outcast men ; a friend- 
 ship that was to last through want and sickness 
 and despair and hope, and to leave behind it 
 the ineffaceable stamp of nobler feeling. 
 
 But at first there was much admixture of 
 cynicism on Joyce's side. He laughed aloud, 
 in the bitterness of his heart, at the object he 
 had taken for his bosom friend. It was only 
 later, when he learned the patient, dog-like 
 devotion of the man, that he felt humbled and 
 ashamed at these beginnings. 
 
 With a draft on a Cape Town bank for the 
 remainder of his capital, and a last regretful 
 letter from Yvonne in his pocket, he left South- 
 ampton. And as they steamed down Channel, 
 in the mizzling rain of a grey November day, 
 he leaned over the tafFrail and stared at the 
 land of his brilliant hopes, his crime, his pun- 
 ishment, his struggles and his dishonour, with 
 a man's agony of unshed tears. 
 
 He was going to begin life anew in a strange 
 undesired country ; hopeless, aimless, friendless 
 
 1 20 
 
A Forlorn Hope 
 
 save for that useless creature who was pacing 
 up and down the deck behind him, still in his 
 ridiculous headgear. He had made no plans. 
 The future to him when he should land at 
 Cape Town was as unknown — as it is to any 
 of the sons of men, did we but realise it. 
 
 121 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CANON'S ANGEL 
 
 While Joyce was straining his eyes through 
 the darkness for the last sight of land and 
 eating out his heart in bitter regrets, Yvonne 
 was busily engaged at Fulminster in rehearsing 
 for the next day's concert. She had spent four 
 days at Fulminster, the guest of Mrs. Win- 
 stanley, and found herself somewhat lost among 
 the very decorous society of which Canon 
 Chisely was a leading member. And while she 
 was scanning the social heavens in half pathetic 
 search of her bearings, Joyce's letters had ar- 
 rived, with their tidings of catastrophe and 
 exile. So, while there was a smile on her lip 
 for the Canon and his friends, there was a tear 
 in her eye for Joyce. His humiliation anc 
 her failure as fairy godmother brought her a 
 pang of disappointment. She felt very ten- 
 derly towards Joyce. In her imagination, too, 
 Africa was a dreadful place, made up of deserts, 
 lions, and ferocious negroes in a state of nudity. 
 
 122 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 If she had seen him before he started, she 
 might have dissuaded him from encountering 
 such discomforts. She thought of this tearfully 
 in the intervals that Fulminster affairs allowed 
 her for reflection. 
 
 She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. 
 Now Mrs. Winstanley was the leading social 
 authority in Fulminster. She was a distant 
 cousin of Canon Chisely. In fact, she was 
 an infinite number of irreproachable things. 
 Mothers came to her as a matrimonial oracle. 
 The Mayor consulted her on ticklish questions 
 of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish 
 were in her hands. Although she inhabited a 
 well-appointed house of her own, she superin- 
 tended the domestic arrangements of the Rec- 
 tory ; and performed all the duties of hostess 
 for her cousin when he entertained. Thus, 
 parochially and socially she was invaluable to 
 the Canon — his right-hand woman, one who 
 could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add 
 to its impressiveness. If he had been called 
 upon to write her epitaph, he would have 
 carved upon the stone, " Here lies a woman 
 of sense." Now, when a responsibly placed 
 and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds 
 that opinion of a woman of his own years, 
 123 
 
Derelicts 
 
 and consults her in all his concerns, the result 
 is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline 
 ruled the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true 
 — for if there was one of her peculiar and 
 original virtues of which she made a speciality, 
 it was tact — but yet her influence was para- 
 mount. 
 
 When the Canon had come to her with 
 a request to invite Madame Yvonne Latour 
 to stay with her, she had elevated polite eye- 
 brows. 
 
 " Whoever heard of such a thing ! " 
 " It seems simple," said the Canon. " I 
 can't invite her to my own house, so I beg you 
 to invite her to yours." 
 
 "You are not going to do this for all the 
 professionals engaged at the festival ? " 
 
 " Of course not," answered the Canon ; 
 " who is suggesting anything so absurd ? " 
 
 " Then why make an exception of Madame 
 Latour, who is not even singing the leading 
 parts ? " 
 
 " She is very delicate and requires comforts," 
 he replied. " If she is not taken care of, she 
 may not be able to sing at all. Besides, it is 
 my particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the 
 privilege of expressing it to you." 
 124 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 " I take it she is a very great friend of 
 yours ? " 
 
 " A very great friend/' said the Canon. 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant 
 possibilities. Certain weaknesses becoming ap- 
 parent in her own impregnable position strongly 
 tempted her to refuse. She bit her lip and 
 looked at her manicured finger-nails. 
 
 " Come, you 're a woman of sense," added 
 the Canon, after a pause. 
 
 The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. 
 She was a woman of sense. How absurd of 
 her to have forgotten. An ironical smile 
 played on her lips and lurked in her steel-grey 
 eyes. 
 
 "You want to present Madame Latour to 
 Fulminster society, Everard, with whatever 
 advantages may be attached to my chaper- 
 onage? " 
 
 " Precisely," said the Canon. 
 
 " Well, I will send the invitation. But will 
 she accept it ? " 
 
 " I '11 see about that," he replied briskly, 
 " I am deeply indebted to you, Emmeline." 
 
 She smiled, shook hands and followed him, 
 with a word of parting, to the door. Then as 
 soon as if was shut upon him, she stamped her 
 125 
 
 ) 
 
Derelicts 
 
 foot and walked across the room, with an 
 exclamation of impatience. 
 
 " I wonder what kind of a fool he is going 
 to make of himself ! " 
 
 She soon saw. One is not a woman of 
 sense for nothing. On the eve of the Festival, 
 which was being held for the purpose of rais- 
 ing funds for the restoration of the old Abbey- 
 church, of which the Canon was rector, he 
 gave a consecrating dinner-party. 
 
 The Bishop of the diocese, who was staying 
 at the Rectory, was there; Sir Joshua and 
 Lady Santyre, and others of the high and 
 solemn world of Fulminster. Yet the Canon, 
 with a high-bred tact, delicately conveyed the 
 impression that Madame Latour was the guest 
 of the evening. Mrs. Winstanley kept eyes 
 and ears on the alert. There was much talk 
 of the Festival. On the morrow the " Elijah" 
 was to be given, with Madame Latour in the 
 contralto part. The Canon was solicitous as 
 to her voice, beamed with pleasure when she 
 offered, in her sweet, simple way to sing to his 
 guests, and stood behind her as she sung, with 
 what, in Mrs. Winstanley's eyes, appeared an 
 exasperating expression of fatuity. 
 
 A tittle later in the evening, a young girl, 
 126 
 
 " 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 Sophia Wilmington, went up to him with the 
 charming insolence of youth. 
 
 " Why did n't you tell us she was so sweet ? 
 I 've fallen head over ears in love with her." 
 
 The Canon smiled, bowed, and delivered 
 himself of this extraordinary speech : — 
 
 " My dear Sophia, next to falling in iove 
 with me, myself, you could not give me greater 
 pleasure." 
 
 " She is so lovely," said the girl. 
 
 " A chance for a medallion," said the Canon. 
 Miss Wilmington had a pretty taste in medal- 
 lion painting. 
 
 " Oh, I could n't get her colouring ; but I 
 should love to try — and her voice. To me, 
 any one with a gift like that seem* above ordi- 
 nary mortals. You see I am quite ready to 
 worship your angel." 
 
 "My angel ? " said the Canon, sharply. 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discuss- 
 ing the Engadine with the Bishop, did not lose 
 a word of the above conversation. At his last 
 exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which 
 caught the momentary confusion and flush on 
 the Canon's face. She was quite certain now 
 of the sort of fool he was going to make of 
 himself. 
 
 127 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh. 
 
 "It did sound funny. I meant the angel 
 in the < Elijah.' " 
 
 " Oh," said the Canon, " I was forgetting the 
 * Elijah/ " 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say 
 a warning word. Before she left, she managed 
 to have a few words with him. 
 
 " I hope you are keeping your eyes very 
 wide open, Everard," she said, in a whisper. 
 
 The Canon took her literally and so re- 
 garded her. But she smiled and put her hand 
 on his sleeve. 
 
 " She is quite charming and all of that, I 
 grant. But she is very much deeper than she 
 looks." 
 
 " Really, my dear Emmeline — " he began, 
 drawing himself up. 
 
 "Tut! my dear friend; don't be offended. 
 You have called me a wise woman so often 
 that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise 
 woman, and look before you leap." 
 
 " I am not in the habit of leaping, Emme- 
 line," said the Canon, stiffly. 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense 
 of humour ; and in a few minutes was driving 
 Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham. 
 
 128 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 But the Canon, after he had performed his 
 last duties as host towards his right reverend 
 guest, sought the great leathern armchair 
 before his study fire and lit a cigar. Emme- 
 line's words had disturbed him. That is 
 the worst of keeping a consultant cousin — a 
 woman of sense. Her advice may save you 
 from months of regret, but it is sure to cause 
 you bad quarters of an hour. You remember 
 the woman and disregard the sense on such 
 occasions ; or vice versa. Hitherto Emmeline 
 had been infallible. The fact annoyed him, 
 and he let his cigar die out, another irritation. 
 At last he rose impatiently, and going to a 
 violin-case, drew from it a favourite Guarnerius 
 fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk handkerchief. 
 And then, having put on the sourdine, so as 
 not to disturb right reverend slumbers, he played 
 " O, rest in the Lord," with considerable taste 
 and execution. 
 
 Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did 
 not hear him. 
 
 The concert began at three o'clock. The 
 
 new Town Hall was packed from ceiling to 
 
 floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat 
 
 near the platform and looked around at the 
 
 9 129 
 
Derelicts 
 
 great mass of the audience, which included 
 the flower and influence of the county, and 
 then, turning, scanned the serried hedgerow of 
 the orchestra, the crowding terraces of the 
 choir, and the thin line of professionals in 
 front, among whom Yvonne's tiny figure had 
 just come to make a spot of grace ; and he felt 
 a glow of pride. It was all his doing. The 
 dream of many years was in process of being 
 realised — the completion of the Abbey Res- 
 toration Fund. Moreover, he had succeeded 
 in developing his first conception of an unam- 
 bitious concert into a musical event, to be 
 chronicled by critics from the London dailies. 
 He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, 
 neither professional nor aesthetic. 
 
 Yvonne was feeling fluttered and happy. 
 Fluttered, because it was an important engage- 
 ment. There are very few chances, even for 
 a real contralto, in oratorio music, and her 
 voice was more mezzo. Hitherto she had 
 contented herself with the scraps. If she had 
 known that the " Elijah " had been deliberately 
 selected because it was the one oratorio in 
 which the contralto part not only suited her 
 voice perfectly, but also rivalled the soprano 
 in importance, the fluttering would have 
 130 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 been intensified by perplexity. And she was 
 happy, because all the world was smiling on 
 her, particularly Geraldine Vicary and Vande- 
 leur, with whom she was in immediate con- 
 verse. Vandeleur had been engaged long 
 since by the Canon for the name-part, partly 
 on account of his magnificent bass voice, and 
 partly to please Yvonne. Geraldine Vicary 
 had stepped into a gap caused by the with- 
 drawal of a more celebrated soprano at the 
 last moment. Yvonne was smiling brightly 
 upon Vandeleur. She liked him. He had 
 made no subsequent reference to his declara- 
 tion of love, and Yvonne, with her facile 
 temperament, had almost forgotten the cir- 
 cumstance. Besides, he had gone back to his 
 old allegiance to Geraldine, which pleased 
 Yvonne greatly. 
 
 The conductor stepped to his stand and 
 tapped with his baton. Silence succeeded the 
 buzz of talk and the din of the tuning of 
 fiddles. Three chords from the orchestra, 
 and Vandeleur sang the introduction; the 
 overture, the opening chorus, and then 
 Yvonne took up her part. Singing was her 
 life. After the first bar, she sang spontan- 
 eously, like the birds, free from nervousness 
 
 131 
 
Derelicts 
 
 or self-consciousness. And during her waits 
 the sublime music absorbed her senses. It 
 swept on through its themes of despair, re- 
 nunciation, revelation, and promise ; through 
 all its vivid contrasts — the great trumpet voice 
 of the prophet, the rolling mass of sound of 
 the chorus, the vibrating notes of the messen- 
 ger — "Hear ye, Israel; hear what the Lord 
 speaketh " — the calm, sweet voice of the 
 angel, telling of peace. 
 
 The Canon listened through all with the 
 ear of a musician and the heart of a religious 
 man. But there was a chord in his nature 
 that remained untouched when Yvonne was 
 not singing, and quivered strangely when her 
 voice was raised. It was so pathetically weak, 
 so different in quality from Geraldine Vicary's 
 powerful soprano, apparently so incapable of 
 filling that vast hall ; and yet so true, so ex- 
 quisitely modulated that every note rang clear 
 to the farthest gallery. The man forgot his 
 three-and-forty years, the strange mingling of 
 worldly wisdom and priestly dignity by which 
 most of his judgments were formed, and he 
 identified the woman with the voice, pure, 
 angelic, irresistibly lovable. 
 
 He turned to -his neighbour, Mrs. Winstan- 
 132 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 ley, after the " O, rest in the Lord," his eyes 
 glistening, and whispered, — 
 " What do you think ? " 
 "An unqualified success, Everard." 
 " I am so glad." 
 
 "You deserve every congratulation." 
 " Thanks, from my heart, Emmeline." 
 " The Obadiah man is delightful." 
 He looked blankly at her, unable to read 
 what lay behind those calm, grey eyes. Then 
 a great comfort fell upon him. The woman of 
 sense had manifested a lack of intuition that 
 could be called by no other name than stu- 
 pidity. He hugged his knee, delighted. But 
 he made no more references to Yvonne. 
 
 The silence following the crash of the last 
 "Amen," announced the end. It woke him 
 from a dream. He started to his feet with the 
 impulse to seek Yvonne on the platform, but 
 he was immediately hemmed in by a circle of 
 congratulatory friends. As soon as he ob- 
 tained breathing* space, he turned round, to 
 find that she had withdrawn to the ladies' 
 dressing-room to put on her things. The 
 hall cleared rapidly. Mrs. Winstanley waited 
 for Yvonne, who did not come at once, having a 
 flood of things to tell to Geraldine. The Canon 
 U2 
 
Derelicts 
 
 grew impatient. It was getting late, and he 
 had to drive the Bishop home in time to dress 
 for dinner at a great house some distance away 
 It would be his only chance of seeing Yvonne 
 that evening. At last she came through the 
 side-door and down the platform with Miss 
 Vicary. He advanced to assist them at the 
 steps, and then, after a few courteous words of 
 thanks to Geraldine, who walked on uncon- 
 cernedly toward the waiting group, found 
 himself alone with Yvonne. 
 
 She wore high-standing fur at her throat 
 and a tiny fur toque in the mass of dark 
 hair, and she looked very winsome. Foolish 
 speeches ran in his grave head, but he could 
 not formulate them. 
 
 " I hope you are not very tired," he said, 
 with dignified lameness, pacing by her side, his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 " Not very. My throat is a bit stiff, but 
 that will go off. Well, was I all right ? " 
 
 " My dear child — " began the Canon, 
 stopping abruptly. 
 
 " I was afraid I might let the piece down, 
 you know," she said, with a serene smile. " I 
 am not a great vocalist, like Miss Vicary." 
 
 " Don't speak like that," he said, awkwardly. 
 134 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 " Besides, your voice has a charm that hers can 
 never have." 
 
 " So you are quite pleased with me ? " She 
 looked up at him with such trustful simplicity 
 that his rather stern face grew tender with a 
 smile. It seemed as if a glimpse of her true 
 nature was revealed to him. 
 
 " You are like a child-angel, asking if it has 
 been good." 
 
 " Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say ! " 
 cried Yvonne, gaily. " I shall always remem- 
 ber it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang 
 nicely. And, you know, it 's almost like being 
 in heaven- to sing that part." 
 
 "You called us all there to you," said the 
 Canon. 
 
 Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the 
 sincerity of the compliment. Coming from 
 Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There 
 was an air of strength and dignity about his 
 broad shoulders, his strongly-marked, thought- 
 ful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that 
 had always set him apart, in her estimation, 
 from the other men with whom she came into 
 contact. She never included him in her gen- 
 eralisations upon men and their strange ways. 
 His profession and position, as well as his 
 
Derelicts 
 
 personality, put him into a category where her 
 unremembered father, and Mr. Gladstone, and 
 the great throat-surgeon whom she had once 
 consulted, vaguely figured. She was always 
 conscious of being on her very best behaviour 
 while talking to him. 
 
 The Canon glanced at his friends. They 
 were conversing animatedly, as if in no great 
 hurry to depart. So he leant back against the 
 platform and lingered a while with Yvonne. 
 
 " You must take care not to catch cold," he 
 said, after a while. a I believe it 's a horrid 
 evening." 
 
 " Oh, don't fear. I shall be all right to- 
 morrow," said Yvonne. 
 
 " I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, 
 though any hitch then would be a misfortune, 
 certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your 
 throat is already relaxed." 
 
 " You must n't spoil me, Canon Chisely. 1 
 am used to going out in all kinds of weather, 
 I have to, you know." 
 
 " I wish you had n't. You are far too 
 fragile." 
 
 " Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am 
 tough — really." 
 
 She brought out the incongruous epithet 
 136 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 so prettily that he put back his head and 
 laughed. 
 
 " If I had any authority over you, you 
 should not play tricks with yourself/' he 
 said, in grave playfulness. 
 
 " But you have a great deal of authority 
 over me. I should never dream of disobeying 
 you." 
 
 He leaned his body forward, his hands 
 resting on the platform edge behind him, and 
 looked at her earnestly. 
 
 " Do you think so much of me as that ? " 
 he asked, in a low voice. 
 
 "Why, of course, I think everything of 
 you," replied Yvonne, innocently. " Don't 
 you know that ? " 
 
 An answer was on his lips, but, happening 
 to look round, he caught Mrs. Winstanley's 
 ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. 
 He stroked a grizzling whisker and drew 
 himself up. 
 
 " I must n't keep the Bishop waiting," he 
 said. 
 
 " Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley." 
 
 They joined the group, where Yvonne re- 
 ceived her congratulations and compliments 
 with childish pleasure. In a few moments 
 137 
 
Derelicts 
 
 they separated, and the Canon drove off, re- 
 garding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical 
 feelings. 
 
 Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a 
 cigarette in Miss Vicary's hotel sitting-room. 
 As Yvonne's friends, they had been dining 
 with Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed 
 with her urbanity, and sang her praises with 
 Celtic hyperbole. 
 
 " I should n't trust her further than I could 
 see her," said Geraldine. " She hangs up her 
 smile every night on her dressing-table." 
 
 "Just hear a woman, now," said the Irish- 
 man. 
 
 " Yes, just hear a woman," retorted Geral- 
 dine, sarcastically. " I suppose you think she 
 loves Yvonne, don't you ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. I 'm sure she 's thinking 
 how sweet she is this very minute." 
 
 " She would like to be poisoning Yvonne 
 this very minute." 
 
 " Well, I 'm blest ! " exclaimed Vandeleur, 
 letting the match die out with which he was 
 preparing to light a fresh cigarette. "It takes 
 a woman to imagine gratuitous devilry ! " 
 
 " And it takes a man to absorb himself in 
 his dinner to the besotting of his intelligence ! 
 138 
 
The Canon's Angel 
 
 But I have eyes. And a logical mind — don't 
 tell me I have n't. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Win- 
 stanley seems to have been the central figure 
 in this wretched little provincial society. Who 
 is, at the present moment ? " 
 
 " Sure, it 's yourself, Geraldine — the great 
 soprano from London." 
 
 She did not condescend to notice the 
 flattery. 
 
 " It 's Yvonne. I bet you she 's the most- 
 talked-of person in Fulminster this evening. 
 And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how 
 dull men are ! What is all this Festival, 
 really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne ? " 
 
 " It 's the canonisation of Yvonne, I should 
 say," remarked Vandeleur, drily. 
 
 Miss Vicary's expression relaxed, and she 
 leaned back in her chair. 
 
 " You 're not such a fool, after all, Van." 
 
 " So I Ve been told before," he replied, with 
 a chuckle. "Anyhow, it will be a splendid 
 thing for the dear child." 
 
 "Oh, how can it be ? I have no patience 
 with you ! " 
 
 " That 's obvious," said Vandeleur. 
 
 " Yvonne would give any man her head, if 
 he whimpered or clamoured for it," continued 
 139 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Geraldine, rising to her feet, " and then tell 
 you in her pathetic way, c but he wanted it so, 
 dear.' And there is n't a man living who 
 could be good enough to Yvonne ! " 
 
 " There I agree with you," said Vandeleur. 
 
 Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, 
 quite unconscious of the facts that had 
 aroused Miss Vicary's indignation. The 
 memory of the artistic triumph of the day 
 and the Canon's generous praise lingered 
 pleasantly around her pillow. But if there 
 was any one man to whom her thoughts 
 were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend 
 of her girlhood, who was then speeding into 
 exile over the bleak autumn seas. 
 
 •** 
 
 
 140 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE 
 
 If genius is mad, sensitiveness degenerate, 
 and emotionality neurotic, and if heredity is 
 the determining principle in the causation of 
 character, comparative psychology enables us 
 to account for many things. On these lines it 
 could fairly be argued that one family taint of 
 neurosis, manifesting itself diversely, had driven 
 Stephen Chisely to the gaol and brought his 
 oousin, the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. 
 Though there may be fallacies in the premises, 
 there is, however, a certain plausibility in the 
 deduction. Through both men ran a vein of 
 artistic feeling carrying with it a perception of 
 the beautiful and an impulse toward its attain- 
 ment. This malady of sensitiveness — to speak 
 by the book — had carried Stephen beyond 
 the bounds of moral principle. It prevailed at 
 times over Canon Chisely's natural austerity 
 and hardness. If in the one case it had been 
 a curse, in the other it was a blessing. 
 141 
 
Derelicts 
 
 In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud 
 of caste, in creed a rigid Anglican, in morals 
 conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystal- 
 line judgment, He had few of the undegenerate 
 qualities that make for lovableness of character. 
 The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the re- 
 deeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was 
 his social salvation, his vehicle of happiness, his 
 bond of sympathy with his fellow-creatures. 
 
 The beauty of Yvonne's voice had attracted 
 him toward her, years before — afterwards, the 
 beauty of her face. But it was not until the 
 conception of her nature's beauty, idealised by 
 he knew not what artistry within him from 
 voice and face and simple thoughts and acts, 
 arose within his mind, that he became conscious 
 of deeper feelings. At first it seemed as if he 
 had disintegrated the soul of his favourite 
 Grcuze — fathomed the unplumbed innocence 
 of its eyes as its hand closes over the apple — 
 and was regarding it with a poet's wonder. 
 But then his sterner nature asserted itself, 
 restoring mental equilibrium. He realised 
 that his feelings for her were what men call 
 love, and soberly he thought of marriage. 
 
 He had often, previously, considered the 
 advantages of matrimony. It was an honour- 
 
 142 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 able estate, becoming to his position, involving 
 parental responsibilities which, for God's greater 
 glory, it behoved a man of his calibre to seek. 
 The wife he had contemplated was to be a 
 woman of culture, reserve, high principle, who 
 could grace his table, aid him in spiritual affairs, 
 and bear him worthy offspring. He was called 
 upon now to reorganise his conceptions. It is 
 true that his idea of the advantages of the mar- 
 ried state was unaffected, save by the addition 
 of one undreamed of — the sunshine of a sweet 
 woman's face in his cold home. But the dis- 
 parity between the ideal woman and the real 
 one was alarming. Socially, parentally, spirit- 
 ually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high 
 office of his wife ? He gave the matter months 
 of anxious reflection. He was marrying at 
 leisure, certainly, he thought grimly ; would 
 he repent in haste ? At length his love for 
 Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for the 
 Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, 
 take her place at once in society under Mrs. 
 Winstanley's chaperonage and win her welcome 
 with her voice. Thus he would have an oppor- 
 tunity of judging her within his own environ- 
 ment. A complex mingling of passion and 
 calculation. 
 
 143 
 
Derelicts 
 
 And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed 
 through the ordeal. As the Canon drove away 
 from the " Elijah," he doubted no longer. Be- 
 fore she left Fulminster he would ask her to be 
 his wife. It is characteristic of the man that 
 he had no serious fears of her refusal. 
 
 The Festival was over. It was the day after. 
 Miss Vicary and Vandeleur had returned to 
 town by an early train and Yvonne was spend- 
 ing an idle morning over the fire. She had 
 wandered round the shelves of the morning- 
 room in search of a novel, and had selected 
 " Corinne " because it was French. But Yvonne 
 was a child of the age, and children of the age 
 do not appreciate Madame de Stael. One can 
 understand a dear old lady in curls and cap 
 sighing lovingly over " Corinne," bringing back 
 as it does memories of inky fingers and eternal 
 friendships ; but not — well, not Yvonne. She 
 loved " Gyp." An unread volume was in her 
 trunk upstairs. She felt too tired and lazy to 
 get it. Besides, she was not quite sure whether 
 the sight of " Gyp " would not shock Mrs. 
 Winstanley, who was engaged over her vol- 
 uminous correspondence at a table by the 
 window. 
 
 144 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 <c They have such queer prejudices," thought 
 Yvonne. " One never knows." 
 
 So she dropped " Corinne " on to the floor 
 and looked at the fire. In spite of her awe of 
 Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave Ful- 
 minster. Life had been made very pleasant 
 for her the last few days. Her throat was 
 somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished 
 she could give it a long rest. But on Monday 
 she was engaged to sing at a club concert at 
 the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was 
 to resume her singing lessons ; and the weather 
 in London was wet and muggy. It would be 
 bliss to be idle, not to think of earning money 
 and just to sing when you wanted. She turned 
 her head and caught a chance glimpse of her 
 hostess's face. The morning light streaming 
 full upon it showed up pitilessly the network 
 of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen con- 
 tours of her lips and the roughness of her skin. 
 Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so old 
 and faded — a letter to a sister-in-law detailing 
 Everard's folly did not conduce to sweetness 
 of expression — and she wondered whether she> 
 Yvonne, would be happy when she came to 
 look like that. She shivered a little at the 
 thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving 
 10 145 
 
Derelicts 
 
 their footprints, and she would grow old and 
 her voice would pass away. It was dread- 
 ful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she 
 made it very dark indeed, and summoned every 
 available bogey. What should she do in her 
 old age, when she could no longer earn her 
 living ? Geraldine was always preaching thrift, 
 but she had put nothing by as yet. If she 
 became incapacitated to-morrow, she did not 
 know how she would live. She looked at the 
 fire wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, 
 and found her position very pathetic. But 
 just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley's collie, rose 
 from the rug and came and laid his chin on her 
 knees, looking at her with great, mournful eyes. 
 Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which 
 astonished both Bruce and his mistress, and 
 taking the dog's silky ears in her hands, she 
 kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his 
 melancholy. So Yvonne stepped out of the 
 darkness into the sunshine again. 
 
 Presently a servant entered. 
 
 " Canon Chisely would be glad if he could 
 see Madame Latour for a moment." 
 
 " Where is the Canon ? " asked Mrs. Win- 
 stanley. 
 
 " In the drawing-room, ma'am." 
 146 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 Yvonne rose quickly and went to her host- 
 ess, who slipped a sheet of blotting-paper over 
 her half-finished page. 
 
 " Shall I go down ? " 
 
 " Naturally." 
 
 Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who 
 retired, and then gave her hair a few tidying 
 touches before the mirror in the over-mantel. 
 
 " I wonder if he has brought me those old 
 Provencal songs." 
 
 " I hope he has, my dear," said Mrs. Win- 
 stanley, drily. 
 
 "Well, he is sure to have something nice to 
 tell me, at any rate," replied Yvonne, in her 
 sunny way. 
 
 The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, 
 his hands behind his back. On the table lay 
 his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly 
 across the room to meet him, her face lit with 
 genuine pleasure. He greeted her gravely and 
 held her hand in both of his. 
 
 " I have come to have a serious talk with 
 you. 
 
 " Have I been doing anything wrong ? " 
 asked Yvonne, looking up into his face. 
 
 " We shall see," he said, smiling. " Let 
 us sit down." 
 
 147 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Still holding her hand, he drew her to the 
 couch by the fireside, and they sat down 
 together. 
 
 "It is about yourself, Yvonne — I may call you 
 Yvonne ? — and about myself too. You have 
 always felt that you have had a friend in me ? " 
 
 " Ah ! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to 
 me the same as you. I shan't mind at all if 
 you scold me." 
 
 She looked at him so guilelessly, so trust- 
 ingly, that his heart melted over her. Verily 
 she was the wife sent to him by heaven. 
 
 " I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how 
 could I dare scold you ? It is I who come as 
 a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it 
 is the dearest wish of my heart to make you my 
 wife." 
 
 The sun died out of Yvonne's eyes, her 
 heart stopped beating, she looked at him in 
 piteous amazement. 
 
 " You — want me — ? " 
 
 " Yes. Is it so strange ? " 
 
 cc You are jesting still — I don't under- 
 stand — " She had withdrawn her hand from 
 his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her 
 handkerchief and trembling all over. It was 
 so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her 
 
 148 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 senses. She had regarded him more as an 
 influence than as a man. To Geraldine's wit 
 she had given not a moment's thought. To 
 marry Canon Chisely — the idea seemed un- 
 real, preposterous. And yet she heard his 
 voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the 
 sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had 
 swooped down and caught her up through the 
 vast moral spaces that lay between them, and 
 she was dizzy and breathless. 
 
 " I do not press you for your answer," she 
 heard him saying. "To-morrow — a week, a 
 month hence — what you will. Take your 
 time. I can give you a good name, comfort 
 in worldly things — the ease and freedom from 
 care which, thank God, my means allow — an 
 honourable position, and a deep, true affection. 
 Would you like me to wait a month before I 
 speak to you again ? " 
 
 " A month could make no difference," mur- 
 mured Yvonne. "It would seem as strange 
 then as now." There was a sudden pause in 
 the whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewilder- 
 ing device of his to show her kindness, provide 
 for her future ? 
 
 " I could n't accept it from you," she added 
 incoherently. 
 
 149 
 
Derelicts 
 
 <c But it is I who want you, Yvonne," said 
 the Canon, earnestly. " It is I who must have 
 you to brighten my home and comfort my life. 
 If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, 
 give it me to use for my happiness. For 
 months I have given this my deepest, most 
 anxious thought. I am not a man to talk 
 lightly of love and marriage. When I say 
 that I want you, it means that you are neces- 
 sary to me. And you trust me ? " 
 
 " Above all men — of course — " 
 
 " Then your answer — £ yes/ or c no/ or 
 < wait/ " 
 
 She was silent. He put his arm round her 
 shoulders and drew her to him. 
 
 " You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not 
 say c yes ' now ? " 
 
 She felt powerless beneath the strong will and 
 authority of the man. Why he should wish to 
 marry her, she could not understand ; but his 
 words had all the weight of an imperative. 
 
 " If you must have me, then — " said she in 
 a quavering little voice, " I must do as you 
 say." 
 
 "You will be happy, my child," he said, 
 reassuringly. " I will make it all sunshine for 
 you — you need have no fears." 
 
 ISO 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 He drew her yet closer to him and kissed 
 her forehead ; then he released her gently. 
 
 " So it 's a promise ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Yvonne. 
 
 " Then look into my eyes and say, c Everard, 
 I will take you for my husband/ " 
 
 He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though 
 he was, with a touch of a lover's fatuity. The 
 tone revived Yvonne's animation. 
 
 " Oh, I could n't," she cried, with a queer 
 little laugh, midway between despair and gaiety. 
 " I should n't dare — it would n't sound re- 
 spectful." 
 
 " Try," said he. " Say ' Everard/ " 
 
 But Yvonne shook her head. " I must 
 practise it by myself." 
 
 The Canon laughed. He was well contented 
 with the world. Her modesty and innocence 
 charmed him. Married though she had been, 
 the fragrance of maidenhood seemed still to 
 hover round her. She was an exquisite thing 
 to have taken possession of. 
 
 " Are you happy ? " he asked, taking her 
 small brown hand that lay clasped with the 
 other on her lap. 
 
 " I am too frightened to be happy — yet," 
 she replied softly, with a shv lift of her eyes. 
 IS* 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I don't quite understand what has happened. 
 Half an hour ago I was a poor little singer — 
 and now — " 
 
 " You are my affianced wife," said the Canon, 
 with grave promptness. 
 
 " That 's what I can't realise. Everything 
 seems topsy-turvy. Oh, it is your wish, 
 Canon Chisely, is n't it ? You are so good 
 and wise, you wouldn't let me do anything 
 that was not right?" 
 
 "Always trust to me for your happiness, 
 Yvonne, and all will be well," answered the 
 Canon. 
 
 Presently she rose, gave him her hand with 
 simple dignity. 
 
 " I must go and think it over by myself. 
 You will let me ? Another time I will stay 
 with you as long as you want me." 
 
 The Canon led her to the door, kissed her 
 hand, bending low over it in an old-fashioned 
 way, and bowed her out of the room. Then 
 he rang for the servant and sent a message 
 to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt 
 execution. 
 
 In the interview that followed, the Canot 
 came off triumphant. He parried his cousin's 
 thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own 
 152 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 welfare that was not free from irony. If she 
 had not so openly showed him her distaste for 
 the marriage, he might have displayed some 
 sympathy for her in the loss of prestige that 
 she was sustaining as lady ruler of the Rectory. 
 As matters stood, he considered she had for- 
 feited it by her caprice. Besides, he had 
 shrewdly determined that there should not be 
 a triple dominion in his house. 
 
 " I hope she will extend your sphere of use- 
 fulness, Everard, as a wife should," said Mrs. 
 Winstanley. " But she is inexperienced in 
 these matters. You will not be hard upon her." 
 
 " I am only hard on those who disregard my 
 authority. Then it is duty and not severity. 
 Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, 
 Emmeline ? " 
 
 " You would n't compare us surely ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. I could compare my wife 
 with no other woman. It would be in all 
 respects wrong." 
 
 " Well," she replied, bidding him adieu, " I 
 hope that you will be happy." 
 
 u My dear Emmeline," said the Canon, " I 
 have been humbly conscious for years that my 
 happiness has always been one of your chief 
 considerations." 
 
 I S3 
 
Derelicts 
 
 From Mrs. Winstanley's he proceeded at 
 once to Lady Santyre's, where he received 
 congratulations and luncheon. He left with 
 the comfortable certainty that all Fulminster 
 would ring with the news of his engagement 
 during the course of the afternoon. His an- 
 nouncement was as public as if he had pro- 
 claimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster 
 did ring as he had expected — not that it was 
 unprepared, for the Canon's attentions to 
 Madame Latour had been a subject of uni- 
 versal speculation. Murmurings arose in cer- 
 tain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded 
 in the aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon 
 was highly eligible. One of the aggrieved de- 
 clared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and 
 instanced the unfortunate Stephen. 
 
 " My dear," replied in remonstrance her 
 interlocutor, who had just married her last 
 daughter to the leading manufacturer in Ful- 
 minster, " You must not talk as if the Canon 
 had run off with a ballet-girl." 
 
 But generally his indiscretion was condoned. 
 It had been a stroke of genius to let Yvonne 
 charm her critics from a public platform at 
 the very outset. 
 
 For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her 
 154 
 
Pait, Present, and Future 
 
 visit passed in a whirl. Families called upon 
 her; mothers congratulated her; the "Fulmin- 
 ster Gazette" interviewed her; the Santyres 
 changed the small dinner-party, to which she 
 had been already asked, into a solemn banquet 
 in her honour; and the Canon was ever at her 
 side, attentive, courteous, dignified, authorita- 
 tive, playing his part to perfection. The 
 flattery pleased her. The universal deference 
 paid to the Canon, of which she had grown 
 more keenly conscious, awakened a shy pride. 
 But it all seemed an incongruous dream, out 
 of which she would awak when she found 
 herself in her tiny flat in the Marylebone 
 Road. She was afraid to go back. If it was 
 a dream, she would regret this sudden lifting 
 from her shoulders of all sordid cares, the 
 dread of losing her voice, of poverty, and the 
 grasshoppers wintry old age. If it continued 
 true, she feared lest the familiar surroundings 
 might pain her with rept-et for the life she was 
 abandoning — the sweet artist's life, with all its 
 inconsequences and its purposes, its hopes and 
 fears, its freedom and its claims. Even now, 
 she cried a little at the prospect of giving it 
 up. And then she would n't know herself. 
 Hitherto, her conception of herself had been — 
 155 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Yvonne Latour, the singer. That was her 
 Alpha and Omega. It would be like looking 
 in the glass and seeing a total stranger. It was 
 pathetic. 
 
 On Sunday she received a series of sensa- 
 tions. She believed such elemental doctrines 
 as she had received at her mother's knee : in a 
 beautiful heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ 
 and the angels — she was not quite certain 
 about the Virgin Mary — in the Lord's 
 Prayer, which she said every night at her 
 bedside, and ii v the goodness of going to 
 church. Her rt ^ion might have been that 
 of a bird of the ai : for all the shackles it laid 
 upon her soul. But the outer forms of wor- 
 ship impressed her strongly — church music, 
 solemn silences, vestments, stained windows, 
 even words. She felt very solemn when she 
 called her innocent self a " miserable sinner " in 
 the Litany, and the word " Sabbaoth," in the 
 " Te Deum," always seemed fraught with mys- 
 tic meaning. The symbolic hushed her into 
 awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys 
 set them apart for the moment, in her mind, 
 from the baser sort of urchins. And, a fortiori, 
 the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had al- 
 ways appealed to her childish imagination as 
 
 156 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 a being that moved in an especial odour or 
 sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne's 
 church-going had never been as regular as 
 might have been desired, so these reverential 
 feelings had not been staled by custom. How- 
 ever, when the Canon appeared at the reading- 
 desk, and his fine voice rang through the 
 Abbey, Yvonne felt a sudden pang of alarm, 
 "he night before he had been so tender and 
 y e £, fui that he had almost seemed to be upon 
 on level. And now, he was far, far away, 
 indi distance between her, poor, insignificant 
 Hi le Yvonne, and him performing his sacred 
 office, appeared immeasurably vast. And when 
 he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. 
 She could not realise that he was her affianced 
 husband. 
 
 He preached on the text from the story of 
 Nicodemus, " Except a man be born again." 
 The words caught her fancy as being apposite 
 to her own case, and, disregarding the thread of 
 the Canon's discourse, she preached a little 
 sermon to herself. She was going to be born 
 again. Yvonne the singer would die, and a 
 new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of the Rec- 
 tory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in 
 her stead. She caught a phrase in which the 
 157 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attend- 
 ing on the death of the old Adam. She won- 
 dered whether she would be called upon to 
 suffer the fire of purification. It was like the 
 Phoenix. At this point she pulled herself up 
 short. To mix up the Phosnix and Nicodemus 
 might be profane. So she bestowed her best 
 attention on the remainder of the sermon. 
 
 That afternoon he took her through th° 
 Rectory — a great rambling Elizabethan h*H> 
 with nineteenth-century additions. She 
 lowed him meekly from room to room, fi. 
 with wonder at the beauty of her future hone. 
 The Canon had spent much money over his 
 collections — overmuch, some critics said — 
 and the house was a museum of art treasures. 
 Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furni- 
 ture met her in every apartment, at every turn 
 of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his 
 sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her 
 subdued, but gradually the new impressions 
 effaced it. He spoke as if all these things 
 were already hers — established, as it were, a 
 joint ownership. 
 
 " This is your own boudoir," he said, as 
 he led her into a pleasant room, overlook- 
 ing the lawn and commanding a view of the 
 158 
 
Past, Present, and Future 
 
 Abbey. " Do you think you will be happy 
 in it?" 
 
 " I must be," she said, gratefully. " Not 
 only because you have given me the most 
 beautiful room in the whole house, but because 
 you are so good to me in all things." 
 
 " Who could help being good to you, mj 
 child ? " said the Canon. 
 
 He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and 
 yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a shy moment 
 on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so 
 indulgent, and yet a man so greatly to be 
 venerated and honoured, that all her sweet 
 womanhood was moved. Standing, too, in 
 this room that was to be her own, she felt 
 the future melt into the present. Her hand 
 slipped timidly through his arm. 
 
 " I shall never know why you want me," 
 she said, in a low voice, " but I pray God I 
 may be a good and loving and obedient wife to 
 you." 
 
 " Amen, dear," said the Canon, kissing her. 
 
 15* 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 COUNSELS OF PERFECTION 
 
 So Yvonne was married, and for six months 
 was completely happy. Fulminster and the 
 county entertained her, and she entertained 
 Fulminster and the county. Her husband 
 petted her and relieved her of serious responsi- 
 bilities. She won the hearts of Mrs. Dirks 
 the housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and 
 Fletcher the coachman, three autocrats in 
 their respective spheres of influence — victories 
 whereby she controlled the menu, filled the 
 house with whatever flowers struck her fancy, 
 and had out the horses at the moment of her 
 caprice. Her quick wit soon obtained a grasp 
 upon domestic affairs and her headship in the 
 household was a practical fact which the Canon 
 proudly recognised. Her social duties she per- 
 formed with the tact born of simplicity. Mrs. 
 Winstanley went away raging after her first 
 dinner-party. She had expected a consoling 
 160 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 proof of incapacity and had witnessed a little 
 triumph of hostess-ship. 
 
 Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon 
 since the wedding-day, when they had started 
 upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes 
 and bluer skies and gorgeous pictures and mar- 
 ble palaces. After that, there had been the 
 excitement of home-coming, the fluttering 
 sweetness of taking possession, the bewildering 
 succession of fresh faces in her drawing-room, 
 the long drives to return calls, and to attend 
 parties in her honour. The new duties inter- 
 ested her. She revelled in an infants' class at 
 the Sunday school, which she instructed in a 
 theology undreamed of by the Fathers. She 
 sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in 
 dainty raiment to please her husband's eye. 
 In fact she made a study of his aesthetic tastes 
 from food to music, and delighted in gratifying 
 them. With feminine pliancy she strove to 
 adapt her moods to his. His face became a 
 book which she loved to read when they met 
 after a few hours' absence ; and, according to 
 what she read, she became demure, or gay, or 
 esslike. In her leisure hours she sang to 
 herself, read French novels, which she obtained 
 in unlimited supply from London, and sougnt 
 i* 161 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the society of Sophia Wilmington and hex 
 brother, who quickly constituted themselves 
 her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. 
 Often she sat idle and gave herself up to 
 dreamy contemplation of her beatitude. 
 
 In these moods comparisons would arise be- 
 tween her two marriages, and between the two 
 men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years 
 of her widowhood, revived in her memory. 
 Phases of present wedded relations brought 
 back vividly analogous phases in the past. 
 The contrast sometimes produced an emotion 
 that seemed too great for self-containment, and 
 she longed to open her heart to her husband. 
 But she dared not. Love might have broken 
 down barriers, but not the grateful, respectful 
 affection she bore the Canon. Besides, beyond 
 one little talk, two years ago, at the house of 
 Stephen's mother during her last illness, no 
 mention had been made between them of Ame- 
 dee Bazouge. Man-like, he preferred to dis- 
 miss the circumstance from his mind as un- 
 pleasant. But the woman found pleasure in 
 remembering, and in using the contrasts to 
 heighten her present happiness. 
 
 Thus for six months she had known no 
 trouble, and had laughed at her old tremulous 
 162 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 misgivings as to her capacity for filling her 
 present position. 
 
 Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as 
 they were sitting in the shadow of the old 
 Abbey, cast .across half the lawn, the Canon laid 
 down the review he was reading by the foot of 
 his chair, and, deliberately folding his gold 
 pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, 
 looked at her and said, "Yvonne." 
 
 She closed " Le Petit Bob " with a snap, and 
 became dutiful and smiling attention. 
 
 " I have something to say to you," he re- 
 marked gravely ; " something perhaps pain- 
 ful — about certain possible little changes in 
 our lives." 
 
 " Changes ? " echoed Yvonne blankly. 
 
 " Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some 
 months past. I think, dear, you ought to be 
 more serious, and give me greater help than you 
 have done hitherto. Do you follow me ? " 
 
 If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly 
 been transformed into a Sahara, and the golden 
 kburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar 
 of fire, she could not have been more bewil- 
 dered. But she felt a horrible pain, as from a 
 stab, and the tears started to her eyes. 
 
 % * No. Not at all — what is it ? " 
 163 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I don't wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. 
 I am only speaking from a sense of duty. 
 Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough." 
 
 " But what is it ? What is it ? " she repeated 
 piteously. "What have I done to displease 
 you ? " 
 
 He took up his parable, with crossed legs 
 and joined finger tips, and in a quiet, unemo- 
 tional voice catalogued her failings. She was 
 not sufficiently alive to the deeper responsibili- 
 ties of her position. Many parochial duties 
 that devolved upon the Rector's wife, she had 
 left undone. She took no pains to improve 
 her acquaintance with doctrinal and ecclesiasti- 
 cal affairs. 
 
 " I am not exaggerating," he said, " for you 
 did tell the Sunday-school children that St. 
 John the Baptist was present at the Crucifixion, 
 Yvonne, did n't you ? " 
 
 He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his 
 charges ; but Yvonne's face was fixed in tragic 
 dismay, and the tears were rolling down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 He rose and advanced to her with out- 
 stretched arms. She obeyed his suggestion 
 mechanically and allowed herself to stand in 
 his embrace. 
 
 164 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 " It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne/' 
 he said gently. "And you will think over 
 it, I know. You must n't be hurt, little 
 wife. ,, 
 
 But she was — to the depths of her heart. 
 " I did n't know you were not pleased with me," 
 she said with trembling lip. " I thought I was 
 doing my very best to make you happy." 
 
 " And you have, my child — very happy." 
 
 " Oh no — I have n't. I will try to do wha 
 you want, Everard. But I told you I was n't 
 fit for you — I can do nothing, nothing but 
 just sing a little. But I will try Everard. 
 Forgive me." 
 
 " Freely, freely, dearest," said the magnani- 
 mous man, patting her on the shoulder. 
 " There, there," he added, kissing her forehead. 
 " It pained me intensely to say what I did. 
 But if duties were always pleasant, it would be 
 a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes and 
 smile, Yvonne. And come and play my 
 accompaniment for a few minutes before 
 pinner." 
 
 He drew her arm within his and led her into 
 
 the house, through the open French window, 
 
 talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate 
 
 forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne's nature to 
 
 165 
 
Derelicts 
 
 show resentment. She fell outwardly into his 
 humour, and thanked him sweetly for his some- 
 what exaggerated attentions in arranging the 
 piano and music ; but as she played, the notes 
 became blurred. 
 
 "A little out there/' he said, standing behind 
 her, his violin under his chin. " Let us go 
 back four bars." 
 
 She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to 
 Veep back the tears that would come and ren- 
 der the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a 
 black note, as she was bending her head towards 
 the music-book. The Canon stopped short and 
 laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano. 
 
 " My dearest," he exclaimed, stooping over 
 her. "It is all over. Don't be unhappy. I 
 did not mean to be unkind to you. I am 
 afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so 
 tender and sensitive a nature." 
 
 He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat 
 and let her cry upon his shoulder. He had an 
 uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had 
 been brutal. A man must be as hard as 
 Mephistopheles not to experience this sensa- 
 tion the first time he makes a woman cry. 
 The second or third time he calls his attitude 
 firmness ; afterwards he characterises her con- 
 166 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 duct as unreasonable. A wise woman makes 
 the very most of the first tears of her married 
 life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. 
 She dried her eyes as fast as she could, and felt 
 ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed 
 them in eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing 
 that the Canon desired her to be her old self, 
 for that evening at any rate, did her best to 
 humour him. 
 
 After this, her life went on, not unhappily, 
 but unlifted by the buoyancy of the first six 
 months. Her illusions had been shattered. 
 The spontaneity of her actions was checked. 
 They became little tasks, whose excellence she 
 could not judge until the Canon had pro- 
 nounced upon them. She made prodigious 
 efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with suc- 
 cess. Others, such as attempts at parish organ- 
 isation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like Betsy 
 Jane in Artemus Ward's book, would not be 
 reorganised. The Canon intervened, but his 
 cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield. 
 In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. 
 If she had carried her own charming insouci- 
 ance into working homes, she would have won 
 all hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the 
 responsibilities of her position, she judged it 
 167 
 
Derelicts 
 
 her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put 
 on the serious dignity of the Rector's wife, 
 which fitted her as easily as a suit of armour. 
 As for theology, she read with a zeal only 
 equalled by her incapacity of appreciating the 
 drift of the science. To the end of her days 
 Yvonne could see no other difference between 
 a Churchman and a Dissenter, except that one 
 had a pretty service and the other a dull one. 
 So closely, however, did she pursue her stud- 
 ies that the Canon took pity on her, and came 
 back from London one day with " Gyp's " latest 
 production in his pocket. It would have done 
 an archbishop good to see the gleam of pleas- 
 ure in Yvonne's eyes. 
 
 Six more months passed, and Yvonne began 
 to weary of the strain of self-improvement. 
 The sterner side of the Canon's character 
 showed itself in a hundred little ways. Small 
 censurings became frequent, praise difficult to 
 obtain. With the Canon's gracious consent, she 
 despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who 
 had already paid her a visit in the spring. But 
 that was in the days of her happiness. 
 
 Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon 
 penetrated the situation. Yvonne had been 
 too loyal to complain. 
 1 68 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 " You 've just got to tell me all about it," she 
 said in her determined fashion. 
 
 It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon 
 as the Canon had gone down to his library. 
 
 " All about what, Dina ? " asked Yvonne. 
 
 " Oh, don't pretend not to know. You 
 were as happy as a bird when I was here last, 
 and now you don't open your mouth." 
 
 " I think I want a change," said Yvonne. 
 " I am getting too respectable. At first, you 
 see, everything was new, and now I have got 
 used to it. I think if I could run about London 
 by myself for a month, and sing at lots of con- 
 certs, it would do me good. And oh, Dina — 
 I should so much like to hear a man say 
 • damn ' again ! " 
 
 " Well, I 'm not a man, but V 11 say it for 
 you — damn, damn, damn. Now do you feel 
 better ? " 
 
 " Oh, you look so funny as you say it ! " 
 cried Yvonne, with a laugh. " I wish it was 
 something artistic and you could teach it to the 
 Canon." 
 
 " It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I 
 could teach the Canon a good many things. 
 First of all, what a treasure he has got — whick 
 he does n't seem quite aware of." 
 169 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "Oh, Dina, you mustn't say that," said 
 Yvonne, looking shocked. " He is all kind- 
 ness and indulgence — really, dear. If I feel 
 dull, it is because I am wicked and hanker 
 after frivolous things — Van, for instance, and 
 a comic song. Do you know you have n't 
 once spoken about Van ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't talk of Van," said Miss Vicary ; 
 " I am getting tired of him. He ,*ever knows 
 his mind three days together. If I was n't a 
 fool I would give him up for good and all." 
 
 " But why don't you marry and make an 
 end of it ? " asked Yvonne. " I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Ask Van. Don't ask me. There's some- 
 body else now. Elsie Carnegie, of all people." 
 
 " Poor Dina." 
 
 " Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break 
 her heart over Van's infidelities. I 'm quite 
 content as I am. Only I 'm a fool — there! 
 I 've never told you I was a fool before, 
 Yvonne. That's because you are so sedate 
 and respectable. I 'm getting to venerate 
 you." 
 
 " I should like to talk to him seriously 
 about it — for his good." 
 
 " Oh, heavens, my child, he 'd be falling in 
 170 
 
Counsels of Perfection 
 
 love with you again and having the whole 
 artillery of the Church about his ears ! " 
 
 Yvonne laughed gaily. The talk was doing 
 her good. Geraldine's forcible phraseology 
 was a tonic after the politer accents of Ful- 
 minster. They drifted away unconsciously 
 from the main subject upon which they had 
 started. Geraldine had many things to tell of 
 the doings in the musical world. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I was back for a little," cried 
 poor Yvonne. " Singing in a amateur way is 
 not like singing professionally, is it ? " 
 
 " I think you are better where you are," 
 replied Geraldine, seriously, " in spite of all 
 things. It is no use being discontented." 
 
 " Not a bit," sighed Yvonne. She was silent 
 for a little, and then she turned round to 
 Geraldine. 
 
 " I don't think you would do very well 
 married, Dina. You are too independent. A 
 woman has to give in so much, you know ; and 
 do so much pretending, which you could never 
 do." 
 
 " And why pretend ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. You have to — in lots 
 of things. I suppose we women were born for 
 it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, and 
 171 
 
Derelicts 
 
 they expect us to have the same, and we have n't, 
 Dina ; and yet they would be hurt and miser- 
 able if we told them so — so we have to 
 pretend." 
 
 Geraldine looked at her with an expression of 
 pain on her strong face, and then she bent 
 down — Yvonne was on a low stool by her side 
 < — and flung her arms about her. 
 
 " Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to 
 God you could have loved a man — and mar- 
 ried him ! That is happiness — no need of 
 pretending. I knew it once — years ago. It 
 only lasted a few months, for he died before we 
 announced our marriage — no one has ever 
 known. Only you, now, dear. Try and love 
 your husband, dear — give him your soul and 
 passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to 
 help you, dear. Then all the troubles will go. 
 Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently — they 
 say it is a woman's greatest curse. It is n't ; it 
 is the greatest blessing of God on her." 
 
 "You are speaking as men have spoken," 
 replied Yvonne, in a whisper, holding her 
 friend's hand tightly. " I never knew before 
 — but God will never bless me — like that." 
 
 172 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE OUTCAST COUSIN 
 
 The autumn hardened into winter and the 
 winter softened into spring, and the relations 
 between Yvonne and the Canon seemed to 
 follow the seasons' difference. He had learned 
 her limitations and no longer set her tasks 
 beyond her powers. 
 
 " You must not try to put a butterfly into 
 harness," said Mrs. Winstanley, who had grad- 
 ually been gaining lost influence. He had 
 called to consult her upon some parochial ques- 
 tion and the talk had turned upon Yvonne. 
 The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into 
 the habit of making confidences and regretting 
 them a moment afterwards. 
 
 " You do Yvonne injustice." 
 
 " I did once, I grant," she replied ; " but 
 now, as you see, I am pleading for her." 
 
 " Yvonne needs no advocate with me," said 
 the Canon, stiffly. 
 
 173 
 
Derelicts 
 
 « She may." 
 
 " What do you mean, Emmeline ? " 
 
 "If you don't understand her nature, you 
 may misinterpret her conduct. You see, Ever- 
 ard, she is young and light-natured — and so, 
 like seeks like. You may always count upon 
 me to keep things straight outside." 
 
 She had laid her hand upon his arm, and 
 spoke in her quiet, authoritative voice. Her 
 manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She 
 was eminently the woman of sense. Her refer- 
 ence was well understood by him, but being a 
 man accustomed to the broad issues of life, he 
 did not appreciate the delicate pleasure such a 
 conversation afforded her. 
 
 On this occasion, he went from her house 
 straight to the Rectory, and in the drawing- 
 room found young Evan Wilmington bidding 
 good-bye to Yvonne. Her sunniest smile 
 rested on the young fellow ; when the door 
 shut upon him, the after-glow of amusement 
 was still upon her face. The Canon felt an 
 absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been 
 infrequent of late, since he had abandoned his 
 scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne 
 had fallen from his conjugal ideal — the womar 
 who, as an impeccable consort and mother of chil- 
 
 174 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 dren was to lend added dignity to his days — his 
 feelings as regards her had been growing more 
 helplessly human. His conception of the dove- 
 iike innocence of her nature had suffered no 
 change. Her pure voice had ever been to him 
 the speech of a purer soul. It was no vulgar 
 jealousy that pained him ; but jealousy it was, 
 all the same. 
 
 He went to her and put his hands against 
 her cheeks and held up her face. 
 
 " Don't smile too much on young Evan," 
 he said. " It is not good for him. I want all 
 your best smiles for myself, sweetheart. ,, 
 
 " He has been making me laugh/' said 
 Yvonne. 
 
 " And I cannot ? " 
 
 " He is a silly boy and you are the venerable 
 Canon Chisely." 
 
 " That 's it," he said, rather bitterly, releas- 
 ing her. 
 
 Her expression changed. She caught him, 
 as he was turning away, by the lappels of his 
 coat. 
 
 " Are you serious, Everard ? You are ! 
 Forgive me if I have hurt you. I can't bear 
 to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. 
 Wilmington — really ? " 
 175 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed ot 
 his pettiness. 
 
 " See your friends as much as you like, my 
 child," he said, with a revulsion of feeling. 
 
 The matter was settled for the time being, 
 but thenceforward the even tenor of their life 
 was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. 
 Once he grew angry. "You have the same 
 smile for any man who speaks to you, Yvonne/* 
 
 She replied with gentle logic, " That ought 
 to prove that I like all equally." 
 
 " Your husband included." 
 
 She turned away wounded. " You have no 
 right to say that." 
 
 " Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne ? " 
 
 " Anything," she cried, facing him with 
 brightening eyes, " anything except that I do 
 not try with all my heart and soul to be a good 
 wife to you." 
 
 This time it was he who said " Forgive me." 
 
 Unconsciously her influence grew upon him 
 in his lighter moods, as he excluded her from 
 participation in his serious concerns. To win 
 from her a flash other than dutiful he would 
 humour any caprice. Yvonne was too shrewd 
 not to perceive this. His tenderness touched 
 her, saddened her a little. On her birthday he 
 176 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 gave her a pair of tiny ponies and a diminutive 
 phaeton — a perfect turn-out. He lived for a 
 week on the delight in her face when they were 
 brought round (an absolute surprise) to the 
 front door. Yet that evening she said, with 
 her little air of seriousness, after she had been 
 meditating for some time in silence, with puck- 
 ered brow : — 
 
 " I wonder if I am quite such a child as you 
 think me, Everard. I should like something 
 to happen to show you that I am a woman." 
 
 " Don't say that, dear," he replied, content- 
 edly, holding up his glass of port to the light 
 and peering into it — he was a specialist in 
 ports — "such a chance would probably be 
 some calamity." 
 
 Yvonne was not alone in noting the true 
 inwardness of the Canon's course of action. 
 Mrs. Winstanley did so, to her own chagrin. 
 The ponies were as distasteful to her as the 
 beast of the Apocalypse. She was with Lady 
 Santyre, in the latter' s barouche, when she first 
 saw them. Yvonne, aglow with the effort of 
 driving, was sending them down the Fulminster 
 Road at a rattling pace. She nodded brightly 
 as she passed, pointing to the ponies with her 
 whip. 
 
 12 177 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "How fond the dear Canon is of that little 
 woman," said Lady Santyre, her thin lips clos- 
 ing as if on an acidulated drop. 
 
 " Psha ! " said Mrs. Winstanley, with one of 
 her rare exhibitions of temper. "If he were a 
 few years older, it would be senile infatuation ! 
 She is beginning to curl him round her finger." 
 
 But there was one subject near to Yvonne's 
 heart on which the Canon was inflexible — 
 Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him 
 toward the black sheep, but in his gentlest 
 moods the mention of his cousin's name 
 turned him to adamant. He even resented 
 Yvonne's helpful friendship before her mar- 
 riage. On the afternoon that he had passed 
 Joyce on the stairs, he had spoken as strongly 
 to Yvonne as good taste permitted. Now that 
 he had authority over her, he forbade her to 
 hold further communication with the man who 
 had disgraced his name. Finally she aban- 
 doned her attempts at conciliation, but pity 
 prevailing over wifely obedience, she kept up 
 her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to 
 the Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, 
 gossipy letters now and then to the address she 
 had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck 
 for their ultimate delivery, but receiving very 
 
 178 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 few in return, for Joyce had often not the heart 
 to write. 
 
 She was reading, one day, his last letter, 
 many pages closely filled. It had come that 
 morning, under Miss Vicary's cover, according 
 to her request. The envelope lay on the table 
 in the centre of the room ; but she had taken 
 the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, 
 her favjurite place in summer, where she could 
 see the old abbey, and enjoy the scent of the 
 mignonette and syringa from the beds below. 
 It was the quiet afternoon hour, before tea, 
 when she generally read or idled or sang to 
 herself. She was at peace with all the world, 
 and her heart was full of pity for Joyce. 
 
 Yet it was the most hopeful of the four 
 letters she had received from him. The pre- 
 vious ones had told of struggles and privations 
 innumerable ; the aimless tramp from one 
 town to another in the search for more than 
 starvation wages ; the hopeless attempts to live 
 in mining camps, where unskilled labour was a 
 drug in the market ; sickness, and the dwind- 
 ling of his little capital. This one took up 
 the tale broken off some months before. 
 Noakes and himself had left the mines, had 
 wandered, sometimes alone, sometimes with 
 
 179 
 
Derelicts 
 
 other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he 
 had purchased with his last remaining pounds a 
 share in a small farm. It was a haven of rest. 
 But the country was unhealthy. The work 
 was hard. Noakes lay ill in bed ; medical 
 advice was a hundred and fifty miles away. 
 To cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a 
 novel on the life they had recently passed 
 through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes 
 to read during the day. He was writing it on 
 a bundle of yellow package-paper which had 
 remained over from the stock of a small " store " 
 once run by the chief owner of the farm. 
 
 He spoke of the comfort of her letters. 
 Four of them had just come to his hands at 
 once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, 
 who was even more friendless than himself. 
 Yvonne's heart was touched at the thought of 
 the poor man who never got a letter, and had 
 to extract vicarious comfort from his friend's. 
 She knew him quite well through Joyce's 
 description, and loved him for the quaint lov- 
 ableness that appeared in the narrative of their 
 joint fortunes. 
 
 "He shall have a letter all to himself," said 
 Yvonne aloud ; and she rose to put her idea 
 into execution. 
 
 1 80 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 But just as she was bringing her writing 
 materials to the window-seat, which was strewn 
 with the sheets of Joyce's letter, the Canon 
 came into the room. 
 
 " Can you give me some tea quickly, dear ? " 
 he said, ringing the bell. " I am called away 
 to Bickerton." 
 
 He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. 
 It had been a busy day and the weather was 
 hot. 
 
 " Would you like me to drive you over ? " 
 asked Yvonne. 
 
 " Dearly," said the Canon. He leaned 
 back, and stretched out his hand in a gesture 
 of contented invitation. 
 
 "It won't be taking you from your corre- 
 spondence ? You seem up to your eyes in 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, it can wait," said Yvonne, smiling 
 down upon him as he held her hand. 
 
 Soon the servant brought the tea, ancl 
 Yvonne established herself over the tea-cups. 
 The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the 
 books and odds and ends on the table by his 
 side. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise. He had become aware of the foreign 
 envelope, with the Cape Colony stamp and its 
 181 
 
Derelicts 
 
 address to " Mrs. Chisely, care of Miss Vicary." 
 He also recognised Joyce's handwriting which 
 happened to be singularly striking in character. 
 His brow grew dark. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, Yvonne ? " 
 
 " A letter from Stephen," she replied with a 
 sudden qualm. 
 
 " And sent to you clandestinely. You have 
 been corresponding with him secretly in defi- 
 ance of my express desire. How dared you 
 do it?" 
 
 He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her 
 all the hardness of a stern face. She had never 
 seen him angered like this before. She was 
 frightened, but she steadied herself and looked 
 him in the face. 
 
 " I could n't help it, Everard," she said, 
 gently. " The poor fellow regards me as his 
 only friend. I was forced to disobey you." 
 
 " That poor fellow has been guilty of mean 
 robbery. He has herded with ruffians in a 
 common gaol. He has dragged an old hon- 
 oured name through the mire. For a man like 
 that — once a knave always a knave. I don't 
 choose to have my wife keeping up friendly 
 relations with an outcast member of my family. 
 i am deeply offended with you — I pass over 
 182 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 the underhand nature of the correspondence, 
 which in itself deserves reprobation." 
 
 " I believe in Stephen/' replied Yvonne, 
 growing very white. "He has been punished 
 a thousand times over. He will Jive an hon- 
 ourable man to the end of his life. And if 
 you read how he speaks of the few silly letters 
 I have written him — his joy and gratitude — 
 you would not wish to deprive him of them." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you are deliber- 
 ately setting yourself in opposition to my 
 wishes, Yvonne ? " asked the Canon in angry 
 surprise. 
 
 Yvonne was in great distress. She could 
 not defy him openly, and yet she knew that 
 no power on earth would prevent her from do- 
 ing Joyce her little deeds of mercy. 
 
 She looked at him piteously for a moment, 
 and then sank by his chair and clasped his 
 knees. " I can't do what you want, Everard," 
 she cried. "We were such friends in days 
 past — And when I met him again, he looked 
 so broken and lonely — I could n't in my 
 heart let him go — and having given him my 
 friendship, I can't be so cruel as to take it from 
 him now. I can't feel what you do about the 
 disgrace. I have n't the capacity perhaps. 
 183 
 
Derelicts 
 
 And I promised his dead mother to be kind to 
 him. I did indeed, Everard — and a promise 
 like that I must keep." 
 
 He put her not unkindly from him and, 
 rising to his feet, took two or three turns about 
 the room. Stopping, he said : — 
 
 " Why did you not tell me of this promise 
 before ? " 
 
 " I was afraid to vex you," said Yvonne. 
 
 " You have vexed me much more by deceiv- 
 ing me," he replied. 
 
 But there the matter had to end. He could 
 not bid her break her word, nor would he 
 allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry 
 that women's ante-nuptial promises were an- 
 nulled by marriage. To regain his good graces, 
 however, Yvonne pledged herself never to in- 
 tercede with him on Joyce's behalf in the 
 future — in fact to preserve an absolute silence 
 concerning the black sheep and his doings. 
 
 This settled, she drove him over to Bicker- 
 ton in her pony carriage. And the even tenor 
 of her life went on. 
 
 It was many weeks before the letters arrived 
 at the farm in South Africa. The monthly 
 ox-waggons that came from the nearest post- 
 184 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 town brought them, together with the usual 
 load of farm and household requisites, tinned 
 provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce 
 had stood by the prickly-pear hedge on the rise 
 behind the house, looking over the dreary 
 plain, in wistful watch for the specks on 
 the horizon that alone connected him with 
 civilisation. They arrived at night — a blus- 
 tering August night, with frost in the air, 
 and a cloudless sky in which the Southern 
 Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload 
 and outspan the teams, he rushed into the 
 house with the meagre post-bundle. It con- 
 tained a few colonial newspapers, some letters 
 for Wilson, the farmer who was away, and the 
 two letters from Fulminster. The rough table, 
 on which he sorted them by the light of a 
 flaring chimneyless lamp, was drawn up to 
 the bedside of Noakes. 
 
 " One for you, old man," said Joyce. 
 
 " For me ? " 
 
 Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, 
 and clutched the undreamed of prize. 
 
 " From Yvonne. It *s to cheer you up, old 
 chap, I expect. It *s just like her, you know." 
 
 Joyce ran through^ his letter rapidly and 
 went out to superintend the unloading. But 
 185 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed 
 and pored over Yvonne's simple lines till the 
 tears came into his eyes. 
 
 When all was settled, the stores taken in, 
 the teams secured, the natives who had driven 
 them established in the huts, and finally the 
 Englishman in charge provided with food and 
 whisky and sent to sleep, Joyce sat down by 
 his friend's side and gave himself up to the 
 greatest pleasure his life then held. The wind 
 howled outside, and the draught swept in 
 through the cracks on the doors, and the ill- 
 fitting windows, and up the rude chimney be- 
 neath which a fire was smouldering. Noakes 
 coughed incessantly. The atmosphere was 
 tainted with the smell of the lamp, the thin 
 smoke from the fuel, the piles of sacking 
 and mealy-bags that lay in corners of the 
 room, and the strips of bultong or dried beef 
 hanging in the gloom of the rafters. The 
 room itself, occupying nearly the whole area of 
 the ground-floor of the rudely built wooden 
 house, was cheerless in aspect. The table, two 
 or three wooden chairs, some shelves holding 
 cooking utensils and odds and ends of crock- 
 ery, a litter of stores and boxes, a frameless 
 dirty oleograph of the bubble-blowing boy, a 
 
 1 86 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 churchman's almanac, two years old, against the 
 wall, and Noakes's sack bed — that was all the 
 room contained. In a corner was a ladder 
 leading to the loft, where Joyce and the farmer 
 slept, and whence now came the muffled sounds 
 of the snoring of the English driver. But for 
 a few moments Joyce forgot the cheerless 
 surroundings. 
 
 He sat late with Noakes, reading the letters 
 aloud and talking of Yvonne. At last, after a 
 short silence, Noakes raised himself on his 
 elbow and gazed earnestly at his friend. He 
 was very gaunt and wasted — 
 
 " That 's the only tender thing a woman has 
 ever done for me," he said. " No," he added 
 in reply to Joyce's questioning look, " my wife 
 was never tender. God knows why she mar- 
 ried me." 
 
 " We '11 make our fortunes and go back, and 
 you shall know her," said Joyce. 
 
 " No. I shall never go back. I shall 
 never get half a mile beyond this door again." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Joyce. " You '11 pull 
 round when the spring comes." 
 
 " I have performed my allotted task. It was 
 a severe portion and it has finished me off." 
 
 a Look here, old man," cried Joyce, " for 
 187 
 
Derelicts 
 
 God's sake don't talk like that. I can't live 
 in this accursed place by myself. You 've 
 been broken down by our hard times — but 
 you '11 get over it all, with this long rest." 
 
 " I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I 
 don't mind going, you know. And then you '11 
 be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the 
 ground — I am of no use — I never have been 
 of any use — I have been carrying water in a 
 sieve all my life." 
 
 He began to cough. Joyce put his arm 
 around him for support, and tended him 
 gently. 
 
 " You have a lot to do, old man," he said 
 soon after. " The foolscap has come, and a 
 great jar of ink, and you can start copying out 
 the manuscript to-morrow." 
 
 " Ah yes, I can do that," said Noakes. 
 
 " Now go to sleep. I '11 sit by you, if you 
 like," said Joyce. 
 
 He moved the lamp to a ledge behind 
 Noakes' s head, and sat down near by, with the 
 budget of newspapers. Noakes composed 
 himself to sleep. At last he spoke, without 
 turning round. 
 
 "Joyce." . 
 
 " Yes, old man." 
 
 1 88 
 
The Outcast Cousin 
 
 " Make me a promise." 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 " Bury that dear lady's letter with me." 
 
 " Will it make you happy to promise ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then I promise," said Joyce, humouring 
 him. " Now I 'm not going to talk to you 
 any more." 
 
 A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce 
 that he slept. The newspapers fell from 
 Joyce's hand, and he put his elbows on his 
 knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. 
 Noakes spoke truly. There was little chance 
 of recovery. He would be left alone again 
 soon. It would be very comfortless. The 
 poor wreck who was dragging out his last 
 days upon that wretched bed had been an un- 
 speakable solace to him. Without his woman- 
 like devotion he would have died of fever six 
 months back on the Arato goldfield. Without 
 the influence of his calm fatalism, he would 
 have given up heart long ago. Without his 
 steadfast purity of soul, he would have gone 
 recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing 
 him was a great pang. 
 
 He himself, too, was far from strong. The 
 climate, the hard manual labour for which he 
 
 i8g 
 
Derelicts 
 
 was physically unfit were telling upon him 
 heavily. He yearned for home, for civilised 
 life, for the lost heritage of honour. Yvonne's 
 *etter, telling of the little commonplaces of the 
 lost sweet life of decent living, had revived the 
 ever dormant longing. He began to dream of 
 her, of that last day he had seen her, of her 
 voice singing Gounod's serenade. 
 
 It was difficult to picture her as married to 
 his cousin Everard, whom, in the days of his 
 vanity, he had despised as a prig and now 
 dreaded as a scornful benefactor. It was a 
 strange mating. And yet she seemed happy 
 and unchanged. 
 
 The wind blustered outside. The cold 
 draught whistled through the room. Joyce 
 rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner 
 for a couple of sacks, which he threw over the 
 sleeping man, and, after having wistfully read 
 Yvonne's letter once more, ascended the ladder 
 to the loft, where the shapeless mattress of 
 dried grass and sacking awaited him. 
 
 190 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 HISTOIRE DE REVENANT 
 
 Ostend is a magnificent white Kursaal on the 
 Belgian coast. Certain requisites are attached 
 to it in the way of great hotels and villas along 
 a tiled digue, and innumerable bathing-machines 
 on the sands below. There is an old town, it 
 is true, somewhere behind it, with quaint nar- 
 row streets, a Place d'Armes dotted round with 
 cafes, and a thronged market-square ; there is 
 also a bustling port and a fishing population. 
 But the Ostend of practical life begins and 
 ends at the Kursaal. Were it to perish during 
 a night, the following day would see the exodus 
 of twenty thousand visitors. The vast glass 
 rotunda can hold thousands. Within its pre- 
 cincts you can do anything in reason and out 
 of reason. You can knit all day long like 
 Penelope, or you can go among the Sirens with 
 or without the precautions of Ulysses. You 
 can consume anything from a biscuit to a ten- 
 191 
 
Derelicts 
 
 course dinner. You can play dominoes at 
 centime points or roulette with a forty-franc 
 minimum. You can listen to music, you can 
 dance, you can go to sleep. You can write 
 letters, send telegrams, and open a savings- 
 bank account. By moving to one side or the 
 other of a glass screen you can sit in the warm 
 sunshine or in the keen sea wind. You can 
 study the fashions of Europe from St. Peters- 
 burg to Dublin, and if you are a woman, you 
 can wear the most sumptuous garments Provi- 
 dence has deigned to bestow on you. And 
 lastly, if you are looking for a place where you 
 will be sure to find the very last person in the 
 world you desire to see, you will meet with 
 every success at the Kursaal of Ostend. 
 
 Such was Mrs. Winstanley's passing thought 
 one day. She was there with Sophia and Evan 
 Wilmington. It was always a great pleasure, 
 she used to say, to have young people about 
 her; and very naturally, since young people 
 can be particularly useful in strange places to a 
 middle-aged lady. The brother and sister 
 fetched and carried for her all day long, which 
 was very nice and suitable, and Mrs. Winstan- 
 ley was in her most affable mood. On the 
 day in question, however, she saw, to her as- 
 192 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 tonishment and annoyance, Canon Chisely and 
 Yvonne making their way towards her through 
 the crowded lines of tables. 
 
 " Goodr gracious, Everard ! " she said as 
 they came up. " How did you find your 
 way here? I thought you were going to 
 Switzerland." 
 
 " So we are," replied the Canon. " We 
 have broken our journey. And as forgetting 
 here, we took the boat from Dover and then 
 walked." 
 
 " The frivolity of the place is infecting you 
 already, Canon," cried Sophia, with a laugh. 
 " I hope you are going to stay a long time." 
 
 " Oh, not too long," said Yvonne. " It 
 would n't be fair to the Canon, who needs 
 some mountain air. This is just a little treat 
 all for me." 
 
 She glanced at him affectionately as she 
 spoke. It was good of him to tarry for her 
 sake in this Vanity Fair of a place. 
 
 " We were going by Calais, as you know," 
 said the Canon, explanatively to Mrs. Win- 
 stanley. " We only changed our minds a day 
 or two ago — we thought it would be a little 
 surprise for you." 
 
 " Of course it is — a delightful one — to see 
 J 3 193 
 
Derelicts 
 
 dear Yvonne and yourself. Where are you 
 staying ? " 
 
 " At the Ocean," said the Canon, " and you 
 must all come and dine with us this evening. ,, 
 
 "And will you come to the bal here after- 
 ward ? " asked Sophia. " Evan has run across 
 some college friends — or won't you think it 
 proper ?*' 
 
 " I am going to wear the whole suit of mot- 
 ley while I am here," replied the Canon gaily. 
 
 He kept his word, not being a man of half 
 measures. No check should be placed on 
 Yvonne's enjoyment. She had been moping, 
 as far as Yvonne could mope, during the latter 
 dullness of Fulminster ; now she expanded like 
 a flower to the gaiety around her. The 
 Canon found an aesthetic pleasure in watching 
 her happiness. Her expressions of thanks too 
 were charmingly conveyed. Since that unfor- 
 tunate attempt on his part, over a twelvemonth 
 back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of 
 her position, she had never exhibited toward 
 him such spontaneous feeling. He let her 
 smile upon whom she would, without a twinge 
 of jealousy. 
 
 Yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. She danced 
 and jested with the young men ; she chattered 
 194 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 in French to her table d'hote neighbours, de- 
 lighted to speak her mother's tongue again ; 
 she staked two-franc pieces on the public table, 
 and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room 
 into the great hall where the Canon was sitting 
 with Mrs. Winstanley, and poured a great mass 
 of silver on to the table — as much as her 
 two small hands joined could carry. 
 
 " I thought gambling was against your prin- 
 ciples, Everard," said Mrs. Winstanley, after 
 Yvonne had gone again. 
 
 " I am sacrificing them for my wife's happi- 
 ness, Emmeline," he replied, with a touch of 
 irony. 
 
 " Yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. 
 She is such a child." 
 
 " I wish we all had something of her nature," 
 said the Canon. 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley noted the snub. She was 
 treasuring up many resentments against Yvonne. 
 In her heart she considered herself a long-suf- 
 fering woman. 
 
 " You seem to enjoy it too, Everard," said 
 Yvonne to him that evening. They were sit- 
 ting near the entrance watching the smartly- 
 dressed people. " And I am so glad to be 
 alone with you." 
 
 195 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing 
 off his dignity, entered into the frivolous spirit 
 of the place. Yvonne forgot the restraint she 
 had always put upon her tongue when talking 
 to him. She chattered about everything, hold- 
 ing her face near him, so as to be heard through 
 the hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal 
 shuffling of passing feet, and the crash of the 
 orchestra in the far gallery. 
 
 " It is a Revue des Deux Mondes" she said, 
 looking rapidly around her, with bright eyes. 
 
 " How ? " asked the Canon. 
 
 "The beau and the demi" she replied, 
 wickedly. She shook his knee. " Oh, do 
 look at that woman ! what does she think a 
 man can see in her ! " 
 
 " Powder," answered the Canon. " She has 
 been using her puff too freely." 
 
 " She has been putting it on with a muff" 
 cried Yvonne. 
 
 He laughed. Yvonne had such a triumphant 
 air in delivering herself of little witticisms. 
 
 A magnificently dressed woman, in a great 
 feathered hat and low-dress, with diamonds 
 gleaming at her neck, passed by. cc You are 
 right, I fear, about the two worlds," said the 
 Canon. 
 
 196 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 " Are n't there crowds of them ? I like to 
 look at them because they wear such beautiful 
 things. And they fit so. And then to rub 
 shoulders with them makes one feel so de- 
 lightfully wicked. You know, I knew a girl 
 once — she went in for that life of her own 
 accord and she was awfully happy. Really. 
 Is n't it odd ? " 
 
 " My dear Yvonne ! " said the Canon, some- 
 what shocked, " I sincerely trust you did not 
 continue the acquaintance, afterwards." 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied, sagely. " It would 
 not have done for me at all. A lone woman 
 can't be too careful. But I used to hear about 
 her from my dressmaker." 
 
 Her point of view was not exactly the 
 Canon's. But further discussion was stopped 
 by the arrival of the Wilmingtons, who carried 
 off Yvonne to the dancing-room. The Canon, 
 drawing the line at his own appearance there, 
 strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish 
 the evening over a book. 
 
 Two mornings afterwards Yvonne was walk- 
 ing by herself along the digue. They were to 
 leave for Switzerland the next day, and she 
 determined to make the most of her remaining 
 time. Sophia Wilmington, for whom she had 
 197 
 
Derelicts 
 
 called, had already gone out. The Canon, who 
 was engaged over his correspondence, she was 
 to meet later at the Kursaal. It was a lovely 
 morning. The line of white hotels, with their 
 al fresco breakfast tables spread temptingly on 
 the terraces, gleamed in the sun. The digue 
 was bright with summer dresses. The sands 
 below alive with tennis players, children making 
 sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and 
 horses moving among the bathing-machines. 
 Yvonne tripped along with careless tread. Her 
 heart was in harmony with the brightness and 
 movement and the glint of the sun on the sea. 
 Once a man, meeting her smiling glance, hesi- 
 tated as if to speak to her, but seeing that the 
 smile was addressed to the happy world in 
 general, he passed on his way. It was easy to 
 kill time. She went down the Rue Flammande 
 and looked at the shops. The jewelry and the 
 models of Paris dresses delighted her. The 
 display of sweets at Nopenny's allured her 
 within. When she returned to the digue, it 
 was time to seek the Canon at the Kursaal. 
 
 The liveried attendants lifted-their hats as 
 she ran up the steps and passed the barrier. 
 She gave them a smiling " bonjour" Neither 
 the Canon nor any of the friends being visible 
 
 198 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 on the verandah, she entered the great hall, 
 where the morning instrumental concert was 
 going on. She scanned the talking, laughing 
 crowd as she passed through. Many eyes 
 followed her. For Yvonne, when happy, was 
 sweet to look upon. She was turning back to 
 retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started 
 up from a group of three who were playing 
 cards and drinking absinthe at a small table, 
 and placed himself before her. 
 
 " Tiens I cest Yvonne I " 
 
 She stared at him with dilated eyes and 
 parted lips and uttered a little gasping cry. 
 Seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she 
 was going to faint, the man put out his arm. 
 But Yvonne was mistress of herself. 
 
 " Allons d y ici" she whispered, turning a ter- 
 rified glance around. 
 
 The man raised his hat to his companions 
 and signed to her to come. He was a hand- 
 some, careless, dissipated-looking fellow, with 
 curly hair and a twirled black moustache ; 
 short and slightly made. He wore a Tyrolese 
 hat and a vc y low turned-down collar and a 
 great silk bow outside his waistcoat. There 
 was a devil-may-care charm in his swagger as 
 he walked — also an indefinable touch of 
 199 
 
Derelicts 
 
 vulgarity ; the type of the cabotin in easy 
 circumstances. 
 
 Yvonne, more dead than alive, followed him 
 through the deserted salle des jeux on to the 
 quiet bit of verandah, and sank into a chair 
 that he offered. She looked at him, still white 
 to the lips. 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " Yes," he said laughingly, " why not ? It 
 is not astonishing." 
 
 " But I thought you dead ! " gasped Yvonne, 
 trembling. 
 
 " A la bonne heure ! And I seem a ghost. 
 Oh, I am solid. Pinch me. But how did 
 you come to learn ? Ah ! I remember it was 
 given out in Paris. A canard. It was in the 
 hospital — paralysis, ma chere. See, I can only 
 just move my arm now. Cetait la verte, cette 
 s aerie verte — " 
 
 " Absinthe ? " asked Yvonne, almost me- 
 chanically. 
 
 He nodded, went through the motions of 
 preparing the drink, and laughed. 
 
 " I had a touch lately," he went on. " That 
 was the second. The third I shall be prrrt — 
 Hambe! They tell me to give it up. Never 
 in life." 
 
 200 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 "But if it will kill you?" 
 
 " Bah. What do I care ? When one lives, 
 one amuses oneself. And I have well amused 
 myself, eh, Yvonne ? For the rest, je m 'en 
 fiche ! " 
 
 He went on talking with airy cynicism. 
 To Yvonne it seemed some horrible dream. 
 The husband she had looked upon as dead 
 was before her, gay, mocking, just as she had 
 known him of old. And he greeted her after 
 all these years with the same lightness as he 
 had bidden her farewell. 
 
 "Et tot, Yvonne? " said he at length, "p* 
 roule toujour s ? You look as if you were brew- 
 ing money. Ravishing costume. Crepon — not 
 twenty-five centimes a yard ! A hat that 
 looks like the Rue de la Paix ! Gants de 
 reine et petites bottines de duchesse ! You must 
 be doing golden business. But speak, petite, 
 since I assure you I am not a ghost ! " 
 
 Yvonne forced a faint smile. She tried to 
 answer him, but her heart was thumping vio- 
 lently and a lump rose in her throat. 
 
 " I am doing very well, Amedee," she said. 
 
 The dreadfulness of her position came over 
 ler. She felt sick and faint. What was 
 going to happen ? For some moments she 
 201 
 
Derelicts 
 
 did not hear him as he spoke. At last percep- 
 tion returned. 
 
 " And you are pretty," Amedee Bazouge 
 was saying. " Maisjolie a croquer — prettier than 
 you ever were. And I — I am going down 
 the hill at the gallop. Tiens, Yvonne. Let 
 us celebrate this meeting. Come and see me 
 safe to the bottom. It won't be long. I 
 have money. I am always bon enfant. Let 
 us remarry. From to-day. Ce serait rigolo ! 
 And I will love you — mais 'enormement ! " 
 
 " But I am already married ! " cried Yvonne. 
 
 " Thinking me dead ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He looked at her for a few seconds, then 
 slapped his thigh and, rising from his chair, 
 bent himself double and gave vent to a roar 
 of laughter. The tears stood in Yvonne's 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh, but it 's comic. You don't find it so ? " 
 
 He leant back against the railings and 
 laughed again in genuine merriment. 
 
 " Why, it 's all the more reason to come back 
 to me. fa y met du sal'e. Have you any 
 children?" 
 
 Yvonne shook her head. 
 
 " Eh bien ! " he exclaimed, triumphantly, 
 202 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 stepping towards her with outstretched hands. 
 But she shrank from him, outraged and be- 
 wildered. 
 
 " Never, never ! " she cried. " Go away. 
 Have pity on me, for God's sake ! " 
 
 Amedee Bazouge shrugged his shoulders 
 carelessly. 
 
 " It 's a comedy, not a tragedy, ma chere. If 
 you are happy, I am not going to be a spoil- 
 sport. It is not my way. Be tranquil with 
 your good fat Englishman — I bet he's an 
 Englishman — In two years — bah! I can 
 amuse myself always till then — my poor little 
 Yvonne. No wonder I frightened you." 
 
 The affair seemed to cause him intense 
 amusement. A ray of light appeared to 
 Yvonne. 
 
 " You won't interfere with me at all, Amedee 
 — not claim anything ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid. Des ce moment je vais 
 me reflanquer au sapin ! I shall be as dead as 
 dead can be for you. Suis pas mechant, va ! " 
 
 "Thank you," said Yvonne. "You were 
 always kind-hearted, Amedee — oh, it was a 
 horrible mistake — it can't be altered. You 
 see that I am helpless." 
 
 "Why, my child," said he, seating himself 
 203 
 
Derelicts 
 
 again, " I keep on telling you it is a farce — 
 like all the rest of life. I only laugh. And 
 now let us talk a little before I pop into the 
 coffin again. What is the name of the thrice 
 happy being ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me, I beg you," said Yvonne 
 shivering. " It is all so painful. Tell me 
 about yourself — your voice — Is it still in 
 good condition ? " 
 
 "Never better. I am singing here this 
 afternoon. ,, 
 
 " In the Kursaal ? " 
 
 " Why, yes. That 's why I am here. Oh, 
 ca marche — pas encore par alys'ee, celle-la. Come 
 and hear me. Et ton petit organe a toi ? " 
 
 "I am out of practice. I have given up 
 the profession." 
 
 " Ah, it 's a pity. You had such an exqui- 
 site little voice. I regretted it after we parted. 
 Two or three times it nearly brought me back 
 to you — foi a" artiste ! " 
 
 " I think I must go," said Yvonne after a 
 little. " I am leaving Ostend to-morrow and 
 I shall not see you again. You don't think 
 I am treating you unkindly, Amedee ? " 
 
 He laughed in his bantering way and lit a 
 cigarette. 
 
 204 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 "On the contrary, cher ange. It is very 
 good of you to talk to a poor ghost. And 
 you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint 
 with its harp out of tune." 
 
 She rose, anxious to leave him and escape 
 into solitude, where she could think. She 
 still trembled with agitation. In the little 
 cool park, on the other side of the square be- 
 low, she could be by herself. She dreaded 
 meeting the Canon yet awhile. 
 
 " Do give up that vile absinthe," she said, 
 as a parting softness. 
 
 " It is the only consoler that remains to me 
 — sad widower." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, Amedee." 
 
 " Ah — not yet. Since you are the wife of 
 
 somebody else, I am dying to make love to 
 
 >> 
 you. 
 
 He held her by the wrist, laughing at her. 
 But at that moment Yvonne caught sight of 
 the Canon and Mrs. Winstanley, entering 
 upon the terrace. She wrenched her arm 
 away. 
 
 " There is my husband." 
 
 " Norn de Dieu ! " cried Bazouge, stifling a 
 guffaw before the austere decorum of the 
 English churchman. <c §a ? Oh, my poor 
 205 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Yvonne ! " She shook hands rapidly with 
 him and turned away. He bowed gracefully, 
 including the new-comers in his salute. The 
 Canon responded severely. Mrs. Winstanley 
 stared at him through her tortoise-shell 
 lorgnette. 
 
 " We have been looking all over the place 
 for you," said the Canon, as they passed 
 through the window into the salle des jeux, 
 leaving Bazouge in the corner of the verandah. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Yvonne penitently. 
 
 " And who was that rakish-looking little 
 Frenchman you were talking to ? " 
 
 " An old friend — I used to know him," 
 said Yvonne, struggling with her agitation. 
 " A friend of my first husband — I had to 
 speak to him — we went there to be quiet. I 
 could n't help it, Everard, really I could n't." 
 
 " My dear child," said the Canon, kindly, 
 " I was not scolding you — though he did look 
 rather undesirable." 
 
 " I suppose you had to mix with all kinds 
 of odd Bohemian people in your professional 
 days ? " said Mrs. Winstanley. 
 
 " Of course," faltered Yvonne. 
 
 They went through the great hall. At the 
 door they parted with Mrs. Winstanley, who 
 206 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 was waiting for the Wilmingtons. " We will 
 call for you on our way to the concert this 
 afternoon," said the Canon. 
 
 " Thanks/' said Mrs. Winstanley, and then, 
 suddenly looking at Yvonne — 
 
 " Mercy, my dear ! How white you are ! " 
 
 " There 's nothing the matter with me," said 
 Yvonne, trying to smile. 
 
 " It 's past our dtjeuner hour," said the 
 Canon, briskly. " You want some food." 
 
 "j Perhaps I do," said Yvonne. 
 
 She went with the Canon on to the digue, 
 and walked along the shady side, by the hotels, 
 past the gay terraces thronged with lunching 
 guests. But all the glamour had gone from 
 the place. An hour had changed it. And 
 that hour seemed a black abyss separating her 
 from happiness. 
 
 An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, 
 grave man who walked by her side as her hus- 
 band. Now what was he to her ? She shrank 
 from the thought, terrified, and came nearer to 
 him, touching the flying skirt of his coat as 
 if to take strength from him. 
 
 They entered the crowded dining-room, 
 where the maitre d 'hotel had reserved them a 
 table. She struggled bravely through part of 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the meal, strove to keep up a conversation. 
 But the strain was too great. Another five 
 minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. 
 She rose, with an excuse to the Canon, and 
 escaped to her room. 
 
 There she flung herself down on the bed 
 and buried her face in the cool pillows. It 
 ^yas a relief to be alone with her fright and 
 dismay. She strove to think, but her head 
 was in a whirl. The incidents of the late 
 scene came luridly before her mind, and she 
 shivered with revulsion. A rough hand had 
 been laid on the butterfly and brushed the 
 dust fj-om its wings. 
 
 The Canon came later to her room, kindly 
 solicitous. Was she ill ? Would she like to 
 see a medical man ? Should he sit with her ? 
 She clasped his hand impulsively and kissed 
 it. 
 
 " You are too good to me. I am not worth 
 it. I am not ill. It was the sun, I think. 
 Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and 
 I shall be better." 
 
 Surprised and touched by her action, he 
 bent down and kissed her. 
 
 ".My poor little wife." 
 
 He stepped to the window and pulled the 
 208 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 curtain to shield her eyes from the glare, and 
 promising to order some tea to be brought upr*j 
 later, he went out. 
 
 The kiss, the term, and the little act of 
 thoughtfulness comforted her, gave her a sense 
 of protection. She had been so bruised and 
 frightened. Now she could think a little. 
 Should she tell Everard? Then she broke 
 down again and began to cry silently in a great 
 soothing pity for herself. 
 
 " It would only make him unhappy," she 
 moaned. " Why should I tell him ? " 
 
 She grew calmer. If Amedee would only 
 keep his promise and leave her free, there was 
 really nothing to fret about. She reassured 
 herself with his words. Through all his failings 
 toward her he had ever been " bon enfant." 
 There was no danger. 
 
 Suddenly a thought came that made her 
 spring from her bed in dismay. The concert. 
 She had forgotten that Amedee was singing 
 there. Everard was going. He would see the 
 name on the programme, " Amedee Bazouge." 
 There could not be two tenors of that name in 
 Europe. Everard must be kept away at all 
 costs. 
 
 She rushed from the room and down the 
 H 209 
 
Derelicts 
 
 stairs, in terrible anxiety lest he should have 
 already left the hotel. To her intense relief, 
 she saw him sitting in one of the cane chairs in 
 the vestibule smoking his after-lunch cigar. 
 He threw it away as he caught sight of her at 
 the head of the stairs, breathless, and holding 
 the balusters, and went up to meet her. 
 
 " My poor child," said he in an anxious 
 tone. "What is the matter?" 
 
 cc Oh, Everard — I don't want any more to 
 be left alone. Don't think me silly and cow- 
 ardly. I am afraid of all kinds of things." 
 
 " Of course I '11 come and sit with you a 
 little," he replied kindly. 
 
 They entered her room together. Yvonne 
 lay down. Her head was splitting with nerv- 
 ous headache. The Canon tended her in his 
 grave way and sat down by the window with a 
 book. Yvonne felt very guilty, but yet com- 
 forted by his presence. At the end of an hour, 
 he looked at his watch and rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 " Are you easier now ? " 
 
 " You are not going to the Kursaal, Everard?" 
 
 " I am afraid Emmeline is expecting me." 
 
 She signed to him to approach, and put her 
 arms round his neck. 
 
 210 
 
Histoire de Revenant 
 
 u Don't go. Send her an excuse — and take 
 me for a drive. It would do me good, and I 
 should so love to be alone with you." 
 
 It was the very first time in her life that 
 Yvonne had consciously cajoled a man. Her 
 face flushed hot with misgivings. It was with 
 a mixture of her sex's shame and triumph that 
 she heard him say. 
 
 " Whatever you like, dear. It is still your 
 holiday." 
 
 211 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 But the best laid schemes of Yvonnes and 
 men often come to nothing. While she was 
 devising, on her drive along the coast, a plan 
 for spending a quiet dangerless evening at the 
 hotel, Mrs. Winstanley was sitting in soli- 
 tary dignity at the concert, nursing her wrath 
 over Professor Drummond's " Natural Law 
 in the Spiritual world," a book which she often 
 perused when she wished to accentuate the 
 rigorous attitude of her mind. 
 
 Yvonne had reckoned without Mrs. Win- 
 stanley. Otherwise she would have offered 
 her a seat in the carriage. As it was, Mrs. 
 Winstanley felt more resentful than ever. 
 Under the impression that the Canon was to 
 accompany her to the Kursaal, she had gra- 
 ciously dispensed with the escort of the Wil- 
 mingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races 
 at the Velodrome. She was left in the lurch. 
 212 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 To dislike this is human. To wrap oneself up 
 in one's sore dignity is more human still, and 
 there was much humanity that lurked, unsus- 
 pected by herself, in Mrs. Winstanley's bosom. 
 It asserted itself, further, in certain curiosities. 
 She had seen that morning what had escaped 
 the Canons notice — the stranger's grasp on 
 Yvonne's arm and the insolent admiration on 
 his face. This fact, coupled with Yvonne's 
 agitation, had put her upon the track of scandal. 
 The result was, that at the concert she made 
 interesting discoveries, and, piecing things to- 
 gether in her mind afterwards, bided her time 
 to make use of them. 
 
 It would be for the Canon's sake, naturally. 
 A woman of Mrs. Winstanley's stamp is always 
 the most disinterested of God's creatures. She 
 never performed an action of which her con- 
 science did not approve. But she was such a 
 superior woman that her conscience trembled 
 a little before her, like most of the other friends 
 whom she patronised. She did not have to 
 wait long. The Canon called upon her soon 
 after his return to invite herself and the Wil- 
 mingtons to dinner. It was his last evening 
 at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well 
 enough to spend it, as usual, at the Kursaal. 
 213 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Yvonne is still poorly, Everard ? " she 
 asked, with her air of confidential responsibility. 
 
 " A little. She has been gadding about 
 somewhat too much lately, and it has knocked 
 her* up." 
 
 " Has it not occurred to you that her 
 encounter this morning may have had some- 
 thing to do with it ? " 
 
 " Of course not," replied the Canon, sharply. 
 " It would be ridiculous." 
 
 " I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. 
 The man was singing at the Kursaal this after- 
 noon. Here is his name on the programme." 
 She handed him the slip of paper. He read 
 the name among the artistes. " M. Bazouge." 
 He returned it to her. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Does it not seem odd to you ? " 
 
 " Not at all. A relation of her first hus- 
 band^, I suppose. In fact Yvonne said as 
 much." 
 
 " I could not help being struck by the 
 name, Everard. It is so peculiar. I remem- 
 bered it from the publication of the banns." 
 
 " I compliment you on your memory, Em- 
 meline," said the Canon. 
 
 Mrs. Wtnstanley drew herseJf up. offended* 
 214 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 walked from the window where they were 
 ding to a table, and fetched from it a 
 newspaper. 
 
 Do you remember the Christian name of 
 Yvonne's first husband ? " 
 
 ^he Canon drew himself up too, and frowned. 
 What is the meaning of all this, Emme- 
 ? What are you trying to insinuate ? " 
 If I thought you were going to adopt this 
 ne, Everard, I should have kept my sus- 
 picions to myself." 
 
 " I certainly wish that you had," said he, 
 • wing angry. "It is an insult to Yvonne 
 which I cannot permit. My wife is above 
 suspicion." 
 
 Like Caesar's," said the lady with a curl of 
 the lip. " Do you know that we are begin- 
 ning to quarrel, Everard ? It is slightly vul- 
 : r. I am your oldest friend, remember, and 
 am trying to acquit myself of a painful dutv 
 to you." 
 
 Duty is one of the chief instruments of 
 the devil, if you will excuse my saying so," re- 
 plied the Canon. 
 
 ' Oh, very well then, Everard," she said hotly. 
 > ou can go on being a fool as long as you 
 Le. I saw your wife struggling in this man's 
 215 
 
Derelicts 
 
 embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or 
 three strange coincidences have been forced 
 upon my notice. For your sake I have been 
 excessively anxious. My conscience tells me 
 I ought to take you into my confidence, and I 
 can do no more. You can see the Christian 
 name of this Bazouge in the Visitors' List, and 
 adopt what course of action you think fit. I 
 wash my hands of the whole matter. And I 
 must say that from the very beginning, two 
 years ago, you have treated me all through 
 with the greatest want of consideration." 
 
 The Canon did not heed the peroration. 
 He stood with the flimsy sheet clenched in his 
 hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a 
 little, for her soul seemed to be naked. 
 
 " You have tried to ferret this out through 
 spite against Yvonne. Whether the horrible 
 thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it 
 hard to forgive you." 
 
 Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "In either case, you will come to your 
 senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the 
 present relations, it might be pleasanter not to 
 meet at dinner to-night." 
 
 " I am sorry to have to agree with you, 
 Emmeline," said the Canon. 
 216 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 She made him a formal bow and was leaving 
 the room ; but his voice stopped her. 
 
 ' Your anxiety cannot be very great, or you 
 would wait to learn whether your suspicions 
 are baseless or not." 
 
 She paused, in a dignified attitude, with her 
 ^land on the back of a chair, while he adjusted 
 his gold pince-nez and ran through the list. 
 
 * You are right so far," he said coldly. 
 " The names are identical." 
 
 They parted at the door. The Canon 
 walked back to his hotel with anger in his 
 heart. In spite of cumulative evidence, the 
 heory that his cousin had insinuated was 
 j.rima facie preposterous. It was important 
 enough, however, to need some investigation. 
 But the 1 eling uppermost in his mind was 
 .ndignatic' with Mrs. Winstanley. He was 
 :oo shrewd a man not to have perceived long 
 igo her jealousy of Yvonne; but beyond keep- 
 ng a watchful eye lest his wife should receive 
 "lurt, he had not condescended to take it into 
 serious consideration. Now, beneath her im- 
 pressive manner he clearly divined the desire 
 tj inflict on Yvonne a deadly injury. To 
 !iave leaped at such a conclusion, to have 
 sought subsequent proof from the Visitors' 
 217 
 
Derelicts 
 
 List, argued malicious design. He could never 
 forgive her. 
 
 Still the matter had to be cleared up at once. 
 On his arrival at the Ocean, he went forthwith 
 to Yvonne's room, and entered on receiving an 
 acknowledgment of his knock. She was 
 standing in the light of the window by the 
 toilet table, doing her hair. The rest of the 
 room was in the shadow of the gathering 
 evening. 
 
 " Well," she said, without turning, " are 
 they coming? " 
 
 The grace of her attitude, the intimacy of 
 the scene, the pleasantness of her greeting, 
 made his task hateful. 
 
 " No," he said, with an asperity directed 
 towards the dis-invited guest. " We shall 
 dine alone to-night." 
 
 But his tone made Yvonne's heart give a 
 great throb, and she turned to him quickly. 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " 
 
 " A great deal," said the Canon. 
 
 Where he stood in the dusk of the doorway, 
 the shadow accentuated the stern lines of his 
 face and deepened the sombreness of his glance. 
 His brows were bent in perplexities of repug- 
 nance. It was horrible to demand of her such 
 218 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 explanations. To Yvonne's scared fancy, his 
 brows seemed bent in accusation. That was 
 the pity of it. For a few seconds they looked 
 at one another, the Canon severely, Yvonne in 
 throbbing suspense. 
 
 " What ? " she asked at length. 
 
 He paused for a moment, then threw his 
 hat and the crumpled Visitors' List on to the 
 table and plunged into the heart of things — 
 but not before Yvonne had glanced at the 
 paper with a sudden pang of intuition. 
 
 " Emmeline has discovered, Yvonne, that 
 the man — " 
 
 He got no further. Yvonne rushed to him 
 with a cry of pain, clung to his arm, broke 
 into wild words. 
 
 " Don't say any more — don't — don't. 
 Spare me — for pity's sake. I did not want 
 you to know. I tried to keep it from you, 
 Everard ! Don't look at me like that ? " 
 
 Her voice ended in a note of fright. For 
 the Canon's face had grown ashen and wore an 
 expression of incredulous horror. He shook 
 her from him. 
 
 " Do you mean that this is true ? That you 
 met your first husband this morning ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she, with quivering lips, Ques- 
 219 
 
Derelicts 
 
 tion and answer were too categorical for mis- 
 understanding. For a moment he struggled 
 against the overwhelming. 
 
 "Are you in your right senses, Yvonne? 
 Do you understand what I asked you?. Your 
 first husband is still alive and you saw him 
 to-day ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Yvonne again. "Didn't you 
 know when you came in ? " 
 
 " I did n't know," he repeated almost me- 
 chanically. 
 
 The blow crushed him for a while. He 
 stood quite rigid, drawing quick breaths, with 
 his eyes fixed upon her. And she remained 
 still, half-sitting on the edge of the bed, numb 
 with a vague prescience of catastrophe, and a 
 dim, uncomprehended intuition of the earth- 
 quake and wreck in the man's soul. The 
 silence grew appalling. She broke it with a 
 faltering whisper. 
 
 " Will you forgive me ? " 
 ■ The poor little commonplace fell in the midst 
 of devastating emotions — pathetically incon- 
 gruous. 
 
 " Did you know that this man was alive 
 when you married me ? " he asked ^in a hard 
 voice. 
 
 220 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 H No," cried Yvonne. " How could I have 
 married you ? I thought he had been dead 
 nearly three years." 
 
 " What proofs did you have of his death ? " 
 
 " A friend sent me a number of the Figaro, 
 with the announcement." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 " Yes," said Yvonne. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," he insisted, 
 "that you married a second time, having no 
 further proofs of your first husband's death 
 than a mere newspaper report? " 
 
 " It never occurred to me to doubt it," she 
 replied, opening piteous, innocent eyes. 
 
 The childlike irresponsibility was above his 
 comprehension. Her apparent insensibility to 
 the most vital concerns of life was another 
 shock to him. It seemed criminal. 
 
 " God forgive you," he said, " for the wrong 
 you have done me." 
 
 " But I did it unknowingly, Everard," cried 
 poor Yvonne. " If one has to get greater 
 proofs, why did you not ask for them, your- 
 self? " 
 
 The Canon turned away and paced the room 
 slowly, without replying. At last he stood 
 still before her. 
 
 221 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "Among ordinary honourable people one 
 takes such things for granted," he said. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said again, humbly. 
 
 But he could find no pity for her in his 
 heart. She had wronged him past redemption. 
 
 " How much truth was there in the news- 
 paper story ? " he asked coldly. 
 
 She told him rapidly what Amedee Bazouge 
 had said concerning his attack in the hospital 
 and his subsequent stroke. 
 
 " So the man is wilfully killing himself with 
 absinthe ? " he said. 
 
 "It appears so," replied Yvonne with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " Could you tell me what passed between 
 you otherwise — in general terms ? " he asked, 
 after a short silence. "You explained your 
 position ? Or did you leave him in ignorance, 
 as you were going to leave me ? " 
 
 " I told him — of course. It was necessary. 
 And he laughed — I thought to spare you, 
 Everard." . 
 
 " Spare me, Yvonne ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, simply, " I could have 
 
 borne all the pain and fright of it alone — why 
 
 should I have made you unhappy ? And he 
 
 said he would never interfere with me, and I 
 
 222 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 can trust his word. Why should I have told 
 you, Everard ? M 
 
 " Do you actually ask me such a question, 
 honestly ? " 
 
 " God knows I do," she replied pitifully. 
 
 " And you would have gone on living with 
 me — I not being your husband ? M 
 
 " But you are my husband," cried Yvonne, 
 " nothing could ever alter that." 
 
 " But good God ! it does alter it," cried the 
 Canon in a voice of anguish, breaking the iron 
 bonds he had placed on his passion. " Neither 
 in the eyes of God nor of man are you my 
 wife. You have no right to bear my name. 
 After this hour I have no right to enter this 
 room. Every caress I gave you would be 
 sin. Don't you understand it, child? Don't 
 you understand that this has brought ruin 
 into our lives, the horror of loneliness and 
 separation ? " 
 
 " Separation ? " said Yvonne. 
 
 She rose slowly from her seat on the bed 
 and stared at him aghast. 
 
 The twilight in the room deepened; the 
 
 shadow of a wall opposite the window fell 
 
 darker. Their faces and Yvonne's bare neck 
 
 and arms gleamed white in the gloom. They 
 
 223 
 
Derelicts 
 
 had spoken with many silences ; for how long 
 neither knew. 
 
 " Yes," replied the Canon in his harder tones, 
 recovering himself. " It means all that." 
 
 " I am to go — not to live with you any 
 more ? " 
 
 " Could you imagine our past relations could 
 continue ? " 
 
 " I don't understand, "she began feebly. And 
 then the darkness fell upon her, and her 
 limbs relaxed. She swayed sideways and 
 would have fallen, but he caught her in his 
 arms and laid her on the couch. 
 
 " Thank you," she murmured faintly. 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and remained, 
 crouched up, quite still, in a stupor of misery. 
 The Canon stood over her helplessly, unable to 
 find a word of comfort. 
 
 The sight of her prostration did not move 
 him. He had been wounded to the very 
 depths of his being. His pride, his honour, 
 his dignity were lacerated in their vitals. He 
 burned with the sense of unpardonable wrong. 
 
 " It is self-evident," he said at last, " that 
 we must part. Our remaining together would 
 be a sin against God and an outrage upon 
 Society." 
 
 224 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 She raised herself wearily, with one hand on 
 the couch, and shook her head slowly. 
 
 " Such things are beyond me. No one will 
 ever know." 
 
 " There is One who will always know, 
 Yvonne." 
 
 She pondered over the saying, as far as her 
 tired, bewildered brain allowed. It conveyed 
 very little meaning to her. Theology had not 
 altered her child-like conception of the benevo- 
 lence of the Creator. After a long time she wis 
 able to disentangle an idea from the confusion. 
 
 " If it is a sin — don't you love me enough 
 to sin a little for my sake ? " 
 
 " Not that sin," he said. 
 
 Yvonne lifted her shoulders helplessly. 
 
 " I would commit any sin for your sake," 
 she said. " It would seem so easy." 
 
 Curiously assorted as they were, a poetic 
 idealism on the one side and grateful venera- 
 tion on the other had hitherto bound them 
 together. Now they were sundered leagues 
 apart ; mutual understanding was hopeless. 
 Each was bewildered by the other's moral 
 attitude. 
 
 The logical consequences of the discovery, 
 that appeared so luridly devious to the Canon's 
 *5 225 . 
 
Derelicts 
 
 intellect, failed entirely to appeal to Yvonne. 
 She referred them entirely to his personal in- 
 clinations. On the other hand, the Canon had 
 a false insight into her soul that was a chilling 
 disillusion. 
 
 The beauty of her exquisite purity and inno- 
 cence had always captivated in him the finer 
 man. It was a mirage. It was gone. Emp- 
 tiness remained. She was simply a graceful, 
 non-moral being — a spiritual anomaly. 
 
 Yvonne shivered, and rising, walked un- 
 steadily to the wardrobe, whence she took a 
 dressing-jacket. Putting it on, she returned to 
 the couch. It was almost dark. The Canon 
 watched her dim, slight figure as it passed him, 
 with a strange feeling of remoteness. A hun- 
 dred trivial instances of her want of moral 
 sense crowded into his mind to support his 
 view — her inability to see the wrong-doing of 
 Stephen, her indefinite notions in religious 
 matters, her mental attitude toward the girl 
 that had gone astray, of whom she had been 
 talking , only the night before, her expressed 
 intention of hiding this terrible discovery from 
 him. He had been duped, not by her, but by 
 his own romantic folly. 
 
 Yet what would his life be without her — or 
 226 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 rather without his illusion ? An icy hand 
 gripped his heart. He turned to the glimmer- 
 ing window and stared at the blank wall. 
 
 Presently a moan struck upon his ear. He 
 wheeled round sharply, and distinguished her 
 lying with helpless outspread arms on the 
 couch. Mere humanity brought him to her 
 side. 
 
 " I am so tired," she moaned. 
 
 " You must go to bed," he replied in a gent- 
 ler voice than hitherto. " We had better part 
 now. To-morrow, if you are well enough to 
 travel, we will leave for England." 
 
 " Let me go alone," she murmured, " and 
 you go on to Switzerland. Why should your 
 holiday be spoiled ? " 
 
 " It is my life that is spoiled," he said un- 
 generously. " The holiday matters very little. 
 It is best to return to England as soon as 
 possible. Between now and to-morrow morn- 
 ing I shall have time to reflect upon the 
 situation." 
 
 He struck a match and lit the candles and 
 drew down the blind. The light revealed her 
 to him so wan and exhausted that he was 
 moved with compunction. 
 
 " Don't think me hard, my child/' he said, 
 227 
 
Derelicts 
 
 bending over her. "It is the bitterest day of 
 our lives. We must pray to God for strength 
 to bear it. I shall leave you now. I shall see 
 that you have all you want. Try to sieep. 
 Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night," she said miserably. 
 
 And so, without touch of hand, they parted. 
 
 The hours of the evening wore on, and 
 night came. At last she cried herself to sleep. 
 It had been a day of tears. 
 
 They left Ostend quietly the following 
 morning by the Dover boat. During the 
 whole journey the Canon treated Yvonne with 
 the deferential courtesy he could always assume 
 to women, seeing to her comforts, antici- 
 pating her wants, even exchanging now and 
 then casual remarks on passing objects of in- 
 terest. But of the subject next his heart he 
 said not a word. The crossing was smooth. 
 The sea air revived Yvonne's strength. 
 
 His silence half comforted, half frightened 
 her. Had he relented ? She glanced often at 
 his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to 
 the thoughts that lay behind. Yet a little hope 
 came to her ; for fear of losing it she dared 
 not speak. To her simple mind it seemed 
 impossible that merely conscientious scruples 
 228 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 couki make him cast her off. If he loved her, 
 his love would triumph. If he persisted in his 
 resolve, he cared for her no longer. In this 
 case her future was very simple. She would 
 go back to London and sing. 
 
 She seemed to have cried her feeling away 
 during the night — such as he had left un- 
 bruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is 
 only sensitive up to a certain point of macera- 
 tion. He had trodden upon her pitilessly ; 
 but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would 
 have been quite happy if he had put his arms 
 round her and said, " Let us forget, Yvonne." 
 By the end of the journey she had cajoled her- 
 self into the idea that he would do so. 
 
 A suite of rooms received them in the quiet 
 West End hotel where the Canon always 
 stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler 
 waiting on them, for the Canon was an hon- 
 oured guest. When the cloth was removed, 
 the Canon said in his even voice : — 
 
 " Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to 
 discuss this painful subject ? " 
 
 " I am quite ready, Everard." 
 
 "We will make it as short as possible. 
 What I said last night must remain, whatever 
 be the suffering. I have loved you deeply — 
 
 220 
 
Derelicts 
 
 like a young man — in a way perhaps ill be- 
 fitting my years. The memories, for they are 
 innocent, will always be there, Yvonne. If I 
 did not seek strength from Elsewhere, it might 
 wreck my life to part from you." 
 
 Her hope was dashed to the ground. She 
 interrupted him with one more appeal. " Why 
 need we part, Everard ? " she said, in a low 
 voice. " I mean, why cannot we live in the 
 same house — before the world — ? " 
 
 "It is impossible," he replied. " You don't 
 know what you are asking." 
 
 His voice grew husky. He paused a few 
 seconds, then, recovering himself, continued in 
 the same hard tones : — 
 
 " As we must live apart, it is my duty to 
 make provision for you. I shall alter my will, 
 securing to you what would have come to 
 you as my wife. During my lifetime I shall 
 make you an allowance in fair proportion 
 to my means. And it will be, of course, 
 unconditional." 
 
 Then, for the first time, her gentle nature 
 rose up in revolt against him. 
 
 " I could not accept it, Everard," she cried 
 with kindling cheeks. " If I have no right 
 to bear your name I have no right to your 
 230 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 support. Don't ask me to take it, for I 
 can t. 
 
 "Yvonne, listen to me — " 
 
 " No," she went on passionately, " I am 
 speaking as a woman now ; the time has come, 
 and you were right in your prophecy — I 
 would sooner die than live away from you and 
 be supported by you. You don't understand 
 — it is as if I had done something shameful 
 and you were putting me away from you. 
 Oh, don't speak of it, — don't speak of it. If 
 I am not your wife before God, I have no 
 claims on you." 
 
 "To hear you speak like that pains me 
 intensely," he said. " Do you think I have 
 lost all regard for you ? " 
 
 " If you loved me, you would not wish to 
 part from me," said Yvonne with her terrible 
 logic. 
 
 They were on different planes of thought 
 and feeling. The Canon argued, insisted, but 
 to no purpose. Yvonne was inconvincible. 
 
 The talk continued, drifted away for a time 
 to arrangements for the immediate future. A 
 reply telegram came from Geraldine Vicary, to 
 the effect that she would be with Yvonne in the 
 morning. It was settled that Yvonne should 
 231 
 
Derelicts 
 
 stay with her provisionally, and that she, in 
 order to avoid painful meetings and communica- 
 tions, should be Yvonne's agent in the necessary 
 settlement of affairs. Finally, the Canon re- 
 turned to the subject of the allowance. He 
 would settle a certain sum upon her, whether 
 she would accept it or not. Yvonne . flashed 
 again into rebellion. The idea was hateful to 
 her. He had no right to make her lose her 
 self-respect. 
 
 " But it is my solemn duty that I must 
 perform. Will nothing I can say ever make 
 you understand ? " he exclaimed at last, in 
 exasperation. 
 
 Yvonne rose and came to where he sat, and 
 laid her hand upon his shoulder with an ac- 
 tion full of tenderness, and looked down upon 
 him with her wistful dark eyes, all the more 
 wistful for the rings beneath them. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me — over last even- 
 ing. It is good and generous of you to wish 
 to make provision for me. But I shall be 
 much happier to feel myself no burden upon 
 you. And it will be so easy for me to earn 
 my living again. I shall be much happier, 
 really." 
 
 The little word, with which she so often 
 
 2£2 
 
Dis Aliter Visum 
 
 confirmed her statements, the familiar touch of 
 her hand, the sense of her delicate, fragile 
 figure so near him caused a spasm of pain to 
 pass through his heart; disillusion had not 
 touched his common, human want of her. He 
 bowed his head in his hands. 
 
 " Some day, Yvonne, it may be possible for 
 me to ask you — to come back. If I give in 
 to your wishes now, will you give in to mine 
 then ? " 
 
 The emotion in his voice was too strong to 
 escape her. It stirred all the yielding sweet- 
 ness and tender pity of Yvonne. She forgot 
 the reproaches, the pitilessness, the religious 
 scruples comprehended only as unloving. His 
 broad shoulders shook beneath her touch. 
 
 " I will come whenever you want me," she 
 said. 
 
 " If I have been ungenerous in word or 
 thought to you, Yvonne, forgive me." 
 
 Her hand strayed shyly to a lock of griz- 
 zling hair above his temples and smoothed it 
 back gently. 
 
 He raised his head, and looked at her for a 
 second or two with an expression of anguish. 
 
 Then he sprang to his feet, and before 
 Yvonne, shrinking back, could realise his in- 
 233 
 
Derelicts 
 
 tention, his arms were about her in a tight 
 clasp, and his kiss was on her face. " God 
 help us. God help us both, my child." He 
 released her and went hurriedly from the room. 
 And so they parted. 
 
 *34 
 
Part II 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 " IN A STRANGE LAND " 
 
 They buried Noakes on the other side of the 
 kopje behind the house. He had lasted through 
 the winter and early spring, but the season of 
 the rains and heat, when the damp oozed 
 through wooden walls and mud floor, and 
 hung clammily upon sheets and pillows, gave 
 the remnants of his lungs no breathing chance, 
 and Noakes went uncomplainingly to his 
 place. 
 
 Joyce laid " the dear lady's " letter on his 
 breast before nailing down the rough wooden 
 coffin. It seemed as if most of his own heart 
 too were enclosed with the letter, to be put 
 away under the ground for ever and ever. 
 Wilson the farmer, himself, and a Kaffir carried 
 the coffin to the hole that had been dug 
 beneath a blue gum-tree. There Wilson read 
 the burial service of the Church of England. 
 235 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He was a religious man, when he was not 
 drunk, and set great store by a prayer-book 
 that he had saved from the wreckage of church- 
 going times. Over a fat, phlegmatic, brick- 
 red face the sun had spread a glaze, as if to 
 shield the colour from other counteracting 
 climatic influences. His speech was thick and 
 uneducated. At first Joyce had resented his 
 intention as a mockery, and only to avoid 
 unseemly wrangling did he stand there and 
 listen, while the Kaffir squatted by, scratching 
 his limbs in meditative wonder at the incanta- 
 tion. But very soon the solemn beauty of the 
 service appealed to him. " Earth to earth, 
 ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He stooped 
 and threw some handfuls of the red soil rev- 
 erently into the grave. It seemed not unfit- 
 ting that the rude voice should give the broken 
 life this rude burial. 
 
 The service over, Wilson signed to the 
 Kaffir to fill in the grave, and flicking the 
 perspiration from his forehead, for the sun beat 
 down fiercely, turned to Joyce. 
 
 " Come in now and have a drink." 
 But Joyce refused and remained there alone, 
 with his head sunk on his breast, watching the 
 Kaffir. When the task was done, he set at the 
 236 
 
" In a Strange Land " 
 
 grave-head a great stone he had previously 
 brought there, and slowly went away. His 
 steps took him mechanically back over the 
 kopje. But when he arrived at the prickly- 
 pear hedge on top, the sight of the mean 
 shanty and the Kaffir huts and the straggling 
 fields high with corn and maize, jarred upon 
 his mood. He turned, and descending, struck 
 across the rank, sodden veldt, that stretched 
 eastward in a terrible monotony to the sky-line. 
 There, at any rate, he could be alone, away 
 from the sights and sounds of his dreary toil. 
 A broad gully, half filled with a red, swollen 
 stream, stopped his progress. Half a mile 
 farther up was a bridge. But he was tired and 
 hot and sick at heart. A slab in the shade of 
 an overhanging edge of the ravine met his 
 eye. He clambered down and sat there, look- 
 ing into the small swirling flood. 
 
 A centipede crawled close by. He drew his 
 knife from his belt, cut the creature in two, and 
 flicked the pieces into the water, which swept 
 them instantaneously out of sight. He looked 
 at his knife that had so speedily given death to 
 the insect. Was he much better, more useful ? 
 One gash, a leap into the stream, and he would 
 be carried away into eternity. Till yesterday 
 237 
 
Derelicts 
 
 his life had some meaning — the support of 
 the poor forlorn man just buried. Now, what 
 was the good of his living ? There was no joy 
 for himself, no service to one of God's crea- 
 tures. But after digging his knife idly into the 
 crumbling slab, he returned it to his belt. 
 
 Yet what he had dreaded with almost mor- 
 bid heart-sinking these latter months had come 
 about. He was alone. Noakes had gone — 
 passed away like a shadow, as the burial service 
 hath it. The phrase brought back to his mind 
 a tag from old days of scholarship — " o-/aas 
 ovap av0pco7ros — man is the dream of a 
 shadow." He mused upon the saying. Time 
 was, he remembered, when he had wondered at 
 the strange Greek melancholy underlying even 
 Pindar's gladness in outward things, thews and 
 sinews and supple forms. Now he understood. 
 What sane man who had watched the world 
 could escape it — this overwhelming sense of 
 the futility of things ? To what ends had 
 Noakes's life been lived? The ceaseless awful 
 toil of grinding out despicable literature at 
 sweated wages ; the begetting of a child to an 
 inheritance of misery in the world's tragedy ; the 
 crowning futility of his senseless exile — what 
 purpose had it all served ? Save for the pity 
 238 
 
"In a Strange Land 
 
 >» 
 
 , could it be taken seriously ? And he 
 f dangling his legs over this gully? 
 ily, the dream of a shadow. 
 The lines in which the passage occurred 
 e nto his head. He repeated them aloud, 
 jch reminiscences of former culture occasion- 
 ed him and smote him with their ironic 
 nrrruity. He broke into a mirthless laugh, 
 westering sun had already touched the 
 i of the far distant High Veldt when he 
 led his steps homeward. 
 Wilson was squirting tobacco juice over a 
 g-:c and giving directions as to the repairing of 
 F the sluices, that drained the land into the 
 ully, whence Joyce had come. 
 i This damn thing will all go to glory soon/* 
 hr said. 
 
 We ought to get some pipes," said Joyce. 
 " And lay on gas and hot-water,'* returned 
 • , sarcastically. "Where's the money 
 o: ne from ? " 
 
 t shrugged his shoulders and continued 
 
 way to the house. He did not much care. 
 
 :gs were going badly. Well, things had 
 
 idly with him since he stepped aside 
 
 the paths of honest living. He could 
 
 expect nothing else. 
 
 239 
 
Derelicts 
 
 The sight of the rough bed, tenantless now 
 for the first time for many months, was inex- 
 pressibly cheerless. The indentations too of 
 the coffin still remained upon it. He smoothed 
 them out mechanically. Then reaching for a 
 thick pile of foolscap that was on the shelf, he 
 sat down with it upon the bed. It was the 
 MS. of the novel which Noakes had copied 
 from the yellow package-paper — all written 
 in his beautiful round hand. He had been a 
 writing master in his youth and retained a pro- 
 fessional pride in penmanship. For months 
 this copying had been all he could do. 
 
 Joyce read here and there, at last became 
 interested. The work was good. And then 
 for the first time he seriously contemplated 
 mailing it to a publisher. When the KafEr 
 came in later to help him prepare supper, he 
 had made up his mind. 
 
 It was a gloomy book, dealing with die 
 abject side of colonial pioneer work — a 
 tragedy of wasted lives and hopes foredoomed 
 to disappointment. A picture of wrecks and 
 derelicts ; men of broken fortunes, breaking 
 hearts, degraded lives; poor fools, penniless, 
 craftless, who had come hither like Noakes, 
 allured by vague visions of El Dorado, to 
 240 
 
" In a Strange Land " 
 
 find no place for them in this new rude land 
 where unskilled labour belongs to the natives, 
 who defy competition. He called it "The 
 Wasters." Almost unconsciously, his intel- 
 lectual powers had returned to him whilst 
 writing it. The English was pure, the style 
 vigorous and scholarly. And the feeling — 
 he had written it with his heart's blood. 
 Before he went to sleep that night, he ap- 
 pended to it an alternative title, " The Dream 
 of a Shadow." 
 
 In the course of time the manuscript was 
 despatched and Joyce settled down to many 
 months' forgetfulness of it, and to humdrum 
 loneliness and labour. Time went quickly, 
 for he took no heed of its flight, having 
 nothing to hope for. He tried to begin 
 another book, but the stimulus of Noakes's 
 appreciation was gone and he sank again into 
 intellectual apathy. In the long evenings he 
 taught a Kaffir boy to read and write, while 
 Wilson boozed away the profits of the farm. 
 At the best of times there was little sympathy 
 between the two men. Often mutual anti- 
 pathy manifested itself actively under a thin 
 disguise. The farmer despised Joyce for a 
 broken-down gentleman unacquainted with any 
 16 241 
 
Derelicts 
 
 handicraft or the principles of farming, and 
 Joyce considered his partner a dull sot, who 
 was letting the farm go to rack and ruin. 
 Still, a habit of life is a strange help in living. 
 Often Joyce told himself that he must sell out 
 and try his luck elsewhere. But there was no 
 particular reason for bringing matters to a 
 crisis on one day more than on another. So 
 the months wore on. 
 
 The work of the harvest knocked him up. 
 He got ague and lay in bed for three weeks. 
 Wilson cursed the day he ever took him into 
 the place ; and had it not been for the hu- 
 maneness of their next neighbour, who farmed 
 more healthy ground some forty miles away, 
 towards the High Veldt, and carried Joyce off 
 thither one day in an ox-waggon, he might 
 have speedily followed Noakes. He returned 
 to the farm cured but terribly gaunt. The 
 lines had deepened in his face, over which the 
 beard grew straggling, accentuating the hollows 
 of his cheeks. His hapds had whitened and 
 thinned during his illness. Wilson sniffed 
 contemptuously at then? and looked at hjs 
 own huge glazed and freckled paw. 
 
 Winter set in. There was plenty to do — 
 ricks to thatch, buildings to repair, fields 
 242 
 
"In a Strange Land" 
 
 to irrigate. Joyce did not spare himself. 
 Work, if joyless, was at least an anodyne. It 
 brought on prostrating fatigue, which in its 
 turn brought long heavy hours of sleep. In 
 that way it was as good as adulterated whisky. 
 
 Some men thrive physically and morally in 
 the wilds. The incessant conflict with the 
 elemental forces of nature braces nerves and 
 strengthens the will. And these are exclusive 
 of such as find satisfaction of primitive instincts 
 only in uncivilised lands — such as are a rever- 
 sion to the savage type, and, in the forest or 
 the desert, live a life truer to their natures 
 than amid the decencies of civilisation. But 
 the men who thrive are physically and morally 
 adapted to the struggle — men of energy, 
 ambition, daring, who see in it a means towards 
 the yet ungained or forfeited place in civilisa- 
 tion. The pioneer work of new colonies is 
 done by them, and they generally gain their 
 reward. Joyce had found all the successful 
 men in South Africa belonging to this type. 
 He had looked at Noakes and himself and 
 groaned inwardly. They were doomed to 
 perish, it seemed, by natural selection. In 
 the case of Noakes the foreboding had been 
 fulfilled. Would it be so with himself? His 
 ?43 
 
Derelicts 
 
 unfitness for his environment weighed heavier 
 day by day on his mind: all the more since 
 the loss of the companionship that had cheered 
 him in dark hours. A habit of brooding 
 silence fell upon him. He spoke as little as 
 in those awful years of prison. And as his 
 life grew lonelier and more self-centred, softer 
 memories faded, and those chiefly remained 
 that had branded themseives in his brain. 
 The gaol came back to his dreams. Once, in 
 the shed where he had taken up his abode 
 since the beginning of spring, he awoke in a 
 sweating terror. , The disposition of his bed 
 as regards the window and the height of the 
 latter from the ground corresponded with the 
 arrangements of his cell. The nightmare held 
 him paralysed. And this in some form or 
 the other repeated itself at intervals, so that 
 he was forced to rearrange his room. 
 
 He had shifted his quarters owing to the 
 arrival of a fat Boer woman who claimed con- 
 nubial relations with Wilson. The suggestion 
 had proceeded from himself from motives of 
 delicacy and good-nature. At first he had 
 welcomed her in spite of unprepossessing 
 manners and appearance, and tried to win her 
 esteem by little acts of civility. But the lady 
 244 
 
"In a Strange Land" 
 
 drank ; and one day Wilson, finding her alone 
 in Joyce's hut, whither she had come to steal 
 whisky, grew unreasonably jealous and blacked 
 both her eyes. After which occurrence Joyce 
 and she let each other severely alone. He 
 relapsed into his sombre apathy. 
 
 The life was killing him, brutalizing him. 
 He lost even interest in the Kaffir boy's edu- 
 cation, which had not been without its light side 
 of amusement. Hour after hour he would sit, 
 on summer nights, on the doorstep of his shed, 
 pipe in mouth, elbows on knees, thinking of 
 nothing, his mind a dull blank. Now and 
 then he thought of Yvonne, but only in a 
 vague, far-off way. He never wrote or felt 
 urged to write. What was the good? And 
 he had received no letter from Yvonne since 
 the one that had accompanied her line to 
 Noakes. Once, several months afterwards, 
 one of the ox-waggons from the town had been 
 overturned in a swollen river, and many stores 
 including the mail had been swept away. The 
 driver told him there had been letters for him. 
 Possibly one from Yvonne. At the time he 
 regretted it, but his morbid indifferentism had 
 already begun to darken his mind. He laid 
 conjecture dully aside. The weeks and 
 245 
 
Derelicts 
 
 months passed and, with all his other longings 
 for sweeter things, the desire for her letters 
 died. And so the last strand wore through of 
 the last thread that bound him to England. 
 
 As for the novel, he had long since ceased to 
 concern himself about its fate. Probably it 
 had been lost in transit, either going or return- 
 ing. The yellow sheets on which he had writ- 
 ten the first draft lay on the mud floor in the 
 corner of his hut and rotted and grew mil- 
 dewed with the damp. 
 
 At last, one day, like a bolt from the blue, 
 came the publishers' letter, offering alternative 
 terms for the book, the usual royalty the firm 
 paid to unknown authors, or eighty pounds 
 down for the copyright, to be paid on publica- 
 tion. It aroused him, with a shock, from his 
 torpor. That night he could not sleep. He 
 got up and wandered about the veldt through the 
 dewy grasses, under the bright African starlight, 
 his veins alive with a new excitement. Perhaps 
 he had found a vocation — one to bring him 
 money, congenial work, the right at last to 
 take his forfeited place in a civilised land. He 
 returned to the house at daybreak, worn out 
 with fatigue, but throbbing with wild schemes 
 for the future. And the following evening, as 
 246 
 
"In a Strange Land" 
 
 soon as the toil of the day was over, he lit his 
 small, smoking lamp, and sat down in feverish 
 haste to begin a new story, the scheme of which 
 he had half-heartedly worked out soon after 
 Noakes's death. The copyright of the other 
 he sold for the eighty pounds. 
 
 And then gradually the longing for England 
 grew more insistent, until at last it took the 
 form of a settled determination. One day he 
 saddled a rough farm-pony and rode to the 
 good Samaritan who had taken him in during 
 his illness. The farmer, a hard-headed Scotch- 
 in, shook his head dubiously when Joyce 
 unfolded his plan. 
 
 Stick to the farm and buy Wilson out 
 You '11 mak' more money, and then you can 
 retire in a few years." 
 
 c The profits are nearly swallowed up in 
 improvements and transit," said Joyce. "It 
 is a bare subsistence." 
 
 c That 's because you don't go the right way 
 to work. If I had the land, I 'd make it pay 
 soon enough." 
 
 £ You are a practical farmer, and I am not, 
 said Joyce. " Even if I desired to gain expe- 
 rience, it is precious little I could gain with 
 Wilson — and I long for home again." 
 247 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "That 's all very well — but if you fail with 
 your writing ? I have heard it is a precarious 
 trade/' 
 
 " I 'm used to failure," replied Joyce. 
 "That's what I came into the world for. 
 You can't say that I am a conspicuous success 
 as a colonist." 
 
 " Sell out from Wilson, and come here," 
 said the farmer, "on the metayer system. I 
 will put you up to a few things." 
 
 Joyce looked round him ; they were sitting 
 on the verandah of the nicely-built house. 
 Everything had the trim appearance of scien- 
 tific English farming — the outbuildings solid 
 and clean, the fields high with grain, the dams 
 in perfect repair, the yard spick and span. A 
 flower garden lay beneath him. A well- 
 trimmed vine covered the lattice-work of the 
 verandah. All was a striking contrast to his 
 own ramshackle, neglected surroundings. A 
 month ago he would have ieaped at the offer. 
 But now he declined it. Be aistrusted him- 
 self, his power of content. If he once put 
 his hand to the plough, he would not be able to 
 draw back. And he held ploughs in cordial 
 detestation. He rode back, having thanked 
 his friend and obtained his consent to act. 
 
"In a Strange Land" 
 
 as arbiter, if need were, between Wilson and 
 himself. 
 
 A day or two later, he took advantage of a 
 sober and quasi-friendly moment, to announce 
 his intention to Wilson, who listened to him 
 stolidly. 
 
 " I hope my sudden withdrawal won't cause 
 you -inconvenience," said he, politely. " If it 
 does — " 
 
 " My good friend," replie I Wilson, " I am 
 only too damn glad to get rid )f you." 
 
 "Then if you'll give me a iump sum down 
 for my share, and lend me a team, I Ml leave 
 the infernal place this afternoon," said Joyce, 
 nettled. 
 
 Wilson went into the house and came out 
 with a roll of greasy notes. 
 
 " There," he said, " will that satisfy you ? 
 I Ve been wanting to part company for a long 
 time, and I 've kept 'em by me." 
 
 Joyce counted the notes, and to his sur- 
 prise found the sum exceeded that which he 
 himself calculated to be his due. After half 
 an hour's joint examination of their roughly- 
 kept accounts, he found that Wilson was 
 right. 
 
 "You are an honest man," he said with a 
 249 
 
Derelicts 
 
 smile. " It is a pity you have so many other 
 failings.' ' 
 
 " I can keep myself out of quod, at any 
 rate," replied Wilson, "which is more than 
 some people can say." 
 
 The retort was like a blow in the face. 
 Joyce staggered under it. 
 
 " Another time don't be so devilish smart 
 with your tongue," said Wilson. " I ain't the 
 one to cast a man's misfortunes in his teeth, 
 but, all the same, it 's best for a man like you to 
 lie low." 
 
 " What the devil are you talking of? " said 
 Joyce, fiercely. 
 
 " What 's the good of bluff? You 've given 
 yourself away heaps of times." 
 
 " I insist upon knowing what you mean," 
 said Joyce. 
 
 How could this man have learned his his- 
 tory ? Noakes could not have betrayed him. 
 For the honour of his dead comrade he could not 
 let the matter drop. Wilson tilted back his 
 chair and squirted a stream of tobacco-juice 
 over the floor, which aroused the indignation 
 of the Boer woman, who was sitting on some 
 sacks near the door, peeling potatoes. Her 
 lord was a beastly Englander, and a great many 
 250 
 
"In a Strange Land" 
 
 other undesirable things. Wilson, who had 
 not yet laced his heavy boots, took one off to 
 throw at her head, but Joyce caught his arm. 
 
 " What a brute you are ! " he said angrily. 
 
 Wilson broke into a laugh. 
 
 " You 'd better thank Mr. Joyce for saving 
 your beauty from being damaged," he said, pull- 
 ing on the boot again. 
 
 " Now," said Joyce, as soon as domestic 
 peace was restored, " tell me what you meant 
 just now." 
 
 Wilson rose, went to the door and ostenta- 
 tiously spat over the Boer woman s head; then 
 he turned round to Joyce : — 
 
 " Look here," he said, " I have my hands 
 full enough of quarrelling as it is. You 'd 
 better trek off with that waggon and a couple 
 of niggers. And I '11 give you a piece of advice. 
 When next you shake down alongside of a 
 man to sleep, just keep from blabbing all your 
 private affairs to him. And that's why I 
 wanted to be shut of you. We can do without 
 your kind hereabouts. No wonder you were 
 surprised to find me honest." 
 
 " I suppose I must beg your pardon," said 
 Joyce humiliated. " I had no right to speak 
 to you as I did." 
 
 2<i 
 
Derelicts 
 
 cc If you had held your tongue, I should 
 have held mine, as I have done for the last 
 year and a half," replied Wilson. 
 
 A few hours later Joyce stood up in the ox- 
 waggon and looked back at the detested place 
 that had so long been his home. It was just a 
 speck in the midst of the cheerless plain under 
 the irregular mound, the kopje, behind which 
 poor Noakes lay buried. He drew an envelope 
 from his pocket and looked at the blade of 
 grass he had picked from the grave. Ashamed 
 of his sentimentality, he twirled it between his 
 ringers, undecided whether to throw it away or 
 not. He ended by replacing it in his pocket. 
 After all, it symbolised a pure, tender feeling, 
 and he was not carrying away with him too 
 many. 
 
 He smoked in silence through the night, 
 under the clear stars. He was sore at heart, 
 deeply humiliated. The buoyancy of new 
 hopes which his little literary success had 
 occasioned during the last few weeks, had gone. 
 The sense of the ineffaceable stain overpowered 
 him. It was a fatality. Go where he would, 
 he could not hide it from the knowledge of 
 men. In his own land, accusing ringers pointed 
 to it at street corners. In the uttermost 
 
 2,42 
 
" In a Strange Land " 
 
 ends of the earth he himself proclaimed it 
 aloud. 
 
 To have lived for months and months under 
 the silent contempt of this drunken woman- 
 beating brute, to have been watched narrowly 
 in all his business dealings — as he knew, from 
 Wilson's nature, must have been the case — to 
 have been forced to stand helpless, degraded 
 before this sot, while he vaunted his one virtue, 
 honesty — it was gall and wormwood and all 
 things bitter. 
 
 The Southern Cross flashed down from the 
 myriad stars in its startling splendour. The 
 moon shone bright over the vast silent plain, 
 limitless, broken only by the undulating mounds 
 and the infinitely stretching clumps of karroo 
 bushes. The camp-fire, just replenished with 
 damp twigs and shrubs, burned sulkily and the 
 smoke ascended in spirals into the clear air. The 
 hooded waggon depended helplessly on its shafts. 
 The Kaffirs, wrapped in blankets, slept beneath. 
 The oxen, outspanned some distance off, 
 chewed the cud in sharp, rhythmic munches 
 The universe was still — awfully still. All gave 
 the sense of the littleness of man and the im- 
 mensity of space. 
 
 In a strange, imperious need of expansion, 
 253 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Joyce threw himself down on the wet earth 
 and clutched the grasses and cried aloud : — 
 
 " Oh, God ! I have suffered enough for 
 my sin. Take this stain and degradation from 
 my soul." 
 
 After a while he arose, ashamed of his weak- 
 ness, the futility of his appeal. Relighting his 
 pipe, he clambered into the waggon, and sitting 
 on the floor against the back, watched the por- 
 tion of starry sky framed by the hood, until 
 the first streaks of dawn announced the hour 
 for inspanning the oxen again and continuing 
 his journey. 
 
 254 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 KNIGHT-ERRANT 
 
 For all the change about him and within him, 
 the hand of time might have been put back 
 four years, and the tender might have been 
 nearing the outward bound ship, instead of 
 the Southampton landing-stage. It was the 
 same raw mizzling rain as when he had crossed 
 the harbour four years before ; the same wet, 
 shivering crowd of second-class passengers, 
 with the water streaming from waterproofs, 
 umbrellas and hand luggage on to the sloppy 
 deck. In his heart was the same mingling of 
 anxiety and apathy, the same ineradicable sense 
 of pariahdom. He had thought that the sight 
 of England once more would have brought 
 him a throb of gladness. It only intensified 
 his depressing fears for the future. 
 
 The circumstances reproduced themselves 
 
 with startling actuality. One of the men in 
 
 charge of the tender had a great ugly seam 
 
 across his face. Joyce remembered having 
 
 255 
 
Derelicts 
 
 seen him before, in just the same attitude, with 
 a coil of rope in his hand. Had he not awak- 
 ened from a minute's dream that had covered 
 an illusory four years of his life ? He looked 
 around, almost expecting to see Noakes, in his 
 ridiculous curly silk hat and old frieze over- 
 coat. 
 
 The tender came alongside the landing- 
 stage, and he stepped ashore with the dripping 
 ^rowd. The flurry of the Custom House and 
 the transport of his meagre baggage to the 
 raiWay station broke the illusion. He was 
 in England at last, and it seemed a strange 
 country. During the journey to London, he 
 had the companionship of some of his fellow- 
 travellers. At Waterloo they parted. Then 
 he felt terribly lonely. 
 
 " Cab, sir ? " asked a porter. 
 
 He was standing over his luggage, somewhat 
 lost amid the bustle and tumult of the station. 
 It was the late afternoon, and the platforms 
 were hurrying with suburban passengers. The 
 incessant movement through the blue glare of 
 the electric light dazed his unaccustomed eyes 
 He declined the porter's offer. Cabs were 
 a luxury he could ill afford. Besides, one 
 meagre Gladstone bag contained his whole pos- 
 256 
 
Knight-Errant 
 
 sessions, and he could easily carry it. Leaving 
 the station, he took an omnibus for Victoria, 
 with the idea of seeking his old Pimlico lodg- 
 ings. If he could not be taken in there, it 
 would not be difficult to find a room in the 
 neighbourhood. Still confused by the sudden 
 transition to the midst of the roar of London, 
 he peered through the glass sides at the wet 
 pavements glistening in the gaslight, the shop 
 fronts, the eternal hurrying by of vague forms, 
 and the dash past of vehicles. From West- 
 minster Bridge the face of Big Ben greeted 
 him. He stared at it stupidly as long as he 
 could see it. The light on the Clock Tower 
 announced that the House was sitting. It 
 was all curiously familiar, and yet he felt like 
 an alien. There was not a soul in London to 
 welcome his home-coming. His heart sank 
 with the sense of loneliness. He was as infini- 
 tesimal and as isolated a unit in this seething, 
 swarming ant-hill of humanity as amid the 
 starry solitudes of the African veldt. 
 
 As chance willed it, he found the house in 
 Pimlico in the same hands as before, and his 
 old room in the attics vacant. Nothing had 
 altered, except that it looked smaller and four 
 years shabbier. The same discoloured blind 
 *7 257 
 
Derelicts 
 
 hung before the window, the same fly-blown 
 texts adorned the walls. The same acrid smell 
 of dust and ashes and earth and the unaired 
 end of all human things met his nostrils. 
 When he went to sleep that night, it seemed 
 incredible that four years should have passed 
 since he had last lain there. 
 
 In a day or two the strangeness wore off. 
 London is in a Londoner's blood. No matter 
 how long his exile, life there comes to him 
 as naturally as swimming does to a swimmer 
 after years of non-practice. He remembered 
 how he had yearned for its sights and sounds 
 and stimulating movement. Now they were 
 his again, and he took a measure of content. 
 His first care was to provide himself with 
 some clothes ; his next, to visit the publishers. 
 A cordial reception gratified him. The book 
 was bound to have some success. The manu- 
 script was in the printer's hands. Publication 
 was announced for the spring. Joyce went 
 home lighter-hearted after the interview. It 
 was delightful to be treated as an intellectual 
 man once more. His prospects too were not 
 so very gloomy. With the little capital he had 
 brought back from South Africa and the j£8o 
 for his book, he saw himself saved from starva- 
 258 
 
Knight-Errant 
 
 tion for two years, if he lived very, very hum- 
 bly on a little over a pound a week. Meanwhile 
 he could earn something by occasional odds 
 and ends of writing, and also complete his 
 second novel. He arranged his scheme of life 
 as he walked along. He would leave his lodg- 
 ing punctually at a certain hour after breakfast, 
 walk to the British Museum, write all day in 
 the Reading Room, dine, walk home, and write 
 or read in the evenings until it was time for 
 bed. 
 
 Thus, as ever, his sensitive nature reflected 
 the little ray of hope. But, as usual, it was 
 soon eclipsed by the darkening shadow in his 
 soul, although he set to work with dogged 
 determination. The prospect of life-long soli- 
 tude appalled him. It was the terrible part of 
 his never-ending punishment. To a nature 
 like his, companionship and sympathy are es- 
 tentials of development. Without them it 
 withers like a parched plant. And yet he 
 dreaded making new acquaintances, on account 
 of the shame that would inevitably follow if his 
 identity and history leaked out. He accepted 
 loneliness as his portion. There were only 
 two people in England whom, knowing his 
 story, he could trust to shake him by the hand 
 259 
 
Derelicts 
 
 — Yvonne and the actor McKay. The latter 
 was necessarily lost in the obscurities of his 
 roving profession. Yvonne was married to his 
 cousin, moving in the sphere to which beyond 
 all others he was rigorously denied access. 
 One day, however, when the memory of her 
 sweet kind face came back to him, and he 
 yearned for its bright sympathy, he wrote to 
 her at Fulminster. 
 
 He felt somewhat cheered after he had de- 
 spatched the letter. And as comfortings often 
 come in pairs, he was further cheered by see- 
 ing in an evening paper which he bought from 
 a stand near the pillar-box, a general article he 
 had sent up two or three days before. It was 
 an encouraging beginning. At any rate, Lon- 
 don streets were more stimulating to his intel- 
 lectual powers than the dull, deadening life of 
 the African farm. He made many good reso- 
 lutions during these first days in London. He 
 would win back his lost scholarship, begin to 
 form a humble library. On his way home 
 he bought out of a fourpenny box an old 
 copy of Plato's " Republic." He sat up halt 
 the night reading it. 
 
 To his surprise and disappointment, instead 
 of a letter coming from Yvonne, his own was 
 260 
 
Knight-Errant 
 
 returned through the Dead Letter Office. 
 " Left Fulminster two years ago — present ad- 
 dress unknown." He was puzzled. At the 
 the Museum he consulted the Clergy List for 
 the year. According to it, Canon Chisely was 
 still Rector of Fulminster. What had hap- 
 pened to Yvonne ? 
 
 " It must be some silly mistake," he said to 
 himself. He wrote again ; but with the same 
 result. He thought of writing to Everard, but 
 reflected that he too must be ignorant of 
 Yvonne's address ; also that in any case, per- 
 haps, he would disregard his letter. There 
 was some mystery. Both his affection for 
 Yvonne and the novelty of a curiosity outside 
 himself spurred his interest. A day or two 
 afterwards, he noticed on a hoarding an adver- 
 tisement of cheap excursion trains to the great 
 provincial town next to Fulminster. The jour- 
 ney would be very inexpensive. Why should 
 he not go down and pick up what information 
 he could ? The idea of the little excitement 
 pleased him. 
 
 He started the next morning at a very early 
 
 hour, and arrived at Fulminster about noon. 
 
 The place was well known to him. He had 
 
 often visited his cousin in days gone by. 
 
 a6i 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Many bitter-sweet associations crowded upon 
 him as be walked up from the station through 
 the streets. 
 
 He went on, without any definite idea as to 
 his course of action. Almost mechanically he 
 bent his steps toward the old abbey, whose 
 spire rose above the housetops, at the end of 
 the High Street. Soon the great mass towered 
 above him. He stood for a while looking up- 
 wards at the wealth of tracery, and crocket, and 
 pinnacle, feeling its beauty, and then wandered 
 idly round. At last his eye fell upon a notice 
 on the board by the vestry door. It was 
 signed "J. Abdy, Rector ; "other notices bore 
 the same signature. This was a new ( surprise. 
 Wondering what had occurred, he left the 
 Abbey Close and proceeded round the familiar 
 path to the front door of the Rectory. He 
 would take the bull by the horns. 
 
 " Is the Rector in ? " he asked the servant 
 who opened to him. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Could I see him for a moment ? " 
 
 " What name, sir ? " 
 
 " Chisely," said Joyce, instinctively, then he 
 coloured. It was odd that he should have 
 been taken off his guard. 
 262 
 
Knight-Errant 
 
 The servant showed him into the library. 
 A glance proved that Everard no longer in- 
 habited it. No trace of the dilettante was 
 visible in its homely comfort. Presently the 
 door opened, and the Rector, a kindly grey- 
 bearded man, entered the room. Joyce made 
 his apology for intrusion. 
 
 " I came down expecting to find Canon 
 Chisely. I am a distant relation of his, not 
 long come from abroad." 
 
 " I fear you have come on a vain errand," 
 said the Rector with a smile. " He took over 
 his diocese in New Zealand some months ago." 
 
 " His diocese ? " repeated Joyce. 
 
 " Dear me, have n't you heard ? Canon 
 Chisely accepted the bishopric of Taroofa at 
 the beginning of the year." 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! " said Joyce, 
 nonplussed. But the other took his remark 
 literally. 
 
 " Yes, it is singular. Most people think he 
 has thrown himself away. A very able man, 
 you know — quite young. He might have 
 had an English bishopric if he had waited." 
 
 " And Mrs. Chisely ? " asked Joyce, 
 interrogatively. 
 
 The Rector raised a deprecative hand. 
 263 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "That's where the whole trouble came in, 
 apparently. It weighed on his mind — a very 
 proud man. He took the first chance that 
 offered." 
 
 " Pardon my questioning you," said Joyce, 
 " but I am quite in the dark as to what you 
 are referring to. The last letter, two years 
 back, that I received from Mrs. Chisely was 
 dated from here. She was happily married 
 and all that. I am an old friend of hers. 
 What has happened ? " 
 
 " I can only repeat the gossip, Mr. Chisely. 
 It seems that just about then some misfortune 
 arose — a first husband of Mrs. Chisely's, 
 supposed dead, turned up, and so there was 
 a separation." 
 
 " And where is Mrs. Chisely now ? " 
 
 " That 's more than I can say. A lady — 
 a great friend of mine — also I believe a con- 
 nexion of your own — " 
 
 " Mrs. Winstanley ? " 
 
 " The same. I see you know her. She 
 may be able to inform you. I believe she has 
 said authoritatively that the late Mrs. Chisely 
 went back to her former husband." 
 
 "That I can't believe," said Joyce, 
 
 indignantly. 
 
 261 
 
Knight-Errant 
 
 cc I can only give you what I hear," said the 
 Rector, placidly. " I know Bishop Chisely 
 went to Paris, where they were supposed to be, 
 before starting for New Zealand. But Mrs. 
 Winstanley will tell you. ,, 
 
 " I think I know enough," said Joyce, hur- 
 riedly, and rising from his chair. " I am greatly 
 indebted to you for your kindness, Mr. Abdy." 
 
 " Can I offer you some lunch ? It will be 
 on the table in a moment." 
 
 Joyce declined, pleaded a train. He would 
 have liked to sit with this kind gossipy old 
 man, but he could not accept such hospitality 
 under false pretences. Perhaps it was well 
 that he acted thus, for later in the afternoon 
 the Rector described his visitor to Mrs. Win- 
 stanley. She listened for some time, and at 
 last broke out : — 
 
 " Why, my dear Mr. Abdy, it could have 
 been no one else than the convict cousin f 
 He must have come to get money out of 
 Everard." 
 
 " Dear me," said Mr. Abdy, arresting his 
 hand in a downward stroke of his beard. 
 " Who would have thought it ? He seemed 
 such a gentlemanly fellow. And I asked him 
 to lunch 1 " 
 
 265 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I '11 write and put the dear Bisnop on his 
 guard," said Mrs Winstanley, virtuously. 
 
 Meanwhile, Joyce went away full of wonder 
 and pity. It was an amazing story. Poor 
 Yvonne ! He could not believe that she had 
 returned to the scamp of a first husband. 
 The thought was repulsive. At any rate 
 communication between Everard and Yvonne 
 seemed to have been cut off. He was not 
 very sorry for Everard. 
 
 " A little trouble will do him good," he 
 muttered to himself. And he found a certain 
 grim amusement in the contemplation of the 
 chastened Bishop, his cousin. But he felt a 
 great concern for- poor fragile little Yvonne 
 cast adrift again upon the world. " I will find 
 out what has become of her, at any rate," he 
 said, digging his stick into the road. 
 
 The natural course was to write to Miss 
 Geraldine Vicary, whose address he fortunately 
 remembered. If she had lost count of Yvonne, 
 he would set to work to find her some other 
 way. He felt as eager now to recover Yvonne's 
 friendship as he had been apathetic before. 
 To lose no time, while waiting for the early 
 return excursion train, he went into a post- 
 office and wrote and despatched his letter. 
 266 
 
Knight-Errant ^ 
 
 The following morning he resumed his 
 newly schemed out life of literary work. Three 
 days passed and no reply came from Miss 
 Vicary. On the fourth morning he received a 
 black-edged envelope bearing the Swansea post- 
 mark. He opened it and read : — 
 
 Dear Sir, — Your letter to Miss Geraldine 
 Vicary was, according to instructions, forwarded 
 to me. I regret to inform you that my poor sister 
 died three weeks ago, of diphtheria. She caught the 
 disease whilst nursing the lady concerning whom, I 
 believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had been living 
 with her for the past two years. Shortly after my 
 poor sister's death, Madame Latour was removed to 
 St. Mary's Hospital, where, as far as I know, she 
 still lies very ill. 
 
 Trusting this sad information may be of service to 
 you, 
 
 I am yours faithfully, 
 
 Henrietta Dasent. 
 
 Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted 
 his breakfast, and rushed out into the street, 
 with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and 
 uncared for, dying in a London hospital — it 
 was incredible. The apparent heartlessness of 
 the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of 
 all interest in her dead sister's dying friend, 
 267 
 
Derelicts 
 
 made his blood boil. A London hospital 
 — an open common ward, with medical stu- 
 dents chattering round — it was a cruel place 
 for the sweet delicate woman he remembered 
 as Yvonne. Where were all her friends ? 
 
 In the dismay, excitement, and indignation 
 of the moment, he forgot his poverty, and 
 jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw. 
 
 " St. Mary's Hospital, quick ! " 
 
 And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life 
 and death, went at a breakneck pace. 
 
 2t>* 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 LA CIGALE 
 
 Seeing Yvonne at that time of the morning 
 was out of the question. But he penetrated to 
 the landing outside the ward and had a few 
 words with the sister in charge. She was a 
 fresh, pleasant-faced woman, who, having fallen 
 in love with Yvonne, felt kindly disposed 
 toward her friends. 
 
 Madame Latour was slowly recovering. One 
 of the most lingering of the sequelae of diph- 
 theria, diphtheritic paralysis, had set in. It 
 was her larynx and left arm that were affected. 
 At present she was suffering from general 
 weakness. It would be some time yet before 
 she could be moved. 
 
 "Do you think I could see her?" asked 
 Joyce — "that is to say, if she would care 
 about it." 
 
 " Certainly," replied the sister. " It would 
 probably do her good. To-day is a visiting 
 day — after two o'clock." 
 269 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I wonder whether she would like it," said 
 Joyce, questioningly. 
 
 " I will take her a message," said the sister. 
 
 He scribbled a few words on a scrap of 
 paper and handed it to her. She retired and 
 presently returned, smiling. 
 
 " She will be delighted. I have not seen 
 her look like that since she has been here. 
 'Tell him it will be a joy to see him/ Those 
 were her words." 
 
 Joyce thanked her warmly, raised his hat, 
 and departed. It was a fine crisp morning. 
 The message seemed to bring a breath of some- 
 thing sweet into the air. He walked along 
 almost buoyantly in spite of the sad plight of 
 Yvonne. The appalling weight of loneliness 
 was lifted from his shoulders. The sight of 
 him would be a joy to one living creature. It 
 was a new conception, and it winged his feet. 
 
 On the stroke of two the great doors of the 
 ward opened, and he entered with a group of 
 visitors, chiefly women of the poorer classes, 
 some carrying babies. It was bewildering at 
 first — the long double row of beds, each with 
 its pale, wistful woman's face. Some of the 
 patients were sitting up, with shawls or wraps 
 270 
 
La Cigale 
 
 around them ; the greater number lay back on 
 their pillows, turning eyes of languid interest 
 towards the visitors. Two beds curtained 
 round broke the uniformity of the two white 
 lines of bedsteads. At the end of the ward, a 
 great open fireplace, with glowing blocks of 
 coal, struck a note of cheerfulness in the grey 
 November light, that streamed through the 
 series of high windows. Joyce felt a man's 
 shyness in walking among these strange sick 
 women, and looked helplessly down the ward 
 from the doorway, to try to discover Yvonne. 
 The sister came to his help from a neighbouring 
 bedside. 
 
 "At the very end. The last bed on the 
 left." 
 
 Joyce walked down the druggetted aisle, and 
 as soon as he saw her and knew himself to be 
 recognised, he quickened his pace. 
 
 There she was, half sitting in the bed, 
 propped up by pillows, her wavy dark hair 
 like a nimbus around her pale face. In hon- 
 our of the visit she had done up her hair, with 
 infinite difficulty, poor ohild, and put on a 
 pretty white dressing-jacket tied with knots of 
 crimson ribbon. His heart was smitten with 
 pity. She was so changed, so wasted. Her 
 271 
 
Derelicts 
 
 delicate features were pinched, her childlike 
 lips blanched. Only the old Yvonne's eyes 
 remained — the great, pathetic, winning dark 
 eyes. They gave him glad and grateful 
 welcome. 
 
 " Yvonne." 
 
 It was all he could find in his head to say 
 as he pressed her little thin hand. 
 
 " How good of you to come to see me," 
 she said. 
 
 Joyce was unprepared. It was not Yvonne's 
 voice — once as sweet in speech as in sing- 
 ing ; but a toneless, distressed sound devoid of 
 quality, like that of a cracked silver bell. He 
 could not conceal the shadow of dismay on his 
 face. She was quick to note it. 
 
 " I am afraid I speak like a wicked old 
 raven," she said with a smile ; " but you 
 mustn't mind." 
 
 " I can't tell you how grieved I am to see 
 you like this," he said, sitting down by the 
 bedside. "You must have been very ill. 
 Poor Yvonne." 
 
 "Yes. Awfully ill. You would have been 
 
 quite sorry to see how ill I was. Do you 
 
 mind moving your chair further down, so that 
 
 I can look at you ? I can't turn my head, you 
 
 272 
 
La Cigale 
 
 know. Is n't it silly not to be able to turn 
 one's head ? " 
 
 "You must make haste and get well," he 
 said, after he had complied with her request. 
 
 " I 'm afraid I can't," she said, looking at 
 him wistfully. " They all say it's going to be 
 a long, long business. But I want to know 
 how you came here — to England, I mean," 
 she added more brightly, after a pause. "It 
 was such a startling surprise when Sister 
 brought me your note this morning. Why 
 have you left Africa? I've been dying to 
 know all day." 
 
 Joyce sketched rapidly the events that had 
 led him back — the death of Noakes, the year 
 of wretched apathy, the purchase of his book 
 by the publishers, the craving for civilisation. 
 
 " So I sold out and came home," he con- 
 cluded. " I have been back a fortnight." 
 
 " You must have been very sad at losing 
 your friend," said Yvonne. " Death is an 
 awful, awful thing. Have you ever thought 
 of it ? A person is living and feeling, like you 
 and me, to-day — and to-morrow — gone — 
 out of the world — for ever and ever." 
 
 Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked 
 at him out of great, awe-stricken eyes. 
 18 273 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I have lost my dear friend too - — just 
 lately. Did you know ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replied gently. " I wrote to her 
 for your address and her sister answered the 
 letter, telling me of her death." 
 
 " Was n't it terrible ? And she so bright 
 and brave and strong. I never loved anybody 
 as I loved her. It was only after she was bur- 
 ied that I knew — and then I wished I had 
 died instead — I who am no good to any one 
 at all. And I am alive. Is n't it an awful 
 mystery ? " 
 
 The man's eyes fell for a moment beneath 
 the intense, child-like earnestness of hers. 
 Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his 
 arm and took her hand that rested outside the 
 coverlet. A man is often instinctively driven 
 to express his sympathy by touch, where a 
 woman would find words. 
 
 After a while she withdrew her hand gently, 
 as if to break the current of thoughts, 
 
 " I was wondering why you looked differ- 
 ent," she said. " You have grown a beard." 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a sudden laugh — the 
 transition was so abrupt. " I was too slack to 
 shave in South Africa. Don't you like it ? " 
 
 " Oh, not at all. It spoils you." 
 2/4 
 
La Cigale 
 
 " I will cut it off at once." 
 
 " Not just to please me ? " 
 
 "Just to please you. It will be a new 
 sensation." 
 
 "To have it off?" 
 
 " No — to please you, Yvonne." 
 
 Her eyes smiled gratefully at him. 
 
 " Tell me when I must go," he said, after a 
 while. " I must n't tire you. And you may 
 have other visitors." 
 
 " Don't go yet. No one else will come." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 "You are the only person who has been to 
 see me since I was brought here," she replied 
 sadly. 
 
 Joyce looked at her for a moment incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " Do you mean to say you have been quite 
 alone here, among strangers, all these weeks ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. " But Sister is kind to me, 
 and they allow me all sorts of little indulgences." 
 
 " But you should be among loving friends, 
 Yvonne," said Joyce. 
 
 " I have so few. And I have told no one 
 that I am here. I couldn 't. Besides, whom 
 could I tell ? " 
 
 Joyce could not understand. It was so 
 275 
 
Derelicts 
 
 strange for Yvonne to be friendless. Delicacy 
 forbade him to question further. 
 
 " I have had a lot of trouble, you know," 
 silt said. " It has been nearly all trouble for 
 over two years. I wrote and told you what 
 had happened. Then I went to live with 
 Geraldine Vicary, and began to sing again. 
 But I was always being laid up with my throat 
 and I never knew whether I could fulfil an 
 engagement when I made it — so I didn't 
 get on as I used to. People won't employ you 
 if they fear you may have to throw them over 
 at the last moment, will they ? And Geraldine 
 used ro keep me in a great deal, for fear I 
 should hurt my voice. But, you see, I had 
 to make some money. So I went out and 
 sang just before this illness, when I ought not, 
 and my throat became inflamed and I caught 
 another cold, and it got worse and worse until 
 diphtheria came on. Then poor Dina caught 
 it and there was no one to nurse me. You 
 could n't expect her sister, who did n't know 
 me, to do much, could you ? And then Dina 
 was just giving up her flat, and of course I 
 couldn't keep it on — so the doctor thought 
 I had better come here. J'y suis,fy reste 
 It is not a gay little story, is it ? " 
 
 2J6 
 
La Cigale 
 
 " It is a heart-rending story altogether," 
 said Joyce, with a concerned puckering of the 
 forehead. " I wish I could do something to 
 brighten you, Yvonne." 
 
 " You have done so," she said with a smile, 
 " by coming to see me. How good of you 
 to remember — and, you know, by your not 
 writing, I thought you had quite forgotten." 
 
 " Forgive me, Yvonne — a kind of dull 
 brutishness came over me — I couldn't." 
 
 " And I could n't either, after the one I 
 wrote — about my trouble — at Fulminster. 
 You never answered it, and I thought — It 
 was n't because you despised me, was it ? " 
 
 " I did n't get the letter, Yvonne," he said, 
 unable to disregard this second reference as he 
 had done the first. " It must have been the one I 
 heard was lost. I will explain afterwards. I 
 thought you were happy at Fulminster — so 
 why should I inflict my eternal grumblings on 
 you ? " 
 
 "Then don't you know what has hap- 
 pened ? " asked Yvonne, with wider eyes and 
 a little quiver of the lip. 
 
 " I learned it a few days ago. I went to 
 Fulminster to find you, as my letters were 
 returned to me through the Post Office. I 
 277 
 
Derelicts 
 
 was determined to discover you, but I never 
 dreamed of finding you here. I came as soon 
 I got the news this morning." 
 
 " I have one friend left," said Yvonne. 
 
 " And you shall always have him, if you will/ 
 said Joyce. " You are the only one he has." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Yvonne. 
 
 Though the sweet voice was broken and 
 hard, there was the same tender pity in the 
 words as when she had uttered them four years 
 back, on their first re-meeting. 
 
 " We are two lonesome bodies, are n't we? " 
 she added. 
 
 "We'll do our best to comfort each other," 
 said Joyce. 
 
 The visiting hour was nearly at an end, and 
 the ward was growing silent again. The sister 
 came down the aisle and stood by Yvonne's 
 bed and smoothed her pillows. 
 
 " You have had quite enough talking for one 
 day," she said pleasantly. "It has given you 
 quite a colour — but we must n't overdo it." 
 
 Joyce rose to take his leave. 
 
 <c I may come again, the next time ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Would you ? " said Yvonne, with an eager 
 look. 
 
 278 
 
La Cigale 
 
 " I would come to-morrow — every day, if 
 they would let me," he said with conviction. 
 
 He shook hands with her and walked away. 
 At the end of the ward he turned, looked back 
 And saw the mass of black against the white 
 pillow and the specks of crimson that showed 
 Yvonne. He hated leaving her among stran- 
 gers and the rough comforts of an open ward 
 in a hospital. An odd feeling of personal 
 responsibility was mingled with his resentment 
 against the freaks of fortune — an irrational 
 sense of mean-spiritedness in letting her lie 
 there. 
 
 He went back to his work, cheered and 
 strengthened within ; but his outlook on life 
 was darkened by one more shadow of the inex- 
 orable cruelty of fate. That he should have 
 suffered — well and good. It was a penalty he 
 was paying. But Yvonne, the sweetest, inno- 
 centest soul alive — why should her head be 
 brought low f And thus the pages that he 
 wrote grew darker by the shadow. 
 
 A fortnight passed, during which he saw her 
 as often as the visiting hours allowed. He 
 brought her whatever little trifles he could 
 afford, and she accepted them with the eagei 
 gratification of a child. There was a second- 
 279 
 
Derelicts 
 
 hand bookshop he had come across during his 
 late wanderings, in Upper Street, Islington, 
 which had a speciality in cheap, tattered French 
 novels. Thither he tramped one day in order 
 to gratify a desire she had expressed, and spent 
 an hour turning over the stock. It seemed 
 hard not to be able to go into a West End 
 shop and order the newest Paris fiction ; but 
 a poor devil must do as best he can and be 
 cheerful. Yvonne's delight repaid him for 
 wounded pride. She dipped into them all, 
 while he was there, turning to the last page 
 to see how they ended. And then the rakish 
 air their soiled yellow covers gave to the bed, 
 as they sprawled upon it, amused them both. 
 
 They talked of many things. Yvonne in- 
 terested herself in the patients and gossiped 
 about their progress and their eccentricities. 
 Often her artless candour and innate love or 
 laughter gave him details unfit perhaps for ears 
 masculine. Then she would catch herself up, 
 while a faint tinge of colour came into her 
 cheek, and with still smiling eyes, say : 
 
 " I always forget that you 're a man. You 
 lught to remind me." 
 
 Joyce, for his part, strove to amuse her with 
 whatever gleams of brightness he could find in 
 280 
 
La Cigale 
 
 his colonial adventures. Noakes grew to be 
 the hero of an Arthurian cycle. As for the 
 fat Boer woman, he was surprised at the 
 amount of grim humour he extracted from 
 her doings. 
 
 " I hope you are going to put it in a book," 
 Yvonne would say, with her little air of wis- 
 dom. " You must n't waste it all upon me." 
 
 And Joyce, by thus disintegrating incidents 
 from his confused mass of impressions, found 
 the talks of material benefit as well as a delight. 
 For a delight they were ; the more so, because 
 Yvonne's gladness at his visits was so obviously 
 genuine and spontaneous. She told him that 
 she counted the hours between them. And 
 Yvonne scarcely exaggerated. His visits were 
 bright spots in a sorrowful, fear-haunted time. 
 When he came, she summoned up all her 
 strength and courage so as to make the hour 
 pass pleasantly. Men do not like crying, com- 
 plaining women, thought poor Yvonne. Un- 
 less she was bright for him, he might grow 
 tired of coming, and then she would be lone- 
 lier than before. So Yvonne told him little of 
 the anxieties that lay like a dead weight upon 
 her poor little soul and kept her awake at 
 nights, amid the moans of the sleeping women, 
 281 
 
Derelicts 
 
 that sounded faint and ghostly in the dim 
 ward. 
 
 Her patient acceptance of her lot won Joyce'- 
 admiration. But of her real position he had 
 no idea. The gentleman in him that had sur- 
 vived his shame and degradation forbade him 
 to pry into her private affairs. Besides, he 
 took it for granted that when she recovered, 
 she would live by herself again, in the old way, 
 and that her drawing-room would be a haven 
 of rest to him for indefinite years. The ques- 
 tion of nursing alone, he thought, and her in- 
 comprehensible friendlessness, had brought her 
 to the hospital. He longed for her to leave it. 
 
 One day, however, he found her lying down 
 in bed, her hair in dark loose masses over the 
 pillow, her face turned away towards the sister 
 who was sitting by her side. The latter rose 
 on seeing him, and hurried forward to meet 
 him in the aisle. 
 
 " Be as kind as you can to her," she said ; 
 "she is in great trouble to-day, poor little 
 thing." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Joyce, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " Let her speak for herself. I was to send 
 you away when you came. She was not fit to 
 282 
 
La Cigale 
 
 see you, she said. But I am sure it will com- 
 fort her to talk to a friend/' 
 
 The sister moved away, and Joyce ap 
 proached Yvonne's bedside with quick steps. 
 Something serious must have happened. 
 
 Yvonne raised a wan, desolate face and eyes 
 heavy with crying, and put out her hand 
 timidly from beneath the bedclothes. He 
 retained it, as he sat down upon the chair 
 just vacated by the sister. The few little 
 cakes he had brought her he placed on the 
 stand near by. She looked too woe-begone 
 for cakes. 
 
 " I have come in spite of your message," 
 he said. " Why did you want to send me 
 . 
 
 " I am too miserable," murmured Yvonne, 
 in her broken voice. 
 
 " What has happened to make you miser- 
 able ? " he asked very softly. " Tell me, if it 
 is anything I can hear." 
 
 " It 's my voice that has gone," cried Yvonne 
 in a sob. " They told me this morning — the 
 doctor brought a throat specialist — I shall 
 never be able to sing again — never." 
 
 Before this sudden calamity the man was 
 powerless for comfort. 
 
 283 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " My poor little woman ! " he said. 
 
 " It is worse than losing a limb," moaned 
 Yvonne. "I have been dreading it — hoping 
 against hope all along. I wished I had died 
 instead of Dina. I wish I could die now." 
 
 The tears came again. She drew away her 
 hand and dabbed her eyes with a miserable 
 little wet rag of a handkerchief. 
 
 " Don't," said Joyce, helplessly. " If you 
 give way you will make yourself worse. They 
 may be mistaken. Perhaps it will come again 
 after a year or two." 
 
 He strove to cheer her, brought forward all 
 the arguments he could think of, all the tender 
 phrases his unaccustomed mind could suggest. 
 At last the tears ceased for a time. 
 
 " But it is my means of livelihood gone," 
 she said. " When I leave here I shall starve." 
 
 " Not while I live," said Joyce, impulsively. 
 Then he reflected. Surely she could not be 
 entirely without means. He coloured slightly 
 at his remark, as at an impertinence. 
 
 " I shall never get any money any more 
 as long as I live," said Yvonne. " I can only 
 go from this hospital into the workhouse. And 
 I won't go there. I will pray to die rather." 
 
 ** But,"- began Joyce, in an embarrassed way, 
 284 
 
La Cigale 
 
 " I don't understand. Forgive me for touch- 
 ing upon it — but has not Everard — ? " 
 
 " No, oh, no ! I refused. I could n't take 
 his money, if I was not his wife." 
 
 " That 's absurd," said Joyce. But his 
 opinion did not alter the facts. He remained 
 for a moment in thought. " Don't lose 
 heart," he said at length. " Things are never 
 as bad as they seem. I've had awfully bad 
 times and yet I have pulled through, some- 
 how. You can live quietly for a little on 
 what you have, and then — " 
 
 " But I have n't a penny, Stephen," she cried 
 piteously. " Not a penny in the world. I 
 earned scarcely anything the last year. If it 
 hadn't been for Dina, I don't know what I 
 should have done. I don't own anything but 
 a few sticks of furniture and some clothes — " 
 
 "Where are they ? " 
 
 "The porter's wife at the mansions is keep- 
 ing them for me, I believe. They may be 
 sold. I was too ill to trouble." 
 
 " I '11 see about them for you," said Joyce. 
 
 His heart was moved with great pity for 
 
 the sweet, helpless little soul. It seemed hard 
 
 to realise that, when they had met four years 
 
 ago, he had looked upon her as a Lady Boun- 
 
 285 
 
Derelicts 
 
 tiful, who had only to stretch out her kind 
 arm to save him from starvation. Oh, the 
 whirligig of time ! And yet the memory of 
 her help was very precious to him. 
 
 " You must let me act for you, Yvonne, will 
 you ? " 
 
 " You have your own troubles, poor fellow," 
 said Yvonne. 
 
 "Yours will drive mine away, so they will 
 be a blessing in disguise. I wonder if you 
 could trust me ? " 
 
 " I have always done so — and I do. 
 Are n't you the only friend I have ? " 
 
 "That is what beats me entirely," he said. 
 " What are all your friends doing ? " 
 
 " They have all disappeared gradually," said 
 Yvonne. " My poor marriage cut me adrift 
 from my old circle. And at Fulminster — I 
 did n't make many real friends." 
 
 " There was a girl you wrote to me about 
 once or twice." 
 
 " Sophia Wilmington ? She 's married and 
 gone out to India. I should have written to 
 her if she had been in England, for she was 
 fond of me." 
 
 " I should have thought that the whole 
 world was fond of you, Yvonne." 
 286 
 
La Cigale 
 
 " I don't know," she said wistfully. " Ii 
 seems that I have always been a kind of wait. 
 I never had any solid kinds of friends, families 
 and so forth — except your dear mother. I 
 once knew a lot of professionals — but I saw 
 men mostly — I could never tell why — and 
 they don't bother about you much when 
 they 've lost sight of you, do they ? I thought 
 Vandeleur might have wondered what had be- 
 come of me." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " said Joyce, reflectively. " I 
 remember Vandeleur from the long ago." 
 
 " Yes, he 's an old friend. But, you see, it 
 was through Dina. He behaved badly to her 
 and married Elsie Carnegie — and so they 
 were cuts. I only saw him once all last year. 
 I heard she was awfully jealous. Is n't it silly 
 of a woman ? I think, if he knew I was here 
 he 'd come. But what would be the use ? " 
 
 " Not much, except to say a friendly word 
 to you. But still — while you were living 
 with Miss Vicary, you must have made some 
 acquaintances. It seems so extraordinary." 
 
 " We lived so very much alone," explained 
 Yvonne. " Poor Dina did n't know many 
 people — no one liked her. With one excep- 
 tion — and he died long ago — I think I am 
 287 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the only one in the world who ever loved 
 Dina. No — I am just a waif — that's what 
 I am." 
 
 In her simple way she had accounted to 
 him accurately for her life since her rupture 
 with Everard. At first she had been too sore 
 at heart to go much into the world. Then 
 Geraldine, whose influence with her was para- 
 mount, continually discouraged her from re- 
 newing old acquaintanceships. Her friends 
 had literally melted away. Had she so chosen, 
 she might have interested in her misfortunes a 
 score of professional well-wishers. But Yvonne 
 was proud in many unexpected ways, and 
 would have died rather than have the shame 
 of sending the hat round for relief. As for 
 communicating with Fulminster, it was not 
 to be thought of. 
 
 " I don't care," she added, after a pause ; " I 
 have found you again." 
 
 "Then dry your poor eyes," he said com- 
 fortingly; "and don't think anymore of the 
 worries. Don't you remember how happy 
 you made me once, when I was in desperate 
 straits — when all the world cast me off but 
 you ? You are still the only being who knows 
 me and cares whether I live or die. You are 
 288 
 
La Cigale 
 
 neither going to starve, Yvonne, nor die in a 
 
 workhouse. As long as I have a penny you 
 
 have half of it. Don't think of any- 
 
 r more than the immediate future, little 
 
 an. We will manage that all right. Be 
 
 brted." 
 
 He spoke earnestly, leaning forward with 
 
 arm on the bed. The precariousness of 
 
 own fortunes scarcely occurred to him. 
 
 -ie was deeply moved. At that moment he 
 
 would have cut off his right hand for her. 
 
 Yvonne thanked him with her eyes, which 
 grew very soft and grateful. His man's 
 strength brought her comfort. She trusted 
 him implicitly, as she had all her life trusted 
 those who were kind to her. She closed her 
 eyes for a moment with a little sigh of relief. 
 She was so content to yield to the generous 
 hand that was taking the terrible burden from 
 her shoulders, felt as if she could go to sleep 
 like a tired child. When she opened her eyes 
 they were almost smiling. 
 
 I '11 try to be happy again, so as to thank 
 *~ou, Stephen," she said. 
 
 ' Well, here is something for you — what 
 you like — eat one to show me you are 
 comforted/' 
 
 19 289 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He put the paper bag into her hand, and, 
 tilting back his chair, watched her pleased 
 expression as she peeped into the mouth and 
 drew out one of the cakes. 
 
 " Oh, how sweet of you ! '* she said, with * 
 flash of her old sunlight. 
 
 Suddenly he rose, and stood, hands in pocket/,, 
 by the window, frowning absently at the gath- 
 ering mist of evening outside. A conviction 
 was forcing itself on his mind — a cold douche 
 for his quixotic impulses. Obvious right and 
 common-sense prevailed. 
 
 "Yvonne," he said turning round. "You 
 had no quarrel with Everard, had you, at 
 parting ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," she replied, looking up round- 
 eyed from her paper-bag. "He was very kind 
 to me." 
 
 " Have you written to him about this? " 
 
 " No. We arranged we should not corre- 
 spond. He sent me word when he was going 
 out to New Zealand. But I couldn't let 
 him know — I should be ashamed. Oh, no, 
 Stephen, I could n't write to him and say, c I 
 am a beggar now, please give me charity.' 
 Why should he support me ? " 
 
 "I hate questioning you," said Joyce in 
 29c 
 
La Cigale 
 
 some embarrassment, "but — is it repugnant 
 to you to — to think of Everard ? " 
 
 "Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a 
 time of awful pain and misery — but if he 
 came to take me back as his wife, I would go 
 to him. If he ever can, I have promised that 
 I will." 
 
 With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was 
 taken aback by her simple candour. 
 
 " If that is so, why on earth shrink from 
 reconsidering, now, his former offer ? " he asked, 
 exceedingly puzzled at her point of view. 
 
 " You tell me what I ought to do, and I 
 will do it," said Yvonne. 
 
 "You must write to Everard." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 " Then you need not have any fears at all 
 for the future. It will be all so simple." 
 
 " How can I thank you ? " said Yvonne. 
 " Oh, if I could only sing for you ! But 
 nothing will ever give me back my voice — I 
 am a useless little creature. And you have 
 been so good to me to-day. I shall never for- 
 get it all my life." 
 
 But Joyce's heart was at ebb-tide again. 
 He rose soon, anpl took his hat and stick. 
 
 " There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,' 
 291 
 
Derelicts 
 
 he said, with bitterness. "What I have 
 done for you has cost me nothing — the 
 cheapest of all services ; I have only given 
 you advice." 
 
 Yvonne looked at him wistfully. 
 
 "If you talk like that, you will make me 
 cry again." 
 
 " Forgive me," said Joyce. " I am a beast." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 YVONNE PROPOSES 
 
 It was night. Yvonne lay wide awake. A 
 suffused sound of breathing filled the air. 
 Now and then a moan or a smothered cry of 
 pain broke sharply upon the stillness. The 
 woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur 
 broken words in her sleep : " For the children's 
 sake, Joe — my poor little children — I wish 
 we was all dead." Some poor tragedy re- 
 enacting itself in slumber. Yvonne listened 
 pityingly. The woman had seemed as broken 
 down that day with misery as she herself. Then 
 silence again, and Yvonne fell back upon her 
 own tragedy, which seemed to be working 
 itself out in the staring wakeful hours. 
 
 She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, 
 and paper had been brought. The sister had 
 propped her up with pillows in a posture 
 especially comfortable for writing. But her 
 strength had failed her. To ask him for 
 money was more than her pride could do. 
 293 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Instead, she had written a long outpouring to 
 Joyce, which lay unposted under her pillow. 
 
 This pride was a seam of flint in her soft 
 nature. She would have returned to Everard 
 as his wife, willingly, gratefully, glad to lay her 
 tired head on his shoulder, and feel his strong 
 protection around her once more. But from 
 any one rather than him would she accept 
 charity. Illogical, irrational, absurd — but a 
 reality none the less in her heart. 
 
 Perhaps it was a protest of wounded sex. 
 If Everard had treated her differently on that 
 disastrous day, the quivering feminine might 
 have gone unscathed. But in his anger, pain, 
 and disillusion he had driven her wrongs 
 towards him into her flesh, almost like infideli- 
 ties. She was too generous to feel resentful. 
 An offer of remarriage would be a natural 
 acknowledgment of error. To accept his sup- 
 port, apart from him, stung her to the soul 
 with a sense of being cast off as faithless wife 
 or dishonest mistress, to whom, however, he 
 was forgivingly and charitably disposed. And 
 yet what was she to do ? Joyce would save 
 her from immediate want, but she could not 
 look to him for anything but temporary assist- 
 ance. More was preposterous. 
 294 
 
At 
 
 Yvonne Proposes 
 
 last she gave up thinking. Joyce, with 
 leverness, would see some way out of her 
 difficulties. Somewhat comforted, she fell 
 asleep. The next day was long and intensely 
 dismal. The more clearly she saw that Joyce's 
 counsel was the only course to follow, the more 
 hateful it seemed to her to write the letter. 
 She put it off from hour to hour. And then 
 e terrible blow that had befallen her weighed 
 upon her mind. She strove to realise herself 
 moving about the world without a voice. It 
 was as hard to grasp as the conception of 
 herself as a bodiless shade on the banks of 
 Acheron. When the elusiveness ceased, and 
 fhe reality loomed upon her in all its grimness, 
 she wept bitterly. The consequence was that, 
 in her still weak state, she broke down with the 
 mental worry, and, when Joyce next came, he 
 found her in a far worse s.ate than before. 
 She could scarcely move or speak. Letter- 
 riting was out of the question. By the 
 merest chance he learned, during the five min- 
 ' utes the sister allowed him to have with her, 
 that she had not yet written to Everard. 
 
 :f But the mail goes to-morrow," he said. 
 :c I have been making enquiries. If we don't 
 write now, we shall lose a month. Shall I 
 295 
 
Derelicts 
 
 write to Everard, seeing that your poor little 
 self is incapable ? M 
 
 She murmured assent, and sighed as if in 
 grateful relief. Joyce comforted her as best he 
 could and left her reluctantly. When he got 
 home, he vrote the letter, a bald statement of 
 facts to which he appended his signature and 
 the address of his lodgings. He sealed it, 
 directed it, in his nervous, characteristic hand- 
 writing and hurried out to post it at once. It 
 was a most disagreeable duty over, for to com- 
 municate with his cousin went sorely against 
 the grain. A pleasanter duty awaited him, as 
 coon as he could settle down to his evening's 
 work, the correction of the first batch of proofs 
 from the publishers. 
 
 In the course of time, Yvonne recovered her 
 spirits anc was on the mend again. Signs of 
 returning strength showed themselves in her 
 left arm, * iiich, together with the throat on that 
 side, had been affected by the disease. Her 
 speaking voice also began to regain some of its 
 old sweetness, though the surgeons confirmed 
 their statement that the singing voice was 
 irrevocably gone. 
 
 " Do say they are wrong," said Yvonne cast- 
 ing a pleading look at Joyce. 
 
 2Q6 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 " Perhaps they are," said he ; " let us hope." 
 
 "Then I may not need Everard's money, 
 after all." 
 
 " You will for a couple of years, at least," he 
 said kindly. " But you may be able to pay it 
 back afterwards." 
 
 This consoled her, and she began to build 
 great schemes. On another occasion she said 
 to him irrelevantly : — 
 
 " Do you think I ought to write to Everard ? " 
 She had raised him by this time to the position 
 of father confessor. A certain feminine weak- 
 ness in Joyce's nature, developing gradually, 
 through his intercourse with her, into a finer 
 sensitiveness, made it easy for her to give him 
 her confidence, to speak with him much as she 
 used to speak with Geraldine. And yet, he 
 being a man, his utterances on such questions, 
 had for her all their masculine weight. 
 
 " It is a matter entirely of your own inclina- 
 tion," he replied oracularly. 
 
 " But I don't know what my inclination is," 
 said Yvonne. " Everard once told me that it 
 was a much harder thing to know what one's 
 duty was than to do it when you know what 
 it is." 
 
 " He was plagiarising from George Eliot," 
 297 
 
Derelicts 
 
 said Joyce, not ill-pleased at a malicious hit at 
 the Bishop. And then, teasingly to Yvonne : 
 " And r m sure they both put it a little more 
 grammatically." 
 
 " I won't talk grammar," cried Yvonne. " I 
 always hated it. It is silly stuff. You under- 
 stood perfectly what I meant, did n't you ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," said Joyce. 
 
 "Then what's the good of grammar?" 
 cried Yvonne, triumphantly. " But you make 
 me forget what I was going to say. It was 
 something quite clever. Oh yes ! Substitute 
 c inclination ' for c duty,' and you have my 
 difficulty. Now do tell me what I am to do." 
 
 " Well, wait until you hear from Everard, 
 and then write him a nice long letter," said 
 Joyce. 
 
 " That 's just what I wanted to do," said 
 she ; " you are so good to me." 
 
 She was to leave the hospital in January. 
 The time was rapidly approaching. Much of 
 their time together was spent in the discussion 
 of plans for the immediate future. Yvonne 
 wanted to sell her furniture, which Joyce had 
 inspected and found in safe hands. He op- 
 posed the idea. What was the use, when slv 
 would want it again, as soon as she was com- 
 298 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 fortably situated? In three months she would 
 be in receipt of funds. Everard might cable 
 her back a remittance long before. In the 
 meantime, he could advance her a lump sum 
 out of his capital. 
 
 " Then you can take unfurnished rooms and 
 put in your own things at once. It will be 
 much cheaper. ,, 
 
 " But suppose I don't pay you back," said 
 Yvonne. " How can you make me? " 
 
 " I can suggest nothing but a bill of sale on 
 the furniture," he replied laughingly. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " Well, you sign a paper saying that if the 
 debt is not paid in three months, at the end of 
 that time I can put in the brokers and sell 
 your furniture and take all the money." 
 
 " Oh, that would be lovely ! " cried Yvonne. 
 " Do let me do it. I should feel so business- 
 like. Draw it up now and I '11 sign it." 
 
 " It will have to be registered," said Joyce. 
 
 " Well, register it then. What 's to prevent 
 you ? " 
 
 " I was only jesting," said Joyce. 
 
 " But I 'm quite serious. Don't you see 
 how serious I am ? Come — to please me." 
 
 The idea caught her childish fancy, and she 
 299 
 
Derelicts 
 
 spoke quite in her old, gay mood. She was 
 sitting up now, partially dressed, and, being 
 able to move her limbs more freely, reached 
 for writing materials that lay on the little table 
 by her bed. 
 
 "There, draw it up at once, as fearfully 
 legally as you can, with all kinds of c afore- 
 saids ' in it." 
 
 Joyce fell into her humour, and drew up the 
 document in due form, read it over to her 
 solemnly, and called one of the nurses to wit- 
 ness the signatures. Then he wrote out a 
 cheque for the amount of the loan, which 
 she locked up in her despatch-box. He went 
 away with the bill of sale in his pocket. On 
 his next visit he informed her that it had been 
 registered and that he would be a merciless 
 creditor. The frivolity of the proceedings 
 cheered him. 
 
 Meanwhile, the real problem of Yvonne's 
 arrangements presented itself. The idea of 
 going at once into unfurnished rooms was aban- 
 doned. She was far too weak and helpless as 
 yet for the worries of housekeeping. He sug- 
 gested a boarding-house. But Yvonne shrank 
 from the prospect of living among strangers. 
 
 " Besides, you could n't come and see me as 
 200 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 often as I should like," she added, with a 
 little air of worldly wisdom. "You haven't 
 an idea what scandal is talked in those places." 
 So Joyce quickly acquiesced in her taboo of 
 boarding-houses, and found the choice of domi- 
 cile narrowed down to furnished apartments. 
 
 Yvonne was beginning to be a vital interest 
 in his life. On the days that the hospital was 
 not open to him, he sent her little notes of his 
 doings and of such things as might amuse her. 
 In her helpless dependence she grew to be 
 what Noakes had been to him in his latter 
 days — with the sweet and subtle difference 
 made by her sex. He had moods almost of 
 happiness. Yet, like Noakes, Yvonne had not 
 the power of freeing him from himself, from 
 the awful memories, from the taint that clung 
 to him. His crime and its punishment was 
 his hair-shirt, for ever next the sensitive skin, 
 never for the shortest intervals forgotten. 
 Small incidents were never wanting to bring 
 back the old burning anguish. Already in the 
 streets he had passed, unrecognised, two old 
 prison-associates. The sight of them was hate- 
 ful. Once, in the Strand, he came face to face 
 with a man, his chief intimate in that fashion- 
 able demi-reputable world which had drawn 
 301 
 
Derelicts 
 
 him to his precipice. The man cut him dead. 
 On another occasion he met a troop of his 
 cousins from Holland Park on the terrace of 
 the British Museum. He noticed a girl rec- 
 ognize him and turn round another way, with 
 a start, as he sprang hurriedly by through the 
 folding doors. After such encounters, he cow- 
 ered under the sense of everlasting disgrace. 
 The old longing that always had lain dormant 
 within him revived with intense poignancy ; 
 the longing to redeem his self-respect by some 
 wild heroic deed of atonement. Sometimes he 
 thought of realising all his capital, including 
 the publisher's eighty pounds and giving it to 
 Yvonne. But soon she would be beyond the 
 need of his help and his sacrifice would be 
 merely silly. Common-sense leads us generally 
 to the most hopeless commonplace. Nor did 
 patient bearing of his lot appeal to his sensitive 
 fancy as an expiation. The self-respect that 
 would enable him to face the world's back with 
 cheerful calm could only be purchased by some 
 great self-sacrifice. But what chances for such 
 were offered in his humdrum, poverty-stricken 
 life? 
 
 The days' passed uneventfully. He wrote 
 from morning to night, either in the Museum or 
 302 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 in his attic, with a fierce determination to earn 
 a livelihood that braced his powers. His at- 
 tempts at occasional journalism were fairly 
 encouraging. The new novel grew daily in 
 gloomy bulk. Often, on Yvonne-less days, 
 he strolled up to the secondhand bookshop, 
 where he had bought the French novels, and 
 chatted with the proprietor, with whom he had 
 struck up an acquaintance. He was a snuffy, 
 rheumy-eyed old man, Ebenezer Runcle by 
 name, with chronic bronchitis and a deep dis- 
 dain for the remnant of the universe outside 
 his bookshop. But for the lumbering, cha- 
 otic, higgledy-piggledy world of volumes within 
 its book-lined walls, he had a passionate vener- 
 ation. Joyce found him a mine of extraordin- 
 ary and useless information. To sit on a pile 
 of books and listen to unceasing gossip about 
 Gregory Nazianzene, Sozomen, Evagrius, 
 Photius — about Aristotle, Averrhoes, Duns 
 Scotus, and the Schoolmen — about Hakluyt 
 and Purchas — about forgotten historians, 
 churchmen, poets, dramatists, of all countries in 
 Europe ; to turn over musty old editions of 
 famous printers, the Aldi, Junta, Elzevirs, Ste- 
 phani, Allobrandi, Jehans, which the old man 
 shuffled off to procure from dim recesses of the 
 303 
 
Derelicts 
 
 shelves, was a new intellectual delight. It-was a 
 renewal of the keen book-interest of his Oxford 
 days, and a mental stimulus such as he had not 
 received for many weary years. Gradually it 
 appeared that Mr. Runcle looked forward to 
 his visits ; and Joyce, who had been shy at 
 first of trespassing upon his time, gladly took 
 advantage of his welcome. Sometimes he 
 helped the old man in the constant work of 
 rearranging and cataloguing the stock. One 
 afternoon, he found him wheezing so painfully 
 with his complaint, that he persuaded him to 
 sit in the little back parlour, while he himself 
 took charge of the establishment and served 
 customers till closing time. After that he 
 dropped into the habit of playing salesman. 
 The old man seemed a lonely, pathetic figure. 
 Joyce's heart instinctively warmed toward him. 
 One afternoon, toward the middle of Janu- 
 ary, he visited Yvonne for the last time in 
 the hospital. She received him, as on the last 
 two or three occasions, in the sister's little sit- 
 ting-room just outside the ward. For the first 
 time, however, she was completely dressed, and 
 only now did Joyce realise how thin and frag- 
 ile she had become. She looked absurdly small 
 in the great cane armchair before the fire 
 304 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 " So I am to call for you on Thursday at 
 twelve and carry you off to your new abode," 
 he said. 
 
 " Have you settled yet ? " asked Yvonne. 
 
 " No, not yet. If I can get the place in 
 Elm Park, I shall give up the other. I shall 
 hear to-morrow." 
 
 Yvonne looked wistfully into the fire, and 
 sighed. 
 
 " I shall feel awfully lonesome there, by my- 
 self. I am beginning to dread it. You won't 
 think me silly, will you ? I used not to mind 
 living alone. But then it was different. You '11 
 come and see me very, very often. Bring your 
 writing, and I '11 be as quiet as a mouse and 
 won't disturb you. You don't know how 
 frightened and nervous I am. I suppose it 's 
 because I have been so ill." 
 
 " You poor little thing," said Joyce, looking 
 down upon her, as he stood on the hearthrug, 
 " I wish I knew some motherly soul to take 
 care of you — or that I could take care of you 
 myself," he added, with a smile. 
 
 " Oh, I wish you could," cried Yvonne, pit- 
 eously, with an appealing glance. " Oh, Stephen 
 — could n't you ? I would n't give you much 
 trouble." 
 
 20 305 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Do you mean, Yvonne, that you would 
 like me to get lodgings in the same house 
 as you ? " asked Joyce, with a sudden flash in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Yes," said Yvonne. " Just at first. Until 
 I feel stronger. I have been longing to ask 
 you, but I did n't dare. Don't think me 
 selfish and horrid." 
 
 The notion dawned upon him like an inspira- 
 tion. Why had he not thought of it before ? 
 Why should he not find a garret above her 
 rooms whence he could look protectingly 
 down upon her, in brotherly affection, instead 
 of leaving her ill and alone to the dubious 
 mercy of landladies and lodging-house ser- 
 vants ? He was quite bewildered by the charm 
 of her proposal. 
 
 " But, Yvonne, do you know what un- 
 dreamed-of happiness you are offering me ? " 
 he said. 
 
 " Then you would like it ? " she cried 
 gladly. 
 
 " Why, my dear child ! " said Joyce ; and he 
 walked about the room to express his feelings. 
 
 " I have thought it all out," said Yvonne, 
 sagely. " We can go to much cheaper rooms 
 than you intended me to have, so that you can 
 306 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 pay the same for your own lodgings as you pay 
 now. I would n't lead you into extravagances 
 for anything in the world." 
 
 " If it comes to that," said Joyce, " the sec- 
 ond floor is vacant where I lodge now." 
 
 " But that is delightful ! " cried Yvonne. 
 " The fates have arranged it on purpose for us." 
 
 They talked for a while over the new plan. 
 Joyce's acquiescence, relieving her of much 
 nervous dread of loneliness, raised her spirits 
 wonderfully. 
 
 "You won't tyrannise over me too much, 
 will you ? If I am going out with tan shoes, 
 you won't send me indoors to put on black 
 ones ? Promise me." 
 
 He laughed. The idea of such an attitude 
 towards her seemed to belong more to comic 
 opera than to real life. And yet he felt his 
 authority. She regarded him with the implicit 
 trust of a stray child. 
 
 The sister came in and stayed whilst after- 
 noon tea was in progress. She had built up a 
 lone woman's romance for these two, and had 
 taken them both into her friendship. Hence 
 the use of the sitting-room, the tea and her 
 wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care o 4 
 Yvonne. When she left them alone again, a 
 307 
 
Derelicts 
 
 silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy 
 cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dis- 
 pel for long. He looked broodingly into the 
 fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old 
 pain in his eyes. 
 
 Was it a right thing that he was about to do 
 — to associate his tarnished name with hers ? 
 It was all very well to dream of the sweetness 
 and light that daily companionship with her 
 would bring into his life — but was he fit, 
 socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her ? 
 It was taking advantage of her innocence. His 
 sensitiveness shrank, as if from the suggestion 
 of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness. 
 
 Yvonne, leaning back in her long chair, kept 
 her dark eyes fixed upon him. At first she 
 wondered at his sudden gloom, and fancied dis- 
 tressedly that it proceeded from her proposal. 
 But suddenly an illumination, such as she had 
 never in her life experienced, lit up her mind, 
 and caused her a strange little thrill. She 
 called his name softly. He started, turned, 
 rose at her sign and bent low over her chair. 
 
 " I want to come and live with you more 
 
 than ever now, Stephen," she said ; and as she 
 
 spoke her voice seemed to have regained its 
 
 musical softness. " I mean to try and drive 
 
 308 
 
Yvonne Proposes 
 
 away the sad thoughts from you. Perhaps, 
 after all, though I can't sing, I may do a little 
 good in the world." 
 
 Her tenderness touched him. He wished 
 she was a child that he might kiss her. The 
 temptation to receive this boon the gods were 
 giving him was too strong. He yielded en- 
 tirely. And from that hour began Yvonne's 
 conscious battle with the powers of darkness in 
 the desolate depths of a man's heart. 
 
 309 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 DRIFTWOOD 
 
 They lived together four months, Yvonne in 
 her comfortable rooms, Joyce in his attic over- 
 head. At first she had been helpless, requir- 
 ing much aid both from Joyce and from the 
 landlady, over whom she had cast her accus- 
 tomed charm ; but with the early spring 
 weather she recovered full use of her limbs, 
 and strength enough to fight her small battles 
 for herself. To Joyce it had been a time of 
 consolation in many black moods. He dreaded 
 the arrival of the New Zealand mail, which he 
 calculated would bring Yvonne her freedom. 
 It was almost a relief when he assured himself 
 by enquiries that no news had come from the 
 Bishop. He had another month of Yvonne's 
 companionship to look forward to. When that 
 passed, however, and the second mail from New 
 Zealand proved as fruitless as the first, he was 
 forced to look at matters from a practical point 
 310 
 
Drift 
 
 WOOl 
 
 of view. He had already far exceeded the 
 original advance he had made to Yvonne. 
 Under the assurance that he would be reim- 
 bursed, he had not scrupled to spend money 
 freely on little luxuries and comforts. At the 
 present rate of living, therefore, another two 
 months would see him at the end of his re- 
 sources, which included money that he had 
 received in advance for the copyright of his 
 book. His current income from occasional 
 journalism was ridiculously small. The new 
 novel was only half-way towards completion. 
 Poverty stared him in the face. 
 
 As a last resource he went to Everard's 
 bankers , but only to learn that his cousin had 
 withdrawn his account. He found Yvonne 
 anxiously awaiting the result of this errand. As 
 he entered, she rose impulsively, scattering 
 scissors and spool of cotton from her lap. She 
 read his failure in his face. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " she asked, when he 
 had finished his report. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Joyce, truthfully. 
 
 He looked at her, puzzled and distressed. 
 
 " You must pay yourself out of the furniture 
 and let me go," said Yvonne. 
 
 " Where would you go to ? " 
 3ii 
 
Derelicts 
 
 u I don't know," said Yvonne in her turn. 
 
 At the picture of helpless dismay Joyce broke 
 into a laugh. 
 
 " Oh, how can you laugh, when I owe you 
 all this money ? " she said, with a choke in her 
 voice. 
 
 " Because I am glad, Yvonne, that fate seems 
 to compel me to go on looking after you." 
 
 " But how can you go on ? How can I 
 burden you any further ? " 
 
 " Don't talk about burdens," he said gently. 
 u You repay me twice over for what little I have 
 given you." 
 
 " But the furniture is not worth all that," 
 said Yvonne. 
 
 " What has the furniture to do with it? '" 
 
 " Why it is yours, is n't it? " 
 
 " How, mine ? " 
 
 "The bill of sale," replied Yvonne seriously. 
 
 "Oh, you dear little goose," cried Joyce, 
 " you don't suppose I am going to sell you 
 up!" 
 
 " Why not — if you need the money ? The 
 furniture is all your own." 
 
 " How can it be when I don't claim it ? " 
 
 Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the 
 most easily swayed of women, now and then 
 312 
 
Driftwood 
 
 she was inconvincible. She had got it into her 
 head that the furniture had lapsed by sheer law 
 of England into his possession, and no argument 
 could move her. He explained that he could 
 renew the bill. She dismissed the explanation 
 with a little foreign gesture. » 
 
 " I own nothing in the world but what I 
 stand up in," she persisted. 
 
 " Then you 're worse off than ever," said 
 Joyce. 
 
 " I am," she said despondently. tc Is n't it 
 strange to want money ! I never knew what it 
 was before." 
 
 There was an odd pathos in her face that 
 touched him. 
 
 " Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever 
 so bad as it looks." 
 
 Comforting words were nice, but they did 
 not change the position. Money had to be 
 obtained. Where was it to come from ? 
 
 " I suppose I must write to Everard, since 
 your letter has miscarried." 
 
 " Letters don't miscarry nowadays," said 
 Joyce. " They don't even do so in novels. 
 Still, you had better write. I wish you felt 
 tou need n't." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 313 
 
Derelicts 
 
 * We shall have to part as soon as he cables 
 a remittance." 
 
 " Oh, I wish we could get along as we are," 
 said Yvonne. " I have been so happy here 
 with you." 
 
 " Then let us fight it out between us," ex- 
 claimed Joyce resolutely. " You '11 soon be 
 able to get some singing lessons, and I '11 
 find a situation as railway porter, or some- 
 thing, and we '11 rub along somehow till better 
 times." 
 
 " Oh, you don't know how much gladder I 
 should be ! " cried Yvonne with a sparkle in 
 her eyes. " If I only could earn something — 
 not be a drag upon you ! Oh, I would 
 sooner lead the life of a poor, poor woman, in 
 the humblest way, than take Everard's money 
 — you know that." 
 
 " We can't go on living here," said Joyce, 
 gently. 
 
 " Of course not. We will go to much 
 cheaper rooms and live like working-folks. I 
 can do lots of things, lay fires, make pastry — " 
 
 " Dumplings will be as far as we can get," 
 said Joyce. 
 
 " Well, then, they '11 be beautiful dumplings," 
 •aid Yvonne. 
 
 314 
 
Driftwood 
 
 <c And I dare say we can find, a way to settle 
 the furniture question," said Joyce. " I shall 
 begin to look about for a cheap place at once." 
 
 So the trouble fell from Yvonne for a time. 
 Now that she had decided to make no further 
 appeal to Everard, but to endeavour once more 
 to earn her livelihood, she felt lighter-hearted. 
 Her attachment to Stephen had grown so strong 
 that she had contemplated the loss of his daily 
 protection with dismay. The solitary life fright- 
 ened her. The vicissitudes through which she 
 had passed, the loss of her voice especially, had 
 taken away her nerve. At first, she had been 
 so weak from her long illness and her helpless 
 arm, that she found Stephen's presence an un- 
 speakable comfort, and did not speculate apon 
 any anomaly in her position. Bv tne time she 
 regained health, their life under tne same roof 
 appeared in the natural order of every-day 
 things. And it was very pleasant. Besides, 
 with the daily intercourse, came a deeper com- 
 prehension of his shipwreck. She began to 
 realise that the material dependence on her side 
 was reciprocated by a spiritual dependence on 
 his. It awoke new and delicious stirrings of 
 pride to feel her influence over him, to find 
 herself of use to a man. Once she could sing, 
 315 
 
Derelicts 
 
 amuse — yield her lips with kind passivity to 
 satisfy strange, unknown needs. She had re- 
 garded herself with wistful seriousness, in her 
 relations with men, as a poor little instrument 
 for men to play on. They fingered the stops, 
 extracted what music they could, and then laid 
 the pipe aside while they devoted themselves 
 L'O the business of th- world. But Stephen 
 approached her differently from other men. 
 He did not want her for her voice ; he did 
 not throw himself weary into a chair and say, 
 " Chatter and amuse me ; " and he did not look 
 at her with eyes yearning for her lips. But his 
 needs, quite other than she had known before, 
 were revealing themselves to her with gradual 
 distinctness. She was learning his humbled 
 pride, his lacerated self-respect, his ingrained 
 sense of degradation, his crying need of sym- 
 pathy and encouragement and ennobling object 
 in life. The strong man came to her, Yvonne, 
 to be healed and strengthened ; and, from some 
 fresh-discovered fountain within her, she was 
 finding remedy for maladies and sustaining 
 draughts for weakness. A new conception of 
 herself was dawning before her, in a great, 
 quiet happiness; and her nature unconsciously 
 expanded. 
 
 316 
 
Driftwood 
 
 Thus a twofold instinct urged her to throw 
 in her lot with Joyce. 
 
 He passed a very anxious week. It seemed 
 as if his old bitter and fruitless search for work 
 was to be repeated. Neither could he find 
 suitable apartments. " I 'm afraid it will have 
 to come to the workhouse/ ' he said in dejected 
 jest. 
 
 " Oh, that will never do ! " cried Yvonne. 
 "They would separate us." 
 
 She had been more successful. Two or three 
 of the ex-pupils to whom she had written had 
 replied, promising their recommendation. With 
 a shrewdness that won Joyce's admiration she 
 used the address of her former agents, who 
 willingly forwarded her letters. But the sight 
 of the familiar office, whither she had gone to 
 beg this favour, had brought her a bitter pang 
 of regret for the lost voice. She had cried all 
 the way home and then looked anxiously in the 
 glass, afraid lest Joyce should perceive the traces 
 of her tears. She strove valiantly to cheer him 
 in his worries. 
 
 At last Joyce went to his friend, the second- 
 hand bookseller in Islington, whom he had seen 
 less frequently since his life with Yvonne, and 
 there, to his delighted surprise, found a solution 
 3^ 
 
Derelicts 
 
 ior all his difficulties. The old man was grow- 
 ing too infirm to carry on the business single- 
 handed. He wanted an assistant. 
 
 " And where am I to get one ? " he said 
 querulously. " I don't want a damned fool 
 who does n't know an Elzevir from a Catnach." 
 
 " I '11 come like a shot if you '11 have me," 
 said Joyce, eagerly. 
 
 "You? Why, you're a gentleman and a 
 scholar," said the old man. 
 
 " So much the better," returned Joyce, laugh- 
 ing. " There will be something mediaeval about 
 the arrangement." 
 
 The bargain was quickly struck. Further- 
 more, when Joyce explained his domestic con- 
 siderations, the old man offered him, at a small 
 rent, three rooms in the house, above the shop. 
 There they were, he said ; they were not used ; 
 he once took in lodgers, but they pestered his 
 life out ; so he had made up his mind not to be 
 worried with them any more. However, Joyce 
 was an exception. He was quite welcome to 
 them ; he himself only wanted a bedroom and 
 the little back-parlour on the ground-floor. 
 
 These reserved quarters, the vacant three 
 rooms and a kitchen with an adjoining servant's 
 bedroom, made up the internal arrangements 
 
Drift 
 
 WOOi 
 
 of the old-fashioned, rather dilapidated house. 
 Joyce went up to inspect. At first his heart 
 sank. The rooms were only half-furnished, 
 the paper was mouldy, dirt abounded, the ceil- 
 ings were low and blackened. However, many 
 of these drawbacks could be remedied. Mr. 
 Runcle promised a thorough cleansing and re- 
 papering, whereat Joyce's spirits rose again. 
 Next to the sitting-room was a fair-sized bed- 
 room for Yvonne ; upstairs a little room for him- 
 self. He enquired about attendance. The 
 old man explained that a woman lived on the 
 premises. She did for him and would doubt- 
 less be glad to do for Joyce also, for a small 
 sum per week. 
 
 By the end of a few days they were settled 
 in their new abode. The bits of furniture, that 
 had been the subject of such dispute, made the 
 place habitable. Re-papered and whitewashed 
 and hung with curtains and a few pictures out 
 of Yvonne's salvage, it looked almost cosy. 
 But the threadbare carpet and rug, the horse- 
 hair sofa, and odd, rickety chairs and the small- 
 paned, cheaply-painted windows gave it an 
 aspect of poverty that nothing could efface. 
 
 " It 's not a palace," said Joyce ruefully, 
 3i9 
 
Derelicts 
 
 looking round him on the day they took defi- 
 nite possession. "You will miss many com- 
 forts, Yvonne." 
 
 " I 'm not going to miss anything," she re- 
 plied, " except worry and anxiety. I am going 
 to be perfectly happy here." 
 
 "You don't know what a sweet incongruity 
 you are among these surroundings," he said; 
 " you remind one of a dainty piece of lace sewn 
 on to corduroys. Oh, I hope this life won't 
 be too rough for you — we shall have to prac- 
 tise so many miserable little economies — 
 coals, gas, food — " 
 
 Yvonne broke into a sunny laugh. " Oh, 
 that 's just like a man ! Did you ever hear of 
 a well-regulated woman that did n't love to 
 economise ? When I was at Fulminster, you 
 have no idea how I cut down expenses ! " 
 
 She turned to take off her hat before the 
 discoloured gilt mirror over the mantelpiece, 
 and then threw it quickly on the round centre 
 table and faced him again. 
 
 " I shall be quite as happy here as I was in 
 Fulminster. Perhaps happier, in a sense. 
 You know, I always felt so small in that big 
 house. This just suits me." 
 
 Thus began the odd life together of these 
 320 
 
Driftwood 
 
 two waifs, abandoned by the world. The pre- 
 vious four months had been invested with an 
 air of transience. Yvonne's presence beneath 
 the same roof as Joyce had been a temporary 
 arrangement until supplies should come from 
 the Bishop. They had not joined in house- 
 keeping. Whenever Joyce went down to 
 Yvonne, he had done so purely in the char- 
 acter of a visitor. From that state of things 
 to this life in common was a great step. And 
 yet to each it seemed natural. Society being 
 unaware of their existence, they felt no partic- 
 ular need of observing Society's conventions. 
 To the old bookseller, to the servant, to each 
 other, they were brother and sister, and that 
 was enough. 
 
 Joyce found his work fairly light. The im- 
 portant part of the business was carried on by 
 orders through the post. Purchases of " rare 
 and curious books " at prices per volume from 
 three pounds upwards are rarely made casually 
 over the counter. Joyce knew this, of course, 
 but he was nevertheless surprised at the exten- 
 siveness of Ebenezer Runcle's connection. 
 Every morning there was considerable corre- 
 spondence to be got through, parcels of books 
 to be made up and despatched, the slips for 
 21 321 
 
Derelicts 
 
 •.he monthly catalogue to be kept up to date. 
 After that, if no new stock was brought in, 
 there was little else to do but wait for custo- 
 mers. The long spells of leisure were invalu- 
 able to him for writing. He found his mind 
 worked smoothly in the quiet, musty atmos- 
 phere of the books. There they were, in bril- 
 liant rows around the walls, on bookcases 
 running longitudinally through the shop, piled 
 in stacks by the doorway, in corners, upon 
 trestles, anywhere. A great rampart of them 
 cut off the draught of the door. In the small 
 enclosed space thus formed was a stove, on 
 one side of which he placed his writing-table, 
 while on the other, in a dilapidated cane arm- 
 chair, sat the old man, a bent, wheezing figure, 
 deep in his beloved patristic literature. 
 
 At intervals during the day he saw Yvonne, 
 who was proud and happy in the superinten- 
 dence of her humble establishment. Not long 
 after the move, some welcome singing-lessons 
 came, at a house in Russell Square, and ena- 
 bled her to contribute her mite towards the 
 household expenses. It was a hard problem 
 to make ends meet sometimes, on what Joyce 
 was able to set apart for housekeeping, and at 
 first, through lack of experience in close econ- 
 322 
 
Driftwood 
 
 omy, she made dreadful blunders. Then she 
 came in tearful penitence to Joyce. On one 
 of these occasions, he had arrived for dinner, 
 and found her gazing piteously upon three 
 meatless bones, standing like ribs of wreck in 
 a beach of potatoes. She had thought enough 
 had been left from yesterday for two more 
 meals. He consoled her as best he could, 
 and tackled the potatoes. But she watched 
 him with so miserable and remorse-stricken a 
 face that at last he broke out laughing. And 
 then, Yvonne, who was quick to see the light 
 side of things, laughed too and forgot her 
 troubles. After a time, no housewife in the 
 neighbourhood kept a shrewder eye upon the 
 butcher. 
 
 The evenings they usually spent together, 
 working or talking. Now and then, at Joyce's 
 invitation, the old man would come in, and 
 the trio would talk literature, the old man 
 vaunting the ancients and Joyce defending the 
 moderns, until a veritable Battle of the Books 
 was recontested, while Yvonne sat by, in awed 
 silence, wondering at the vastness of human 
 learning. Often he wrote or discussed the 
 novel with her. In this she took the deepest 
 interest. The intellectual processes involved 
 323 
 
Derelicts 
 
 were a perpetual mystery to her, and caused 
 her to place Joyce on a pinnacle of genius. 
 But her sympathy and enthusiasm helped 
 him as few other things could. And grad- 
 ually her influence made itself felt in his 
 writing. His sympathies widened, his aspect 
 upon life softened. Planned to reveal the 
 bitter sordidness of broken lives, and half 
 written in a grey, hopeless atmosphere, imper- 
 ceptibly the book lost in harshness, grew in 
 tenderness and humanity. And this corre- 
 sponded to the softening in the nature of the 
 man himself. 
 
 Yet now and then incidents occurred that 
 brought back the past in all its gloom. One 
 in particular weighed for many days afterwards 
 upon his mind. 
 
 It was a sultry night. He had come out 
 for a stroll down Upper Street and High 
 Street, before going to bed. Outside the 
 Angel, the limit of his walk, he lingered a 
 moment and was looking with idle interest at 
 the great block of omnibuses, when he became 
 aware that a poorly-dressed woman was stand- 
 ing by him, gazing rigidly into his face. He 
 started, tried to fix her identity. 
 
 " Good God ! It is you ! " said the woman. 
 324 
 
Driftwood 
 
 Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, 
 the girl who had betrayed him so miserably to 
 the theatrical company years before. 
 
 " Won't you speak to me ? " she asked, 
 somewhat humbly, as he remained silent. 
 
 " You recall a very bitter time to me," said 
 Joyce. 
 
 " Do you think it is any sweeter to me ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 And then, with a quick glance round at an 
 approaching policeman : — 
 
 " Walk on a little way with me, will you ? " 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching 
 look in her eyes touched him. Her presence 
 at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. 
 She had never been pretty. Now she had 
 grown thin and hard-featured. 
 
 " You need n't fear I 'm going to ask you 
 for anything — you of all people in the world. 
 Of course, if you don't want to be seen with 
 me, don't come. You can't hurt me. I 'm 
 past that. But I 'd like to speak with you for 
 a minute or two." 
 
 He had moved on with her while she was talk- 
 ing. Then there were a few moments' silence. 
 
 " Well ? " he enquired. " What do you 
 wish to say ? " , 
 
 325 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " God knows — anything — just to ask you, 
 perhaps, whether you 're right again. I have 
 thought of you enough." 
 
 He glanced at her curiously. 
 
 " Why have you come to this ? " 
 
 "Why did you go to prison ? " she retorted. 
 
 " I did wrong and was punished for it." 
 
 " So did I. This is my punishment. After 
 you had gone, I could have torn my heart 
 out. I went on the drink — could n't get en- 
 gagements — went downhill. I can't go much 
 lower, can I ? If you want revenge, you 've 
 got it." 
 
 She tossed her head in her old, defiant way. 
 Joyce, perceiving her association of himself in 
 her downfall, felt somewhat moved with pity. 
 
 " God knows, revenge is the last thing I 
 want. On the contrary, I am distressed to see 
 you come to this. If I could help you, I 
 would do so. But that, you know as well as I, 
 is out of my power." 
 
 " Yes ; the only thing you could do, would 
 be to marry me and make an honest woman of 
 me, and that is n't likely," she said, cynically. 
 
 " No, it is n't likely," said Joyce. " I can 
 only be deeply sorry for you." 
 
 " I wonder whether you could tell what it is 
 326 
 
Driftwood 
 
 to me to talk to you even in this way. Oh, 
 God ! if you knew how I longed to see you ! " 
 
 " Why did you act as you did toward me ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " I don't know. Don't ask me. Because 
 every woman's got a tiger in her somewhere, I 
 suppose. I used to think men were the brutes. 
 Now I know it 's women. We 're all the 
 same. I hate myself. I wish you would take 
 me up a back street and kill me. This is a 
 hell of a life. Do you remember the last words 
 you said to me ? c Some people are better 
 dead.' It 's the truest thing I 've ever heard 
 from man or woman." 
 
 " It 's easy enough to get out of the world, 
 if we want to," said Joyce. " But perhaps it's 
 better to fight it out. You must make an 
 effort and get out of this life — a proud girl 
 like you." 
 
 " I have n't much pride left." 
 
 " I thought so too. But it takes a lot of 
 killing. I 've come out fairly straight. Why 
 should n't vou ? " 
 
 4 
 
 " I '11 come out straight, the only way — a 
 corpse. But I 'm glad things are better with 
 you. It relieves me to know it. I thought I 
 had sent you to the devil, and that's why I 
 
 32 7 
 
Derelicts 
 
 went there myself, I suppose. Well, I won't 
 keep you any longer. I know you hate being 
 seen with me." 
 
 " Can't I do anything for you ? " said Joyce, 
 feeling in his pocket. 
 
 " Yes — flay me alive by offering me money. 
 You did once — do you remember ? " 
 
 She stopped abruptly, took Joyce's proffered 
 hand, and said in a softer voice : — 
 
 " It 's good of you to shake hands with me. 
 Men are better than women. Thank God 
 I 've seen you at last. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Joyce, kindly. 
 
 They parted, and went their different ways, 
 Annie Stevens to the horror of her life and 
 Joyce to the home that held Yvonne. The 
 parallel and the contrast smote him as he 
 walked along the familiar street. Both him- 
 self and this girl that had fallen were derelicts, 
 both were expiating the past, both were carry- 
 ing within them a degraded self, that with a 
 nobler self waged cruel and eternal warfare. 
 For the injury she had done him he cherished 
 no resentment. He felt a great pity for her, 
 and judged her gently. 
 
 It was strange how his rudderless course 
 through the last six years had been influenced 
 328 
 
Driftwood 
 
 by other lonely and drifting craft. Annie 
 Stevens, who had loved and nearly wrecked 
 him, had been the cause of his linking fortunes 
 with poor Noakes ; and it was through Yvonne 
 — with whom, sweetest of derelicts, he was now 
 voyaging on unruffled waters — that he had 
 first drifted towards Annie Stevens. He was 
 pondering over this one day during an idle 
 hour in the shop with the old bookseller, when 
 a whimsical fancy seized him. 
 
 " You lead a very lonely life, Mr. Runcle," 
 he said suddenly. 
 
 Yes," replied the old man. " I suppose I 
 do. Beyond one sister, who has been dying for 
 many months, I have neither kith nor kin in 
 the world." 
 
 3 2 9 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 FERMENT 
 
 "Is all this true ? " asked Yvonne, mournfully. 
 
 " Yes, worse luck," replied Joyce, looking 
 up from his Sunday newspaper. 
 
 " It is very dreadful," said Yvonne. 
 
 She was finishing " The Wasters," Joyce's 
 lately published novel. It Was not a success. 
 Its cultivated style received recognition every- 
 where, but the unrelieved pessimism, power- 
 fully as it was presented, repelled most readers. 
 He was inclined to be depressed at its recep- 
 tion. To Yvonne, however, it was a revela- 
 tion. She closed the book with a sigh, and 
 remained for some time gazing absently at the 
 cover. Then she rose in her quick way. 
 
 "Let us go out — into the sunshine — or 1 
 shall cry. I feel miserable, Stephen." 
 
 " On account of that wretched book ? " 
 
 " That and other things. Take me to Re- 
 gent's Park — to see the flowers." 
 330 
 
Ferment 
 
 He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put 
 on her things. Shortly afterwards they were 
 side by side on the garden seat of a westward 
 bound omnibus. 
 
 " I feel better," said Yvonne, breathing in 
 the summer air. " Don't you ? " 
 
 " It is nice," answered Joyce. " I shall be 
 better pleased when we are out of these joyless 
 streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday 
 is depressing. I have n't seen a smile on a 
 human face since we have been out. What 
 grey lives people lead." 
 
 " But they can't all be unhappy," she said. 
 
 The 'bus stopped for a moment. Three or 
 four young roughs, in Sunday clothes, with 
 coarse, animal faces and discordant speech 
 passed by below on the pavement, and noisily 
 greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls, evi- 
 dently acquaintances. 
 
 " These seem cheerful enough," said Yvonne. 
 
 Joyce shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Did it ever occur to you what misery men 
 of that type work in the world ? By the laws 
 of their class they will all marry — and marry 
 young. Fancy a woman's life in the hands of 
 any of those fellows." 
 
 The 'bus moved on. Yvonne was silent. 
 33t 
 
Derelicts 
 
 His tone was that of the book she had just 
 been reading. She stole a side glance at him. 
 His face in repose was always sad and brood- 
 ing. To-day she seemed to read more clearly 
 in it the lines that the breaking of the spirit 
 had caused. She identified him with the char- 
 acters in the sordid scenes he had described. 
 Presently she laid her hand lightly on his arm. 
 
 " Do you think we live a very grey life — 
 now?" 
 
 " You have a very hard, dull, monotonous 
 /ife," he replied. 
 
 " I don't," said Yvonne stoutly. " I am 
 very pleased and contented. I only want one 
 thing to make me perfectly happy." 
 
 " So does every one. The one thing just 
 makes the difference. It's the one thing we 
 can't possibly get." 
 
 " It is n't what you imagine," said Yvonne. 
 ** You are thinking of money and all that." 
 
 " No. It 's your voice." 
 
 " It is n't ! " cried Yvonne, with a touch of 
 petulant earnestness. " It is to see you bright 
 and happy — as you used to be long, long ago. 
 You might have known." 
 
 " It is very dear of you," he answered, after 
 a pause. " I am selfish — and can't understand 
 332 
 
Ferment 
 
 your sweet spirit. Sometimes I seem to have 
 a stone heart, like the man in the German 
 story." 
 
 " You have a warm, generous heart, Stephen. 
 What other man would have done what you 
 have for me ? * 
 
 " It was pure selfish ness on my part," he 
 replied. " The loneliness was too appalling. 
 And then, further, I am never quite sure I 
 have acted rightly by you." 
 
 " I am," she said. " And I 'm the best judge, 
 I think." 
 
 But Joyce was correct in his bitter self-analy- 
 sis. Now and then his sensitive fibres vi- 
 brated. But generally the weight of the past 
 years was on his heart, and repressed continu- 
 ous emotion. To live on these intimate terms 
 with Yvonne and never consider the possibility 
 of loving her, after the way of men, was ab- 
 surd. The chivalrous instincts awakened by 
 her implicit trust in him, and the double bar- 
 rier which forbade a love that could result in 
 marriage, made him dismiss such considera- 
 tions. But often, in gloomy introspective 
 moods, his self-contempt denied these instincts 
 as arrogant pretensions, and attributed the ab- 
 sence of warmer feelings towards Yvonne to 
 333 
 
Derelicts 
 
 the petrifaction of all emotional chords. Ot 
 late, however, he had ceased to speculate, tak- 
 ing his insensibility for granted. 
 
 When they arrived at the Regent's Park, 
 they proceeded for some distance northwards 
 up the great avenue. It was crowded. Joyce 
 looked about him, with a fidgeted air, at the 
 stream of passers-by. 
 
 " Let us get away from the people and sit 
 under a tree," he said at length. 
 
 Yvonne slipped her hand impulsively through 
 his arm. 
 
 " I wish you knew how proud I am of you," 
 she said. 
 
 " It 's for your sake, too, Yvonne, dear," he 
 replied in a touched voice. 
 
 She made one of her magnificent little ges- 
 tures with the hand holding her sunshade. 
 
 " I have never done anything to be ashamed 
 of yet," she said proudly, and glanced from 
 Joyce to a pompous elderly couple with an air 
 of defiance. Then she brought him abruptly 
 to a stand before a flower-bed bright in its 
 summer glory. 
 
 " Oh, how lovely ! Look ! " 
 
 She broke into little joyous exclamations. 
 Colour affected her like music. A glow came 
 334 
 
Ferment 
 
 into her cheek. She became again the thing 
 of warmth and sunshine that had gladdened 
 him four years before, when his degradation 
 lay heavy on him. 
 
 " It is a beautiful world, Stephen." 
 
 " You are right, dear. It is. And you are 
 the most beautiful thing in it." 
 
 The glow deepened on her face, and a bright 
 moisture appeared in her eyes as she glanced 
 upwards. 
 
 " That 's very, very foolish. But you said 
 it as if you meant it." 
 
 " I did indeed, Yvonne." 
 
 " Let us go and find a place under the 
 trees," she said softly. 
 
 They left the main avenue and wandered on 
 over the green turf, seeking for a long time a 
 piece of shade untenanted by sprawling men, or 
 lovers, or heterogeneous families. At last they 
 found a lonely tree and sat down beneath it. 
 
 " Are you happier here ? " she asked. 
 
 " Much. It is so peaceful. When I was in 
 South Africa I yearned for civilisation and men 
 and women. Now I am in London, I am 
 happiest away from them. Men are funny 
 animals, Yvonne." 
 
 Yvonne looked down at the ground and 
 335 
 
Derelicts 
 
 nervously plucked at the grass. Then she 
 raised her eyes quickly. 
 
 "When are you going to be quite happy, 
 Stephen ? " 
 
 " I am happy enough now." 
 
 " But when you get home, the black mood 
 may come over you again. Can't you forget all 
 the horrid past — the prison — and all that ? " 
 
 It was the first time she had ever alluded to 
 it directly ; her voice quavered on the word. 
 
 " No, I can never forget it," he replied in a 
 low tone. " If I live to be a hundred, I shall 
 remember it on my deathbed." 
 
 "You seem to feel it — just like a woman 
 does — who has been on the streets — as if 
 nothing could wipe it away." 
 
 He was startled. Signs had not been want- 
 ing of a change coming over Yvonne, but he 
 had never heard a saying on her lips of such 
 perceptive earnestness. It was strange, too, 
 that she had hit upon a parallel that had been 
 in his mind since the night he had met Annie 
 Stevens. 
 
 " Nothing can wipe it away, Yvonne. It is 
 like a woman's sense of degradation — just as 
 you say." 
 
 " I would give anything — my voice over 
 2,26 
 
Ferment 
 
 again, if I had it — to help you. You have 
 never told me about it — the dreadful part of 
 it — I want to know — every bit — tell me 
 now, will you ? " 
 
 " You would loathe me, as much as I loathe 
 myself, if I told you." 
 
 He was lying on one elbow, by her side. 
 She ventured a gossamer touch upon his fore- 
 head. 
 
 " You don't know much about a woman, 
 although you do write books," she said. 
 
 The touch and the tone awoke a great need 
 of expansion. He struggled for a few moments, 
 and at last gave way. 
 
 " Yes, I '11 tell you — from the very begin- 
 ning." And there in the quasi-solitude of their 
 tree — one of innumerable camping-spots for re- 
 cumbent figures, that met the eye on all sides — 
 he gave, for the first time, definite utterance to 
 the horrors that had haunted him for six years. 
 He told her the old story of the earthenware 
 pot careering down the stream in company 
 with the brazen vessels ; of his debts, staring 
 ruin, and his yielding to the great temptation ; 
 of his trial, his sentence rendered heavier by 
 the fact that his malversations had brought 
 misery into other lives. He described to her 
 22 337 
 
Derelicts 
 
 in lurid detail just what the prison-life was, 
 what it meant, how its manifold degradation 
 ate into a man's flesh, became infused in his 
 blood and ran for ever through his veins. He 
 spared her nothing of which decency permitted 
 the telling. Now and then Yvonne shivered 
 a little and drew in a quick breath; but her 
 great eyes never left his face — save once when 
 he showed her his hands still scarred by the 
 toil from which delicate fingers never recover. 
 
 He had spoken jerkily, in hard, dry tones ; 
 so he ended abruptly. There was silence. 
 Yvonne's little gloved hand crept to his and 
 pressed it. Then, with a common impulse, 
 they rose to their feet. 
 
 " Thank you for telling me," she said, com- 
 ing near to him and taking his arm. " I 
 did not know how how terrible it has been — 
 and I never realised what a brave man you 
 are." 
 
 "I — brave, Yvonne ? " he cried with a 
 bitter laugh. 
 
 "Yes — to have gone through that and to 
 be the loyal, tender, true-hearted gentleman 
 that you are." 
 
 He looked down at her and saw her soft 
 eyes filled with tears and her lips quivering, 
 338 
 
Ferment 
 
 "You still feel the same to me, Yvonne, 
 now that you know it all ? " he asked, bending 
 forward on his stick. 
 
 " More," she answered. " Oh, — much 
 more." 
 
 They walked back to the Park gates in a 
 happy silence, drawn very near to one another, 
 since both hearts were very full. So close 
 together did they walk, so softened was the 
 man's face, and so sweetly proud the woman's, 
 that they might have been taken for lovers. 
 But if love was hovering over them, he touched 
 neither with an awakening feather. And so 
 they passed on their way untroubled. 
 
 That day was, in a certain sense, a landmark 
 in their lives. Yvonne never referred to the 
 prison again, but she learned to know when its 
 shadow was over him and at such times her 
 nature melted in tenderness towards him. 
 
 The days wore on. The second novel, over 
 whose pages Yvonne had cast gleams of sun- 
 shine, was finished and disposed of to the same 
 publishers. His source of income from occa- 
 sional journalism showed signs of becoming 
 steadier. But all the same, the struggle with 
 poverty continued hard. Yvonne fell ill again 
 and lost her music-lessons. It took some time 
 229 
 
Derelicts 
 
 after her recovery to pay off the debts incurred 
 for doctor, medicine, and invalid necessaries. 
 To obtain funds to take her to the seaside for 
 a few days, Joyce was forced to ask his pub- 
 lishers for an advance. However, the trip 
 restored Yvonne to health again, and their 
 uneventful life pursued its usual course. 
 
 One day a strange phenomenon occurred. 
 A visitor was announced. It was the sister 
 who had tended Yvonne in the hospital. Once 
 before, while Yvonne was living in the Pimlico 
 lodgings, she had paid a flying visit. On this 
 occasion she stayed for a couple of hours with 
 Yvonne, who, happy as she was with Joyce, felt 
 a wonderful relief in talking again familiarly 
 with one of her own sex. She poured forth 
 the little history of all that had befallen her 
 since she had left the hospital. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," the sister said 
 at last, " that you keep house together on this 
 romantically Platonic basis ? " 
 
 Yvonne regarded her, wide-eyed. 
 
 " Of course. Why should n't we ? " 
 
 The sister was a woman of the world. 
 When she had entered the room and perceived 
 the unmistakable signs of a man's general pres- 
 ence, she had drawn her own conclusions. 
 340 
 
Ferment 
 
 That these were erroneous, Yvonne's innocent 
 candour most clearly proved. Yet she was 
 astonished, perhaps a little disappointed. The 
 offending Eve lingers in many women, even 
 after much self-whipping — for the greater 
 comfort of their lives. 
 
 " But how can a man look at you and not 
 fall in love with you ? " she asked downright. 
 
 Yvonne laughed, and ran to the kettle that 
 was boiling over on the gas-stove — she was 
 making tea for her visitor. 
 
 " Oh, you can't think of the number of 
 people who have said those same words to 
 me ! Why, that is why I am so happy with 
 Stephen — he has never dreamed of mak- 
 ing love to me ; never once — really. And, 
 do you know, he 's the only man I 've ever 
 had much to do with who has n't." 
 
 " He looks like a man who has seen a great 
 deal of trouble," said the sister. 
 
 Yvonne's laugh faded, and a great serious- 
 ness came into her eyes. 
 
 " Awful trouble," she said in a very low and 
 earnest voice. 
 
 " Perhaps that makes him different from 
 other men," said the sister, taking her hand 
 and smoothing it. 
 
 34i 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Yvonne. 
 
 It was a new light, quick and clear, flashed 
 upon their relations. Her woman's instinct 
 clamoured for confirmation. 
 
 " Do you think that if he had not this 
 great trouble, he would necessarily have fallen 
 in love with me, like the others I " 
 
 " It stands to reason," replied the elder 
 woman gently — " if he 's a man at all. And 
 he is a man — one, too, that many women 
 could love and be proud of." 
 
 " Oh, thank you for saying that ! " cried 
 Yvonne, impulsively. " I am proud of him." 
 
 An imperceptible smile played over the 
 sister's plain, pleasant face. Her calling had 
 brought her a certain knowledge of human 
 nature, and taught her to judge by suppres- 
 sions. This side-light on the inner lives of 
 the two beings whose fortunes had long ago 
 interested her, quickened her sympathies for 
 them. She determined to keep them in view 
 for the future — and with this intention she 
 offered Yvonne opportunities for continuing 
 the friendship. 
 
 " So you '11 come and see me often," she said 
 at last. " I have n't very many friends." 
 
 " And I have n't any at all," said Yvonne, 
 342 
 
Ferment 
 
 smiling. " And oh ! you don't know what 
 a comfort it would be to have a woman to go 
 to "now and then ! " 
 
 The visit left Yvonne thoughtful and happy. 
 A new feeling towards Joyce budded in her 
 heart and the process was accompanied by tiny 
 shocks of tender resentment. So conscious 
 was she of this, that that evening whilst Joyce 
 was working in the armchair opposite to her, 
 she suddenly brokj into a little musical laugh. 
 He looked up and caught the reflection of 
 her smile. 
 
 " What is amusing you, Yvonne ? " 
 
 She still smiled, but a deep red flush showed 
 beneath her dark skin. 
 
 " My thoughts," she said, in a tone that 
 admitted of no further question. 
 
 Yet she would have liked to tell him. It 
 was so humorous that she should feel angry 
 because he did not fall in love with her. 
 
 Sometimes light moods are delicate indexes 
 to far-aWay, unknown commotions. After- 
 wards, in the serious moments, when the bird- 
 ; ike inconsequence fled away from her and 
 ihe realised herself as a grown woman to 
 whom had come the knowledge of life, this 
 that she had laughed and blushed over ap- 
 345 
 
Derelicts 
 
 peared sad and painful. It kept her awake 
 sometimes at nights. Once she got out of 
 bed, lit her candle, and looked closely at her 
 face in the glass. But she returned comforted. 
 She was not getting old and unattractive. 
 
 Yet a vague ferment in her nature began to 
 puzzle her sorely. Her mind, that was once 
 as simple as a child's and as clear as spring 
 water, seemed now tangled with many com- 
 plexities ; she saw into it, as in a glass, darkly. 
 Life, for the first time appeared to her incom- 
 plete. She was weighed down with a sense 
 of failure. The very facts that had caused 
 the happy possibility of her comradeship with 
 Joyce smote her as proofs of the inadequacy 
 of her own womanhood. The essential fierce 
 vanity of sex was touched. 
 
 Once only before had she used her sex as 
 a weapon — on that miserable day at Ostend, 
 to keep Everard by her side. Then she had 
 felt the fire of shame. Now shs was tempted 
 to use it again, and the shame burned deeper. 
 
 And Joyce, familiarised with the daily sweet- 
 ness of her companionship, did not notice the 
 gradually stealing increase of tenderness in her 
 ways. 
 
 344 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 UPHEAVAL 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. The old man 
 had gone away to Exeter, to bury his sister, 
 his only surviving relative. Joyce was alone in 
 the shop busily sorting a job lot of books that 
 had come in during the morning. They were 
 stacked in great piles at the further end, form- 
 ing a barrier between himself and the doorway, 
 where the falling light was creeping in upon 
 the neatly-arranged shelves. Above him flared 
 a gas-jet. It was warm and dusty work, and 
 Joyce had taken off his coat and collar and 
 rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Some 
 of the worthless books he threw on two piles 
 on the floor, to be placed in the twopenny 
 and fourpenny boxes outside. Others he 
 priced and catalogued. Others, again, in good 
 bindings, or otherwise obviously of value, 
 he dusted with a feather brush and put aside 
 for the old man's inspection. Now and again 
 345 
 
Derelicts 
 
 space failed for the assorted lots, and he woulc 
 carry great strings of volumes supported under 
 his chin to convenient stacking-spaces on the 
 shelves. Then he would proceed with his 
 sorting, cataloguing, and cleansing, 
 
 Presently the back-parlour door opened and 
 Yvonne appeared Joyce paused, with a grimy 
 volume in his hand, in the midst of a cloud of 
 dust that rose like incense, and his heart gave 
 a little throb of gladness. She looked so fresh 
 and sweet as she stood there, daintily aproned, 
 in the darkness of the doorway, with the light 
 from the gas-jet falling upon her face. 
 
 "Tea's ready," she remarked. 
 
 " Let me finish this lot," he said, pointing to 
 a pile, " and then I '11 come." 
 
 She nodded, advanced a step and took up a 
 great in-folio black-letter. 
 
 "What silly rubbish," she said, with a su- 
 perior little grimace, as she turned over the 
 pages. " Fancy any one wanting to buy this." 
 
 " You had better put it down, if you don't 
 want to cover yourself with dirt," said Joyce. 
 
 She dropped the book, looked at her soiled 
 nands with a comic air of disgust. 
 
 " Horrid things ! Why did n't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 346 
 
Upheaval 
 
 Joyce laughed for answer. It was so like 
 Yvonne. After she had withdrawn, with a 
 further reminder about the tea, he went on 
 smiling, to himself. 
 
 It was very sweet, this brother and sister life 
 of theirs, in spite of its isolation. There seemed 
 no reason why it should not continue for ever. 
 Indeed, he scarcely thought of change. Now 
 that his small earnings seemed practically as- 
 sured and Yvonne could contribute from her 
 singing lessons something to the household ex- 
 penses, the wolf was kept pretty far from the 
 door. 
 
 He was in one of his lighter moods, when 
 Yvonne's sunshine " scattered the ghosts of the 
 past," and illuminated the dark places in his 
 heart. He hummed a song, forgetful of the gaol 
 and his pariahdom, and thought of Yvonne's 
 face awaiting him at the tea-table, as soon as he 
 had completed his task. 
 
 A hesitating step was heard in the shop. 
 He thought it was the boy returning from an 
 errand. 
 
 u Another time you are sent out round the 
 corner, don't take a quarter of an hour," he 
 cried, without turning round. 
 
 An irritated tap of the foot made him realise 
 347 
 
Derelicts 
 
 that it was a customer. He sprang forward 
 with apologies, and, as it had grown dusk, he 
 seized a taper and quickly lighted the gas in 
 the shop. 
 
 Then he looked at the man and started back 
 in amazement ; and the man looked at him ; 
 and for a few seconds they remained staring at 
 one another. The visitor wore apron and 
 gaiters and a bishop's hat, and his dignified 
 presence was that of Everard Chisely. He 
 surveyed Joyce's grimy and workaday figure 
 with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance 
 stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew 
 himself up defiantly.- 
 
 " You are the last person I expected to meet 
 here," said the Bishop, haughtily. 
 
 " Your lordship is the last person I desired 
 to see," retorted Joyce. 
 
 "Doubtless," replied the Bishop. "And 
 now we have met, I have only one thing to say 
 to you. I have traced Madame Latour to this 
 house. Where is she ? " 
 
 " She is here — upstairs." 
 
 " In this — " began the Bishop, looking 
 round and seeking for a word expressive of 
 distaste. 
 
 « — hovel ? " suggested Joyce. " Yes." 
 348 ' 
 
Upheaval 
 
 " Under your protection ? " 
 
 " Under my protection." 
 
 Then Joyce noticed that his lips twitched, and 
 that the perspiration beaded on his forehead, 
 and that an agony of questioning was in his eyes. 
 
 "Have you been villain enough — ? " he 
 began in a hoarse, trembling voice. 
 
 But Joyce checked him with a sudden flash 
 and an angry gesture. 
 
 " Stop ! She is as pure, as the stars. Let 
 there be no doubt about that. I tell you for 
 her sake, not for yours." 
 
 The Bishop drew a long breath and wiped 
 his forehead. Joyce took his silence for 
 incredulity. 
 
 " If I were a villain," he continued, " do you 
 think it would matter a brass button to me 
 whether you knew it ? I should say c yes/ and 
 you would walk away and I should never see 
 you again." 
 
 He thrust his hands in his pockets and faced 
 his cousin. All the pariah's bitter hatred arose 
 within him against the man who stood there, 
 the representative of the caste that had dis- 
 owned and reviled him ; conscious, too, as he 
 was, of standing for the moment on a higher 
 plane. 
 
 349 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " I believe you. Oh — indeed — I believe 
 you," replied Everard, hurriedly. " But why is 
 she here ? Why has she sunk as low as this ? " 
 
 " Your lordship should be the last to ask 
 such a question." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 " I should have thought it was obvious," said 
 Joyce, with a shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 The sarcasm sounded in the Bishop's ears 
 like cynicism. 
 
 " Do you mean that you have inveigled 
 Madame Latour into supporting you ? " he 
 asked in a tone of disgust. 
 
 Joyce laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 "Listen," he said. "Let us come to some 
 understanding. I am -a member of the criminal 
 classes, and you are a bishop of the English 
 church. Perhaps the God you believe in may 
 condescend to judge between us. The woman 
 who was once your wife appealed to you when 
 she was sick and penniless, and you disregarded 
 her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast sup- 
 ported her, gave her a home, and reverenced 
 her as a sacred trust. c Whether of them twain 
 did the will of his father ? ' " 
 
 Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. 
 A customer entered with a book he had selected 
 350 
 
Upheaval 
 
 from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, re- 
 ceived the money and returned to his former 
 position by the Bishop. 
 
 " I received no appeal from her," said the 
 latter. 
 
 " You did, through me. She was too ill to 
 write." 
 
 " When was this ? " 
 
 " Last November, a year ago." 
 
 Everard reflected for a moment and then a 
 sudden memory flashed upon him, and an 
 expression of deep pain came over his face. 
 
 " God forgive me ! I threw your letter into 
 the fire unopened." 
 
 " Might I ask your reason ? " asked Joyce, 
 feeling a grim joy in his cousin's humiliation. 
 
 " I had been warned that you had gone to 
 Fulminster on a begging errand — " 
 
 " Did the Rector have the iniquity to write 
 you that ? " burst in Joyce fiercely. 
 
 " It was not the Rector." 
 
 " Who, then ? I saw no one but him. I 
 was simply seeking Madame Latour." 
 
 " I name no names," replied the Bishop, 
 
 stiffly. " I am merely explaining. The letter, 
 
 in fact, came by the same mail as yours. Little 
 
 suspecting that you could address me on any 
 
 3Si - 
 
Derelicts 
 
 subject unconnected with yourself, and keeping 
 to my resolution to hold no further communica- 
 tion with you, I destroyed, as I say, your 
 letter unopened. Believe me, the apology I 
 tender to you — " 
 
 " Is neither here nor there," said Joyce, 
 coldly. " I am past feeling such slights. I 
 suppose your correspondent was that she-devil 
 Emmeline Winstanley. I congratulate you." 
 
 The Bishop made no reply, but paced back- 
 wards and forwards two or three times with 
 bent head, along the book-lined shelves. Then 
 he stopped and said abruptly : — 
 
 " Tell me the facts about Yvonne." 
 
 The conciliatory mention of her by her 
 Christian name thawed Joyce for the moment. 
 He rapidly sketched events, while Everard 
 listened, looking at him rigidly from under bent 
 brows. 
 
 " I would have given the last drop of my 
 blood rather than she should have suffered 
 so." ■ 
 
 tc So would I," replied Joyce. 
 
 " Would to God I had known of it ! " 
 
 " It was your own doing." 
 
 "You are right. My uncharitableness to- 
 wards you has brought its punishment." 
 352 
 
Upheaval 
 
 " I cannot say I am sorry/' said Joyce, 
 grimly. 
 
 There was a short silence, compelled by the 
 struggling emotions in each man's heart. In 
 Joyce's there was war, a sense of victory, of 
 the sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that 
 now Yvonne would indubitatively reject the 
 Bishop's offer of help. He had won the right 
 to support her. 
 
 Suddenly her voice was heard from the 
 back-parlour door. 
 
 " Do come. The tea is getting quite cold." 
 
 Both men started. A quick flash came into 
 Everard's eyes and he made a hasty step for- 
 ward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture. 
 
 " I had better prepare her for the surprise of 
 seeing you." 
 
 The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the 
 street door to see that the boy had returned to 
 his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went to 
 join Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs. 
 
 She had just entered, was lifting a plate of 
 hot toast from the fender. She held it out 
 threateningly with both hands. 
 
 " If it 's all dried up it is not my fault," she 
 scolded. " And oh ! you know I don't allow 
 you to sit down in your shirt-sleeves i T 
 2 3 3S3 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He made no reply, but took the plate 
 mechanically from her and placed it on the 
 table. 
 
 " What is the matter, Stephen ? " she asked 
 suddenly, scanning his face. 
 
 " Some one has called to see you, Yvonne." 
 
 " Me ? " 
 
 She looked at him for a puzzled moment. 
 Then something in his face told her. She 
 caught him by his shirt-sleeve. 
 
 " It can't be Everard ? " she cried, agitated. 
 
 "Yes. It is Everard." 
 
 She grew deadly pale and her breath came 
 fast. 
 
 " How has he managed to find me ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Possibly he will explain." 
 
 Yvonne sat down by the table and put her 
 Jiand to her heart. i 
 
 " It is so sudden," she said deprecatingly. 
 
 " Perhaps you would rather put off seeing 
 him," suggested Joyce. 
 
 " Oh no, no. I will see him now — if you 
 don't mind, Stephen, dear. I am quite strong 
 again. Tell him to come. And don't be un- 
 happy about me." 
 
 She smiled up at him, and held out her 
 hand. He took it in his and kissed it. 
 354 
 
Upheaval 
 
 " My own brave, dear Yvonne," he said 
 impulsively. A flush and a grateful glance 
 rewarded him. 
 
 He found the Bishop scanning the book 
 backs. 
 
 " Will you let me show you up to the sit- 
 ting-room ? " said Joyce. 
 
 The Bishop bowed and followed. At the 
 foot of the stairs he paused. 
 
 " I think it right to tell you," he said, " that 
 I have received authentic news of the death of 
 Madame Latour's first husband. The object 
 of my sudden visit to England is to take her 
 back with me as my wife." 
 
 The unexpectedness of the announcement 
 smote Joyce like a blast of icy air. The lofti- 
 ness of the Bishop's assurance dwarfed him to 
 insignificance. As at previous crises of his life, 
 the sudden check cowed the spirit yet under 
 the prison yoke. His defiance vanished. He 
 turned with one foot on the stair and one hand 
 on the baluster and stared stupidly at the 
 Bishop. The latter motioned to him to pro- 
 ceed. He obeyed mechanically, mounted, 
 turned the handle of the sitting-room door in 
 silence, and descended again to the shop. 
 
 No sooner was he alone than a swift con- 
 3ZS 
 
Derelicts 
 
 sciousness of his moral rout made him hot with 
 shame and anger. His heart rose in fierce 
 revolt. Yvonne was free. Free to marry 
 whom she liked. What right over her had 
 this man who had cast her off, spent two whole 
 years at the other end of the world without 
 once troubling to enquire after her welfare ? 
 What right had the man to come and rob him 
 of the one blessing that life held for him ? 
 
 The prospect of life alone, without Yvonne, 
 shimmered before him like a bleak landscape 
 revealed by sheet-lightning. A panic shook 
 him. A second flash revealed him to himself. 
 This utter dependence upon Yvonne, this in- 
 tense need of her that had gone on strengthen- 
 ing, week by week, and day by day, was love. 
 Use, self-concentration, the mere unconcealed 
 affection of daily life had kept it dormant as it 
 grew. Now it awakened under the sudden ter- 
 ror of losing her. A thrill ran through his 
 body. He loved her. She was free. This 
 other set aside, he could marry her. He paced 
 among the piles of books in strange excitement 
 
 The boy, who had been rapping his heels 
 
 against his box-seat by the door, strolled in to 
 
 see what was doing. Joyce abruptly ordered 
 
 him to put up the shutters and go honw. 
 
 356 
 
Upheaval 
 
 Meanwhile he made pretence to continue his 
 work of cataloguing. But his brain was in 
 a whirl. His eyes fell upon the marks of 
 Yvonne's hands and arms on the dust of the 
 folio she had been handling. The mute testi- 
 mony of their intimacy eloquently moved him. 
 She was part and parcel of his life. He would 
 not give her up without fierce fighting. 
 
 Then, in the midst of the glow came the 
 fresh memory of his collapse. He sat down 
 by the little deal table, where he was wont to 
 write, and buried his face in his hands, and 
 shivered. His manhood had gone. Nothing 
 could ever restore it. Its semblance was 
 liable to be shattered at any moment by an 
 honest man's self-assertion. It had perished 
 during those awful years ; not to be revived, 
 even by the pure passion of love that was 
 throbbing in his veins. 
 
 Too restless to sit long, he rose presently 
 and walked about the shop, among the books. 
 The close, dusty air suffocated him. He 
 longed to go out, walk the streets, and shake 
 off the burden that was round his neck. But 
 the feeling that he ought, for Yvonne's sake, 
 to remain until the Bishop's departure kept 
 him an irritable prisoner. The minutes passed 
 
 357 
 
Derelicts 
 
 slowly. Outside was the ceaseless hum and 
 hurry of the street : within, the flare of the gas- 
 jets and the sound of his own purposeless tread. 
 And so for two hours he waited, running the 
 gamut of his emotions with maddening itera- 
 tion. The terror of losing Yvonne brought at 
 times the perspiration to his forehead. With 
 feverish intensity he argued out his claim upon 
 her. She could not throw him over to go 
 and live with that proud, unsympathetic man 
 who must for ever be to her a stranger. Then 
 his jealous wrath burst forth again, and again 
 came the old hated shiver of degradation. 
 How dare he match himself against one who, 
 with all his faults, had yet lived through his 
 life a stainless gentleman ? 
 
 3-8 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE 
 
 "Yes, he is dead," said the Bishop, gravely. 
 " You are a free woman. I have come from 
 the other end of the world to tell you so." 
 
 Yvonne, sitting opposite him, looked into 
 the red coals of the fire, and clasped her hands 
 nervously. His presence dazed her. She had 
 not yet recovered from the shock of his sudden 
 embrace. The pressure of his arms was yet 
 about her shoulders. The change wrought in 
 her life by the loss of her voice was almost like 
 a change of identity. It was with an effort that 
 she realised the former closeness of their rela- 
 tions. He seemed unfamiliar, out of place, to 
 have dropped down from another sphere. The 
 oddity of his attire struck a note of the unusual. 
 The dignity of his title invested him with re- 
 moteness. His face too, did not correspond 
 with her remembered impression. It was thin 
 ner, more deeply lined. His hair had grown 
 scantier and greyer. 
 
 359 
 
Derelicts 
 
 She had listened, almost in a dream, to the 
 story of his coming. How, to his bitter regret, 
 he had destroyed Joyce's letter. How, later, 
 growing anxious about her, he had written for 
 news of her welfare. How his letter had been 
 returned to him through the post-office. How, 
 meanwhile, the detective whom he had employed 
 for the purpose in Paris, had sent him proofs of 
 Bazouge's death. How he bad been unable to 
 rest until he had found her, ar d, impatient of the 
 long weary posts, he had left Mew Zealand ; and 
 lastly, how he had obtained her present address 
 from the musical agents, who had informed him 
 of her illness and the loss of her voice. 
 
 " You are free, Yvonne, at last," repeated 
 the Bishop. 
 
 The tidings scarcely affected her. She had 
 counted Amedee so long as dead, even after 
 his disastrous resurrection, that now she could 
 feel no shock either of pain or relief. It was 
 not until the after-sound of Everard's last words 
 penetrated her consciousness, that she realised 
 their import. She started quickly from her 
 attitude of bewilderment, and looked at him 
 with a dawning alarm in her eyes. 
 
 <c It can make very little difference to me," 
 she said. 
 
 360 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 « 
 
 I thought it might make all the difference 
 m the world to me," said Everard. " Do you 
 think I have ever ceased to love you ? " 
 
 There was the note of pain in his voice 
 which all her life long had had power to 
 move her simple nature. She trembled a 
 little as she answered : — 
 
 "It is all so long ago, now. We have 
 changed." 
 
 " You have not changed," he said, with 
 grave tenderness. "You are still the same 
 sweet, flower-like woman that was my wife. 
 And I have not changed. I have longed for 
 you all through these bitter, lonely years. Do 
 you know why I left Fulminster ? " 
 
 " No," murmured Yvonne. 
 
 " Because it grew unbearable — without you. 
 I thought a changed scene and new responsi- 
 bilities would fill my thoughts. I was mis- 
 taken. And added to my want of you was 
 remorse for harshness in that terrible hour." 
 
 " I have only thought of your kindness, 
 Everard," said Yvonne, with tears in her eyes. 
 His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense 
 of his suffering. 
 
 He rose, came forward and bent over her 
 chair. 
 
 361 
 
Derelicts 
 
 " Will you come back with me, Yvonne ? " 
 
 She would have given worlds to be away ; 
 to have, at least, a few hours to consider her 
 answer. He expected it at once. Feminine 
 instinct desperately sought evasion. 
 
 " I shall be of no use to you. I can't sing 
 any more. Listen." 
 
 She turned sideways in her chair, and 
 drawing back her head far from him, began, 
 with a smile, the " Aria " of the Angel in the 
 Elijah. The grave man drew himself up, 
 shocked to the heart. He had not realised 
 what the loss of her voice meant. Instead 
 of the pure dove-notes that had stirred the 
 passion of his manhood, nothing came from 
 her lips but toneless, wheezing sounds. She 
 stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the laugh 
 was choked in a sob and she burst into tears. 
 
 " Come back with me, my darling," he said, 
 bending down again. " I will love you all the 
 more tenderly." 
 
 Yvonne dried her eyes in her impulsive way. 
 
 " I am foolish," she said. " Crying can't 
 mend it." 
 
 " I will devote the rest of my life to making 
 compensation," said the Bishop. " Come, 
 Yvonne." 
 
 362 
 
A Demand in 'Marriage 
 
 t( Oh, give me time to answer you, Everard," 
 she cried, driven to bay at last. " It is all sc 
 strange and sudden." 
 
 He left her side, with a kind of sigh, and 
 resumed his former seat. He was somewhat 
 disappointed. He had not contemplated the 
 chance of her refusal. A glance, however, 
 round the shabby, low-ceilinged room reas- 
 sured him. The coarse, not immaculate table- 
 cloth, the homely crockery, the half-emptied 
 potted-meat tins on the table, the threadbare 
 hearthrug at his feet — all spoke, if not of pov- 
 erty, at least of very narrow means. She could 
 not surely hesitate. But she did. 
 
 : Take your time — of course," he said, 
 crossing his gaitered legs. There was a short 
 silence. At last she said, with a little quiver of 
 the lip : — 
 
 " I promised you, I know. But things have 
 altered so since then. I thought I should 
 always be free. But now I am not, you see." 
 • " What do you mean? " he cried, startled. 
 
 I It is Stephen," Yvonne explained. " He 
 saved me from starvation, gave me all he had, 
 to make me well again, and has been slaving 
 all this time to support me. You don't know 
 how nobly he has behaved to me — yes, nobly, 
 363 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Everard, there is no other word for it. H 
 has rights over me that a brother or fath 
 would have — I could not leave him witho 
 his consent. It would be cruel and ungratefv 
 Don't you see that it would be wicked of me 
 Everard," she added earnestly. 
 
 His face clouded over. Pride rose in revolt 
 He crushed it down, however, and suffered the 
 humiliation. 
 
 "It would lift a responsibility from his 
 shoulders," he said. " I myself am willing to 
 take him by the hand again, and help him to 
 rise from his present position." 
 
 " You will let bygones be bygones — quite ? " 
 
 <c With all my heart," replied Everard. 
 
 " He suffers dreadfully still," said Yvonne. 
 
 " I will do my best to heal the wound," 
 replied the Bishop. " I own I have judged 
 him too harshly already." 
 
 A flush of pleasure arose in Yvonne's cheeks, 
 and her eyes thanked him. Then she reflected, 
 and said somewhat sadly : — 
 
 " Perhaps if you help him in that way, he 
 won't miss me." 
 
 " I will guarantee his prosperity," he an- 
 swered, with dignified conviction. And then, 
 changing his manner, after a pause, and lean- 
 364 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 ig forward and looking at her hungeringly^ 
 
 Yvonne," he said, <c you will come and share 
 
 y life again — in a new world, where every- 
 
 Ing is beautiful — ? I have been growing 
 
 old there, without you. You will make me 
 
 young again, and the blessing of God will 
 
 be upon us. I must have you with me, 
 
 Yvonne. I cannot live in peace without 
 
 your smile and your happiness around me. 
 
 My child — " 
 
 His voice grew thick with emotion. He 
 stood up and stretched out his arms to her. 
 Yvonne rose timidly and advanced toward 
 him, drawn by his pleading. But just as his 
 hands were about to touch her, she hung back. 
 "You must ask Stephen for me," she said, 
 in her serious, simple way. 
 
 His hands fell to his sides, in a gesture of 
 impatience. 
 
 " Impossible. How can I do such a thing? 
 It would be absurd." 
 " But I can't," she said. 
 Her tiny figure, the plaintiveness of hei 
 upturned face, the wistfulness of her soft eyes, 
 brought back to him a flood of memories. 
 She was still the same sweet, innocent soul. 
 The lines about his lips relaxed into a smile, 
 365 
 
Derelicts 
 
 and he took her, yielding passively, into his 
 arms and kissed her cheek. 
 
 " I will do what you likc^ dear," he said, in 
 a low voice. " Anything in the world to win 
 you again. I will ask him. It will be making 
 reparation. And then you will marry me ? " 
 
 " Yes," murmured Yvonne faintly, " I prom- 
 ised you." 
 
 " Why did you not write to me again ? " he 
 asked, still holding her hands. 
 
 " I was going to write when the answer 
 came," she said, looking down. " But no 
 answer did come. And then, I was content to 
 help Stephen." 
 
 "You could have helped Stephen, all the 
 same." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she cried, with a swift look up- 
 wards. " Don't you understand ? " 
 
 The Bishop saw the delicacy of the point, 
 and motioned an affirmative. But he regarded 
 Stephen with mingled feelings. It was intensely 
 repugnant to him to find his once reprobated 
 cousin a barrier between himself and Yvonne. 
 An uneasy suspicion passed through his mind. 
 Might not Stephen be even a more serious 
 rival ? 
 
 " You are not marrying me merely on 
 Z66 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 account of that promise years ago, Yvonne ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, Everard," she replied gently. " It 
 s because you want me — and because it's right." 
 
 He kissed her good-bye. 
 
 * I shall not visit you here again, Yvonne," 
 he said. " When I receive the final answer I 
 shall make suitable arrangements. We shall be 
 married quietly, by special licence. Will that 
 please you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Yvonne. " Thank you." 
 
 At the door he turned for a parting glance. 
 Then he descended the stairs, with the inten- 
 tion of broaching the matter to Joyce then and 
 there. But although he found lights burning 
 in the shop, Joyce was nowhere to be seen. 
 Nor were there any apparent means of ascer- 
 taining his whereabouts. The Bishop bit his 
 lip with annoyance. He did not wish to pro- 
 crastinate in this affair. Suddenly his eye fell 
 upon an old stationery-rack against the wall, in 
 which were visible the paper and envelopes used 
 for the business. With prompt decision the 
 Bishop took what was necessary, sought and 
 found pen and ink, and wrote at Joyce's table 
 a letter, which he addressed and left in a con- 
 spicuous position. Then he found with some 
 367 
 
Derelicts 
 
 difficulty. the street-door of the house and let 
 himself out. 
 
 Joyce, whom a longing for air had at last 
 driven outside, was walking up and down the 
 pavement, keeping his eye on the door. As 
 soon as he witnessed Everard's departure, he 
 entered and went through the passage into the 
 shop. The letter attracted his attention. He 
 opened it and read : — 
 
 Dear Stephen, — I wished for a word with you. 
 But as the matter is urgent, I write. I should like 
 to express to you my sense of the generous chivalry 
 of your conduct toward Yvonne. I should also like 
 to hold out to you the hand of sincere friendship. 
 
 In earnest of this I approach you, as man to man, 
 with reference to one of the most solemn affairs in 
 life. Yvonne, gratefully acknowledging the vast 
 obligations under which she is bound to you, has 
 made her acceptance of my offer of remarriage 
 dependent upon your consent. For this consent, 
 therefore, I earnestly beg you. 
 
 For the future, in what way soever my friendship 
 can be of use to you, it will most gladly be directed. 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 E. Chisely. 
 
 Burgon's Hotel, W. 
 
 Joyce grew faint as he read. The words 
 swam before his eyes. A great pain shot 
 368 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 through his heart. The letter contained one 
 torturing fact — that of Yvonne's acquiescence. 
 The Bishop's acknowledgment of his upright- 
 ness, the courtesy of the formal request, the 
 offer of friendship — all were meaningless 
 phrases. Yvonne was going to leave him — of 
 her own free-will. Although his fears had 
 anticipated the blow, it none the less stunned 
 him. He flung himself down by his table, 
 with a groan, and buried his face in his arms. 
 The realisation of what Yvonne was to him 
 flooded him with a mighty rush. She was his 
 hope of salvation in this world and the next, 
 his guardian angel, his universe. Without her 
 all was chaos, void and horrible. 
 
 Presently Yvonne's voice was heard calling 
 him from the top of the stairs : — 
 
 " Stephen ! " 
 
 He raised a haggard face, and with an effort 
 steadied his voice to reply. Then he rose, 
 turned off the gas, from force of habit, and 
 went with heavy tread up the stairs. 
 
 " Your tea," said Yvonne, busying herself 
 with a kettle. " I am making you some 
 afresh." 
 
 " I will go and wash my hands," he said 
 drearily 
 
 24 369 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed 
 himself from the book-dust and returned to 
 Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. 
 She poured him out his tea, and helped him to 
 butter, according to a habit into which she had 
 fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said 
 that it did not matter. But when he tried to 
 eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne 
 made no pretence at eating, but trifled with her 
 teaspoon, with downcast eyes. Joyce looked 
 at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown 
 older. The childlike expression had changed 
 into a sad, womanly seriousness. Presently 
 she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, 
 and met his. 
 
 " Did you see Everard ? " she asked. 
 
 " No. I , was out. But he left a note — 
 that told me everything." 
 
 " He asks for your consent ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And will you give it ? " she asked, below 
 her breath. 
 
 "It would be worse than folly for me to try 
 to withhold it," he said, bitterly. 
 
 " I will stay with you, and go on living this 
 life, if you wish." 
 
 " And yourself? " 
 
 370 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 <c I don't count," she said, " I must do as I 
 am told." 
 
 " Would you be happy with Everard ? " he 
 asked huskily. 
 
 " Yes — of course — I was before," she re- 
 plied. But her cheek grew paler. 
 
 " And you would stay, if I asked you, and 
 share all this struggle and poverty with me ? " 
 
 " How could I refuse ? Don't I owe you 
 my life ? " 
 
 He looked for a tremulous second into her 
 pure eyes and knew that he was master of her 
 fate. The condition she had imposed upon 
 Everard was no graceful act of acknowledg- 
 ment. It was a serious placing of her future in 
 his hands. He was silent for a few moments, 
 deep in agitated thought, trembling with a 
 struggle against a fierce temptation. The hand 
 that nervously tugged at his moustache was 
 shaking. Yvonne read the anxious trouble on 
 his face. 
 
 " Don't worry over it now," she said, gently. 
 " There is time, you know. Why should 
 people always want to decide things straight 
 off? " 
 
 "You are right, Yvonne," said Stephen. 
 " Let us forget it for a little." 
 37i 
 
Derelicts 
 
 "Your poor tea," said Yvonne, with pathetic 
 return to her old manner. " It will never be 
 drunk. And do eat something, to please me." 
 
 But it was a miserable meal. The tabooed 
 subject filled the heart and thoughts of each. 
 It was with an effort that they caught the drift 
 of casual commonplaces uttered from time to 
 time. Now and then, during the long spells 
 of silence, Yvonne stole a swift feminine glance 
 at his face. But his sombre expression seemed 
 to tell her nothing of that which she longed to 
 know. At last the farce ended. They rose 
 from the table and went to their usual seats by 
 the fireside. Joyce filled his pipe, and was 
 fumbling in his pockets for a match, when 
 Yvonne came forward with a spill and stood 
 before him holding it until the pipe was alight. 
 He tried to thank her, but the words would 
 not come. The tender act of intimacy made 
 his heart swell too painfully. Yvonne rang the 
 bell and the elderly, slatternly maid-of-all-work, 
 cleared away the tea-things. Sarah was one of 
 the elements of the establishment that made 
 Joyce hate his poverty. She drank, was un- 
 clean, was a perpetual soil in the atmosphere 
 that Yvonne breathed. The sight of her was 
 a new factor in the case against himself. 
 372 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 It was a terrible decision that he was called 
 upon to make. On the one hand, wealth and 
 ease and social happiness for Yvonne, despair 
 and misery for himself. On the other, a sel- 
 fish happiness for himself, and for Yvonne this 
 squalor and ostracism. He knew that her 
 sweet, gentle nature would accept the latter 
 portion unmurmuringly. A voice rang in his 
 ears the certainty that she would marry him, 
 if he pleaded. To repress the temptation to 
 cast all other thoughts but his yearning pas- 
 sion to the winds was indescribable torture. 
 
 " I wish I could sing to you," she said, 
 breaking a long silence. " I don't know what 
 to do now, when I feel things. Once I could 
 sing them." 
 
 " I should ask you to sing Gounod's c Sere- 
 nade,' " said Joyce. 
 
 " Oh, not that ! " she cried quickly. " It 
 was the last thing I ever sang to you, and it 
 brought us bad luck." 
 
 For a moment he put a lover's passionate 
 interpretation upon her words. His heart beat 
 fast. He controlled the wild impulse that 
 seized him, biting through the amber of his 
 pipe with the nervous effort. 
 
 And then he realised that he must be alone 
 373 
 
Derelicts 
 
 to work out this stern problem, on whose solu- 
 tion depended the happiness of three human 
 lives. He rose to his feet. 
 
 " I am going out, Yvonne," he said, in a 
 constrained voice. " All this is rather upset- 
 ting — and you had better go to bed early. 
 You look tired." 
 
 "Yes. I have a splitting headache," said 
 Yvonne. 
 
 She tried to smile brightly, as he wished her 
 good-night. But when the door closed upon 
 him, the smile faded, and her face grew drawn, 
 almost haggard. A spirit had descended, 
 touched her with magical wings, and changed 
 at last the child into the woman. Her eyes 
 were set in steadfast envisaging of the future ; 
 and they beheld the responsibilities and sad- 
 nesses of life, no longer as vague terrors and 
 discomforts from which her light bird-like 
 nature shrank to the nearest refuge, but as 
 dull realities, commonplace in form and grey 
 in hue. 
 
 It was her duty to go back to Everard, 
 Stephen not wanting her ; for she had prom- 
 ised. It was her duty to ask Stephen for his 
 consent. And it was Stephen's duty to give 
 it, if he did not want her for more than daily 
 3*i 
 
A Demand in Marriage 
 
 companionship. She had proved that Stephen 
 did not love her. Never had she felt so keenly 
 the failure of her womanhood. It had nof 
 cleared his life of haunting cares. If it had, his 
 heart would have been stirred with needs for 
 closer union. The weapon of her sex was 
 powerless. Newer knowledge had come to 
 her. He needed her less than Everard. She 
 argued with desperate logic. And yet there 
 was a lingering, feverish hope — one that made 
 her now and then draw a sharp convulsive 
 breath, as she sat staring, with clear vision, at 
 her life. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 SEEKING SALVATION 
 
 He could walk no longer through the drizzling 
 rain, in futile struggle with his soul's needs. 
 As possible to cut out his heart and fling it at 
 Everard's feet as to surrender Yvonne. He 
 called himself a fooi. 
 
 The glare in front of a cheap music-hall at- 
 tracted him. He entered, mounted to the 
 nine-penny balcony, where he stood leaning 
 over the wooden partition, wedged among a 
 crowd of loungers. The air was filled with the 
 smoke of cheap tobacco and the fumes of the 
 bar behind. A girl on the stage was singing a 
 song in the chorus of which the thronged 
 house roared lustily. Then came a tenor 
 vocalist with drawing-room ballads. Joyce 
 attended absently, hearing and seeing in a con- 
 fused dream. A neighbour asking him for a 
 light aroused him from his reverie. He won- 
 dered why he had come. To-night of all 
 
 376 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 nights, when he might be at home in the joy 
 of his heart's desire. Yet he stayed. 
 
 A flashing family appeared riding on nonde- 
 script cycles. He watched them with half-shut 
 eyes, caressing a quaint conceit that they were his 
 thoughts whirling around in concrete form. The 
 bursts of deafening applause seemed to soothe 
 him. Presently a street-scene cloth was let down 
 and a battered man appeared and sang a song 
 about drink and twins and brokers. He threw 
 such humourous gusto into the performance that 
 Joyce laughed in spite of his preoccupation, and 
 remained in amused anticipation of his second 
 turn. The bell tinkled. The "comedian" came 
 on and was greeted with vociferous applause. 
 With music-hall realism he was dressed in 
 prison-clothes, glengarry, woollen stockings, 
 and black-arrowed suit all complete. He had 
 made up his face into a startling brute. Joyce 
 felt sick. He did not catch the first verse ; 
 only the concluding lines of the chorus, 
 
 u I *ve done my bit of time, 
 For 'itting of my missus on the chump, chump, 
 chump." 
 
 But then the man began to speak, and Joyce 
 could not help hearing. A horrible fascina- 
 tion held him. The ignoble figure poured 
 377 
 
E)erelicts 
 
 out with grotesque and voluble cynicism the 
 comic history of the prison-life ; the plank-bed, 
 the skilly, the oakum, the exercise-yard. He 
 sketched his pals, detailed the sordid tricks for 
 obtaining food, the mean malingering, the de- 
 basing habits. And all with a horrible fidelity. 
 The audience shrieked with laughter. But 
 Joyce lost sense of the mime. The man was 
 real, one of the degraded creatures with whom 
 he himself had once been indistinguishably 
 mingled — a loathsome fact from the past. The 
 smell of the prison floated over the footlights 
 and filled his nostrils. All his overwrought 
 nerves quivering with repulsion, he broke 
 through the crowd hemming him in against the 
 partition, and rushed down into the street. 
 
 How long and whither he walked he did not 
 know. At last he found himself within famil- 
 iar latitudes, outside the Angel Tavern. He 
 was wet through from the fine, penetrating 
 rain, tired, cold, and utterly miserable. The 
 revulsion of feeling in the music-hall had 
 thrown him back years in his self-esteem. 
 The soil of the gaol had never seemed so 
 ineffaceable. In the blaze of light by the tav- 
 ern door he paused, irresolute. Then, remem- 
 27$ 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 bering the disastrous results of an attempt years 
 before to seek such consolation, he shivered 
 and turned away. It was too dangerous. 
 
 About a hundred yards further, a woman 
 passed him, turned, and overtook him. 
 
 " I thought it was you," she said. He 
 recognised the voice as that of Annie Stevens. 
 It was not far from the spot where he had 
 first met her, and where, some short time 
 after, he had met her again. For months, 
 however, he had lost sight of her. He recog- 
 nised her voice, but her appearance was un- 
 familiar, and her face was half hidden by a 
 Salvation Army bonnet. The apparent cynicism 
 of her attire revolted him. 
 
 " Why are you masquerading like this ? " 
 he asked, continuing to walk onwards. 
 
 " It 's not masquerading. It 's real. I 
 recognised you, and thought perhaps you 'd 
 care to know." 
 
 He slackened his pace imperceptibly, and 
 she walked by his side. 
 
 " You don't seem to believe it," she re- 
 sumed. "I don't tell lies. It's the truth 
 that has generally cursed me." 
 
 " Then why are you walking up and down 
 here at this time of night ? " 
 37Q 
 
cc 
 
 Derelicts 
 
 Doing rescue work." 
 
 Have you rescued any one yet ? M asked 
 Joyce, with a touch of sarcasm. 
 
 " No. I scarce expect to." 
 
 " Then why are you trying ? " 
 
 " Because it 's the beastliest thing I could 
 think of doing," she said, stopping abruptly, 
 and facing him, as he turned, in the defiant 
 way he remembered from the theatre days. 
 
 " You 're an odd girl," he said. 
 
 " You don't suppose I wear this disgusting 
 bonnet and get hustled by roughs and black- 
 guarded by women because I like it ! I 
 have n't been converted, and I don't shriek 
 out c Hallelujah,' and I won't, — but I earn an 
 honest living at the Shelter during the day, and 
 at night I come out. It 's the beastliest thing I 
 can think of doing," she repeated. " If I knew 
 of anything beastlier I 'd do it. I 've had flames 
 inside me since I gave you away, — I'd have 
 killed myself for you after, — and hell since I 
 went on the streets, — but I think the other 
 was worse. I 've learned what you felt like ; 
 now I 'm trying to burn out the fire — " 
 
 " Stop for a moment," he said, with a queer 
 catch in his throat. " Do you mean you are 
 doing this for your own inner self? " 
 380 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 " Yes," she replied, her direct intuition divin- 
 ing the implied alternative. " I don't know 
 much about Jesus and my immortal soul. 
 That '11 come. I want one day to be able to 
 remember that I loved you — without hating 
 myself and feeling sick with the shame and the 
 horror of it all. You may think me a silly fool 
 if you like, but that 's why I 'm doing it. Let 
 us walk on. We need n't attract attention." 
 
 This was wise ; for more than one passer-by 
 had turned round, struck by the two intent 
 white faces. Joyce obeyed passively, but con- 
 tinued for some moments to look down upon 
 her in great wonder. An idea, which he 
 became dimly aware had been struggling fot 
 birth in the dark of his soul for the past two 
 hours, dawned upon him amid a strange, ex- 
 ulting excitement. Suddenly he took her by 
 the arm and held it very tightly. She looked 
 up at him, astonished. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Do you know what you have done to- 
 night ? " he said, in a shaking voice. " You 
 have shown me how to burn out my hell too. 
 You have retrieved any wrong you have done 
 me. If my forgiveness is worth having, you 
 have it, from the depths of my soul." 
 381 
 
Derelicts 
 
 He was strangely moved. In the impulse 
 of his exaltation, he drew her quickly into the 
 gloom of a doorway — the pavement was 
 momentarily deserted — and kissed her. She 
 uttered a little cry and shrank back. 
 
 " Is that for forgiveness ? " 
 
 " Yes," he cried ; and then he broke from 
 her abruptly, and went on along the pavement 
 \yith great strides. 
 
 He was no longer uncertain. The problem 
 of his life was solved. His mind was crystal 
 clear. At last the time had come for the great 
 atonement to his degraded self, the supreme 
 sacrifice that should clear his being of stain. 
 
 At last he could perform that act of renun- 
 ciation that would give the strength back into 
 his eyes to meet calmly the scrutiny of his 
 fellow-man. Renunciation ! The word rang 
 in his ears and echoed to his footsteps. 
 
 He did not doubt that it would not be to 
 Yvonne's lesser happiness to regain her lost 
 environment of luxury and tender care. On 
 the other hand, he judged her rightly enough to 
 know that she would have found compensating 
 pleasures in a life of privation with himself. 
 Had it not been so, mere manliness would 
 have decided in the Bishop's favour. In per- 
 382 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 feet fairness (he saw now), he could have 
 claimed her. His sacrifice was made in pure 
 loyalty to his conscience. 
 
 And it had been reserved, too, for that igno- 
 rant, wayward woman, who had groped her 
 unguided way thus grotesquely to the Princi- 
 ple, to have led him thither and revealed its 
 elemental application. He felt a stirring of 
 shame that strengthened his manhood. 
 
 The rain had stopped. The clouds broke 
 and drifted across the heavens, and a misty 
 moon appeared at intervals, shedding its pale 
 light upon the unlovely thoroughfare. A fresh 
 breeze sprang up and made Joyce, in his wet 
 things, shiver with cold. At the nearest tav- 
 ern he stopped, entered, called for some hot 
 spirits, this time from no temptation to drown 
 care, and asked for writing materials. Then, 
 in the midst of the noise of thick voices and 
 clatter of drinking vessels, he wrote at a corner 
 of the bar his letter of renunciation. 
 
 Dear Everard, — I accept your letter in the 
 spirit in which it was written. I put the sweetest 
 and purest of God's creatures into your keeping. 
 Cherish her. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Stephen Joyce. 
 
 383 
 
Derelicts 
 
 A few minutes afterwards he dropped it into 
 a pillar-box. The faint patter of its fall inside 
 struck like a death-note upon his ear, shocked 
 him with a sense of the irrevocable. Now 
 that the act of renunciation was accomplished, 
 he felt frightened. The immensity of his sac- 
 rifice began to loom before him. He became 
 conscious of the dull premonitions of an agony 
 hitherto undreamed of, for all his suffering in 
 the past. 
 
 Shiveringly he bent his steps homeward. 
 The gas was burning dimly in the sitting- 
 room. As was usual on the rare occasions 
 when he had spent the evening out, Yvonne 
 had brought down his bedroom candle and had 
 laid his modest supper neatly for him. His 
 slippers were warming by the fire. At the sight, 
 his pain grew greater. Having taken off his 
 wet boots and lit his candle — he could eat no 
 supper — he turned off the gas, and went out 
 of the room. On the landing outside Yvonne's 
 door were the tiny shoes she had placed there 
 for Sarah to clean. He looked at them for a 
 second or two and mounted the stairs hurriedly. 
 
 In the shock and excitement of battle a 
 man can bear the amputation of a mangled 
 limb without great suffering. It is afterwards 
 384 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 that the agony sets in, when the nerves have 
 quieted to responsiveness. So it was with 
 Joyce on that sleepless night of his great re- 
 nunciation, and with his misery was mingled 
 despair lest all should prove to be futile, his 
 theory of renunciation ; a ghastly fallacy. Time 
 was when he would have mocked at the propo- 
 sition. Could he even now defend it upon 
 rational grounds ? Had he not cut off his leg 
 to compensate for the loss of an arm, thereby 
 adding to the gaiety of the high gods ? He 
 tossed about in the bed in anguish, " burning 
 out his hell." 
 
 A man of sensitive, emotional temperament^ 
 however, cannot pass through such an ordeal 
 unchanged. Some fibres must be shrivelled 
 up, whilst others are toughened. Joyce rose 
 in the morning with aching head and exhausted 
 nerves, but still with a dull sense of calm. 
 Fallacy or not, at any rate he had chosen tke 
 man's part. The consciousness of it was an 
 element of strength. He dressed and went 
 downstairs. 
 
 Yvonne was already in the room, neat and 
 
 dainty as usual, making the toast for breakfast. 
 
 She was pale and had the faint rings below the 
 
 eyes that ever tell tales on a woman's face. She 
 
 2 5 385 
 
Derelicts 
 
 looked round at him anxiously, as she knelt 
 before the fire. He saw her trouble and went 
 and sat in the armchair beside her and spread 
 out his hands to warm them. 
 
 "You have been worrying, my poor little 
 Yvonne," he said gently. " I was a selfish 
 beast to let you think I wanted to make up 
 my mind, when my course was so plain. I 
 wrote to Everard last night. I told him to 
 cherish the treasure that he has got. You 
 should n't have worried over it." 
 
 Yvonne turned away her face from him, and 
 remained silent for some moments, half kneel- 
 ing, half sitting, the toasting-fork drooping 
 idly from her hand. 
 
 " It was foolish of me," she replied at last. 
 " But it seemed hard to leave you alone — and 
 I Ve got so used to this little place — one gets 
 attached to places, like a cat — Did you — 
 were you sorry to give me away ? " 
 
 " Of course," said Joyce. " I thought we 
 could go on being brother and sister till the 
 end of all things. Well, all things have an 
 end, and this is it." 
 
 " You would not prefer me to stay ? " asked 
 Yvonne, in her soft voice. 
 
 He would have given his soul to have been 
 386 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 able to throw his arms round her, passionately 
 and wildly — she was so near him, so madden- 
 ingly desired. Did she realise, he wondered, 
 what flame was in her words ? He leaned 
 back in the chair, as if to avert the temptation 
 Dy increasing the distance between them. 
 
 " No," he said, with a sharp breath, " I 
 could not — it will be a wrench breaking up 
 the — partnership. But it is all for the best. 
 I know you will be happy and cared for, and 
 that will be a happiness to me." 
 
 Sarah brought in the breakfast and retired. 
 They sat down to table. Somehow or other 
 the meal proceeded. Two things had come 
 by post for Joyce, one a belated but laudatory 
 notice of " The Wasters," the other a cheque 
 from the office of a weekly paper. He passed 
 them both to her, according to custom. 
 
 "You mustn't bother about me at all, 
 Yvonne. I am in a different way of business 
 altogether from what I was when we first 
 started housekeeping. The new book will do 
 ever so much better than c The Wasters/ I 
 shall miss you terribly — at first — but it will 
 all dry straight, Yvonne. I dare say I shall 
 go on living here, Runcle and I are immense 
 pals, you know — perhaps I may go into part 
 387 
 
Derelicts 
 
 nership with him and bring some modern go* 
 ahead ideas into the concern — become a Quar- 
 itch or Sotheran — who knows ? Yes, I 
 should n't like to leave these quaint, dear old 
 rooms," he said, looking round, anywhere but 
 in Yvonne's face, with an air of cheerfulness 
 that he felt in his heart must be ghastly. 
 * Something of you and your dear companion- 
 ship will linger about them. I shall pretend, 
 like the c Marchioness/ that you are with me." 
 
 He passed his tea-cup, and, meeting her 
 eyes, tried to smile. The corners of her lips 
 responded bravely. 
 
 " And at last you will come into indisputed 
 possession of your furniture," she said. 
 
 He had not the heart to protest. So they 
 continued to talk in this light strain of the 
 coming parting, until Joyce, looking at his 
 watch, found it was time to go down to the 
 shop. At the door, on his way out, he paused 
 to relight his pipe. Then, without trusting 
 himself to look round, he left her. But if he 
 had turned he would have seen her grow sud- 
 denly very white, clutch the mantel-piece for 
 support with one hand while the other pressed 
 her bosom hard, and sway for a second or two 
 with shut eves. 
 
 388 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 Downstairs he resumed his unfinished task 
 of the evening before. He worked at it dog- 
 gedly, trying not to think. But it was as futile 
 as trying to hold one's breath beyond a certain 
 period. 
 
 "Yvonne is going — to marry Everard — 
 going for ever — I shall be alone — she will lie 
 in his arms — I shall go mad — God help me 
 — if it is more than I can bear, there is a way 
 out — I can keep up till she goes — she shall 
 not know — afterwards/' His brain could not 
 work beyond. The same thoughts throbbed 
 with almost rhythmic recurrence as he priced 
 and catalogued the books. Once he opened a 
 tattered " Marcus Aurelius " : — 
 
 " If pain is an affliction, it must affect either 
 the body or the mind ; if the body is hurt, let 
 it say so ; as for the soul, it is in her power to 
 preserve her serenity and calm, bv supposing 
 the accident no evil." 
 
 He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw 
 the book on the fourpenny heap. " Or pre- 
 tending, like the Marchioness," he said. He 
 was scarcely in a mood for " Marcus Aurelius." 
 
 A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for 
 Madame Latour. Joyce sent it up to her by the 
 shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply 
 389 
 
Derelicts 
 
 note. The preparations for her departure had 
 begun. Joyce's heart seemed set in a vice and 
 he nearly cried aloud with the pain. 
 
 The hours wore on ; the piles of books were 
 disposed of; nothing to do, but wait for cus- 
 tomers. To keep himself employed he copied 
 untidy pages of his manuscript. He went up 
 for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than 
 at breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When 
 the meal was over, she told him quietly of the 
 letter she had received. 
 
 " Everard says that he is getting the special 
 licence to-day, and the marriage will take place 
 to-morrow at St. Luke's, Islington. Consider- 
 ing the circumstances, he thinks it best that 
 there should be no delay." 
 
 " It is just as well," he replied. " When 
 changes come, it is best that they should come 
 swiftly. Has he made any more definite 
 rrangements - — the hour ? " 
 
 " He will send me a message later." 
 
 " You will have to put up your things. II 
 I can help you, Yvonne — " 
 
 " Thanks — no. I have so little. The few 
 odds and ends I shall leave you — as me- 
 mentoes. You would like to keep them, 
 would n't you ? " 
 
 390 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 * Thank you, Yvonne," he said, turning 
 away. They had spoken in subdued voices, 
 as folks do when discussing funeral arrange- 
 ments. Joyce, blinded and dazed by his mis- 
 ery, was unperceptive of her joylessness. At 
 the most, he was conscious of a seriousness 
 that, under the circumstances, was not unnat- 
 ural. His own pain he hid with anxious 
 effort. 
 
 The afternoon hours passed. He lit the gas 
 in the shop, and proceeded with whatever me- 
 chanical employment he could find. It was a 
 relief to be alone. The old man's gossip 
 would have jarred upon him, driven him up to 
 the sitting-room where the ordeal was fiercest, 
 or out into the hard-featured streets. He 
 would have two or three days of solitude before 
 Runcle returned from Exeter. 
 
 Messages came from the Bishop. One for 
 Yvonne. Another for him, acknowledging 
 his letter, announcing that the hour of noon 
 had been fixed upon, shortly before which time 
 a carriage would be sent to convey Yvonne to 
 the church, and begging him in most courte- 
 ous terms to assist at the ceremony and give 
 Yvonne away. An echo of the Salvation 
 Army girl's voice came back to him, and he 
 29* 
 
Derelicts 
 
 smiled grimly. " It 's the beastliest thing I 
 can do." 
 
 He scribbled a line of acquiescence and gave 
 it to the waiting messenger-boy. " I had not 
 thought of the dregs," he said to himself. 
 
 That evening they sat drearily in their ac- 
 customed places by the fireside, each knowing 
 it to be their last together. Night after 'night 
 they had spent in each other's society, Yvonne 
 sewing or reading or dreaming in a lazy, con- 
 tented way, Joyce writing upon a board laid 
 across his knees. Sometimes she would come 
 and lean over the back of his chair and watch 
 the words as they came from his pen, her soft 
 wavy black hair very near his fair, close-trimmed 
 head. 
 
 " Send me away if I 'm worrying you," she 
 used to say. 
 
 Whereupon he would laugh happily and 
 answer : — 
 
 " See how beautifully I am writing. I should 
 never have thought of that remark if you had 
 not been there." 
 
 " I like to play at feeling a guardian angel," 
 she said once. 
 
 "You can feel it without the playing," he 
 replied, drawing his head aside and looking 
 392 
 
Seeking Salvation 
 
 round at her. " When your wings are over 
 me like that, I do work that I could n't do 
 unaided." 
 
 And she had blushed and felt very happy. 
 
 But now, on this last evening, they sat apart 
 — half the world already between them — and 
 talked constrainedly, with long silences. For 
 the greater part of the time he shaded his face 
 with his hand, sparing himself the sight of her 
 hungered-for sweetness and saving her the sight 
 of the hunger he felt was in his eyes. When 
 at last she rose to bid him good-night, he 
 nerved himself to meet her gaze calmly. And 
 then for the first time he was shocked at the 
 change that the night and the day had wrought 
 in her. 
 
 She stood before him, infinitely sweet and 
 simple ; but more wan even than she had been 
 on that day in the hospital when she had learned 
 the loss of her voice. For the still unvanished 
 pathos of childhood that had then smoothed 
 her face was gone, and the sterner pathos of 
 the woman's experience had taken its place. 
 Yet the interpretation did not come to him. 
 
 " My poor child," he said. " You are scarcely 
 strong enough yet to bear such an upheaval as 
 this. Try to have a good sleep." He held the 
 
 393 
 
Derelicts 
 
 door for her to pass out. And then, with a 
 great gulp, he continued, " You must look your 
 best to-morrow/ ' 
 
 He caught her soft cold hand, put it to his 
 lips, and shut the door quickly. The prison 
 seemed as comfort when compared with this 
 torment. 
 
 394 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 An End and a Beginning 
 
 In the middle of the night he broke down 
 utterly. 
 
 If he had been a strong man he would not 
 have yielded to the series of temptations that 
 had culminated in his crime and his disgrace. 
 Or, passing that, his spirit would not have been 
 broken during the months of his punishment. 
 If he had been even of slightly robuster fibre, 
 the sense of degradation would not have pal- 
 sied his life. He would have gone at once to 
 a new land and made himself master of his 
 destiny. A strong man would not have been 
 found by Yvonne, that August morning, sitting, 
 a self-abhorring outcast before his rich uncle's 
 door. He would not have lost his wit and 
 courage, when assailed by his prison compan- 
 ion at Hull. He would not have joined for- 
 tunes with Noakes in their futile African 
 expedition. A strong man would not have 
 clung for comfort and moral support to the 
 395 
 
Derelicts 
 
 poor ridiculous creature, his own protection of 
 whom was that of the woman rather than that of 
 the man. A strong man would not have yielded 
 to the nun bing despair of th~ after solitude 
 in Africa, nur writhed that night in agony of spirit 
 upon the lonely star-lit veldt. And lastly, a 
 strong man would not have had that terror of 
 loneliness which had made him in the first place 
 cling to Yvonne much as a child, afraid of the 
 dark, clings to the hand of another child weaker 
 than itself. 
 
 By the law of evolution the strong survive 
 and the weak die. But in the eternal struggle 
 between humanity and the pitiless law, condi- 
 tions are modified, and the sympathy of the 
 race, that expression of revolt which we call 
 civilisation, gives surviving power to the weak, 
 so that not only the strong man has claims to 
 life and love. And when the weak man strives 
 with all his quivering fibres towards strength, 
 he is doing a greater deed than the strong wot 
 of. 
 
 So Joyce, fool or hero, had performed an act 
 
 )f strength beyond his nature. The strain ot 
 
 che day had been intense. Every nerve in his 
 
 body was stretched to breaking-point. At last, 
 
 in the middle of the night, as he was pacing the 
 
 396 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 room, one of them seemed to snap, and he fell 
 forwards on to the bed and broke into a passion 
 of sobbing. Ashamed he buried his face in the 
 blankets and bit them with his teeth. But a 
 grown man's sobbing is not to be checked, like 
 a child's. It is a terrible thing, which comes 
 from the soul's depths and convulses flesh and 
 spirit to their foundations ; and it is horrible to 
 hear. The shuddering heaves came into his 
 throat and forced their way in sound through 
 his lips. And the utterances of pain came from 
 him, inarticulate prayers to God to help him, 
 and half-stifled cries for his love and for Yvonne. 
 But he knew that he was wrestling with his 
 spirit for the last time, and that, after this par- 
 oxysm of agony, would come calm and strength 
 to meet his fate. 
 
 And Yvonne, clad in dressing gown and 
 bare-footed, with her hair about her shoulders, 
 stood trembling outside his door and heard. 
 Although his room was not immediately above 
 hers, being over the sitting-room, yet in her 
 sleeplessness she had listened for hours and 
 hours to his movements. At last, obeying an 
 incontrollable impulse, she had crept up the 
 stairs. A long time she waited, her hand upon 
 the door, his name upon her lips, shaking from 
 397 
 
Derelicts 
 
 head to foot with the revelation of the man's 
 agony. Every sound was like a stab in her 
 tender flesh. The warm, impulsive old Yvonne 
 within her would have burst at the first sob into 
 his room, but the newer womanhood held her 
 back. When all was silent she crept down- 
 stairs again into her bed, and lay there, throb- 
 bing and shivering until the morning. 
 
 And Joyce, unconscious that she had been so 
 near to him, that had he but opened his door, 
 he would have been caught in her arms and 
 been given for all eternity that which he was 
 renouncing, lay down in his bed exhausted, and 
 when the morning was near at hand, sank into 
 heavy sleep. He awoke later than usual. The 
 water that Sarah had put for him was nearly 
 cold. He drew up the blind and saw a cheer- 
 less grey morning — a fitting dawn for his new 
 life. The minor details of the day before him 
 presented themselves painfully. The first was 
 the necessity of being well shaven, groomed and 
 dressed. He drew from the drawer the clothes 
 of decent life that he could now so seldom afford 
 to wear. The last time he had put them on 
 was three weeks ago, when he had taken Yvonne 
 to a ballad concert at St. James's Hall. He 
 remembered how, in her bright way, she had 
 398 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 said, on their way thither, " You look so hand 
 some and distinguished, I feel quite proud." 
 
 And now he was to wear them at her wedding 
 with another man. And he was to give her 
 away. 
 
 He had regained his nerve, felt equal to the 
 task. After dressing with scrupulous care, he 
 slowly went down to breakfast, — his last break- 
 fast with Yvonne. He contemplated the fact 
 with the fatalistic calmness with which men con- 
 demned to death often face their last meal on 
 earth. Yvonne had not yet appeared. Sarah 
 had not even brought up the breakfast. He 
 sat down and waited, unfolded his halfpenny 
 morning paper and tried to read. After a time 
 he became aware that he was studying the ad- 
 vertisements. So he laid it aside. 
 
 Presently he went up to his room to get a 
 handkerchief, and on his return to the landing 
 he noticed that Yvonne's bedroom door was 
 ajar. She was stirring, evidently. He knocked 
 gently and called her name. There was no 
 reply. Perhaps she was still # sleeping, he 
 thought ; but it was odd that her door should 
 be open. He returned to the sitting-room, 
 wandered about nervously, looked out of the 
 window into the dismai street. The pavement 
 39^ 
 
Derelicts 
 
 was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas 
 up, the capes of drivers gleamed miserably in 
 the misty air. He turned away and put some 
 coals on a sulky fire, and again took up the 
 paper. But an undefined feeling of uneasiness 
 began to creep over him. It was long past nine 
 o'clock. He went again and knocked at 
 Yvonne's door. It opened a little wider and 
 he saw by the light in the room that the blind 
 had been drawn up. He called her in loud 
 tones. His voice seemed to fall in a void.. 
 Agitated, he ventured to take a swift glance into 
 the room. The bed was empty. There was no 
 Yvonne. 
 
 He went back and rang the bell violently. 
 After a short interval Sarah appeared, leisurely 
 bringing in the breakfast-tray. 
 
 " Where is Madame Latour ? " asked Joyce. 
 
 " Oh, she went out early, and said you 
 were n't to wait breakfast for her." 
 
 "At what time did she go out?' 1 
 
 " Shortly after eight." 
 
 " Thank you," said Joyce. 
 
 " I think she was took ill, and was going to 
 see a doctor," said Sarah, unloading the tray 
 noisily. 
 
 " Did Madame Latour tell you so ? " 
 
 A.00 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 " No. But she was looking so bad I was 
 frightened to see her." 
 
 " Very well," said Joyce, not wishing to 
 show the servant his agitation. " She will be 
 back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast." 
 
 Sarah quitted the room with her heavy, scuf- 
 fling step. Joyce remained by the fire tug- 
 ging at his moustache, his mind filled with 
 nameless anxieties. The presentiment of ill 
 grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left the 
 house at that early hour ? Sarah's suggestion 
 was manifestly absurd. If Yvonne had been 
 poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet 
 the servant's last remark frightened him. He 
 remembered Yvonne's pallor of the night before. 
 A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. 
 Had he been blind, all the way through, and 
 condemned her to a fate impossible to bear ? 
 Once, in South Africa, he had seen an inno- 
 cent man sentenced to death. The picture of 
 the man's face in its wistful despair rose before 
 him. It was terribly like Yvonne's. Had she, 
 then, pronounced sentence on herself? 
 
 He walked to and fro in feverish helpless- 
 ness, his heart weighed down by the neVv 
 load. The cheap American clock on the 
 mantel-piece struck ten. There came, soon 
 «6 401 
 
Derelicts 
 
 after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to 
 open it. But it was only the boy from the 
 shop wanting to know if any one was coming 
 down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. 
 He had entirely forgotten Mr. Runcle's ab- 
 sence and his own consequent responsibility. 
 
 " You can take the money for any book 
 outside, Tommy," he said, after a little reflec- 
 tion. " If a customer wants anything inside, 
 come up and call me." 
 
 The boy went away, proud at being left in 
 charge. Joyce filled a cup with the rapidly 
 cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The 
 minutes crept on. If his wild and dreadful 
 fancies were groundless, where could Yvonne 
 be ? She could not have chosen a time before 
 the shops were open to make any necessary 
 purchases before the ceremony. Or had she 
 gone out of the house so as to avoid spending 
 •a. painful morning in his company ? But that 
 was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, 
 and stood bareheaded in the raw air, gazing 
 up and down the street. 
 
 " I Ve taken eightpence already," said the 
 boy, handing him a pile of coppers. 
 
 Joyce took them from him absently, and 
 put them in his pocket, while Tommy went 
 402 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 back to his seat on the upturned box, and re- 
 sumed his occupation of blowing on his chilled 
 fingers. No sign of Yvonne. Several passers- 
 by turned round and looked at Joyce. In 
 his well-fitting clothes, and with his refined, 
 thorough-bred air, he seemed an incongruous 
 figure standing hatless in the doorway of the 
 dingy secondhand book-shop. 
 
 Presently he became aware of an elderly man 
 trying to pass him. He stepped aside with 
 apologies, and followed the customer. 
 
 " Are you serving here ? " asked the latter, 
 with some diffidence. 
 
 On Joyce's affirmative, he enquired after two 
 editions of " Berquin," which he had seen in 
 Runcle's catalogue. Joyce took one from the 
 shelves, — the original edition. It was priced 
 two guineas. The customer haggled, then 
 wished to see the other. As this was on the 
 top shelf at the back part of the shop, Joyce 
 had to mount the ladder and hunt for it in 
 the dusky light. While thus employed, he 
 felt something sweep against the foot of the 
 ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. 
 She shot a quick upward glance, and hurriedly 
 disappeared. 
 
 His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, 
 403 
 
Derelicts 
 
 and he dropped the books he was holding. He 
 could not seek any more for the " Berquin." 
 In another moment he was by the side of the 
 customer. 
 
 "We must have sold the other copy. How 
 much will you give for this ? M 
 
 " Thirty-five shillings." 
 
 " You can have it," said Joyce. 
 
 Never was book tied up at greater speed. 
 He thrust it into the man's hand, received the 
 money without looking at it, and left the elderly 
 man standing in the middle of the shop, greatly 
 astonished at the haste of the transaction. 
 
 Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 " Oh, where — " he began. 
 
 Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, 
 for Yvonne, her arms outstretched, her head 
 thrown back, her lips parted, and a great 
 yearning light in her eyes, came swiftly to 
 him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, 
 and in another moment was sobbing in his 
 arms. 
 
 " Oh, my love, my dear, dear love ! " she 
 cried, " I could not leave you — take me — 
 for always. I love you — I love you — I 
 could n't leave you ! " 
 
 404 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 " Yvonne," he cried hoarsely, his pulses 
 throbbing like a great engine's piston-rod, in 
 the tremendous amazement, as he held her — 
 how tightly he did not know — and gazed 
 down wildly into her face, " Yvonne, what are 
 you saying ? What is it ? Tell me — for 
 God's sake — the marriage — Everard ? " 
 
 Then she threw back her head further 
 against his arm, and their eyes met and hung 
 upon each other for a breathless space. And 
 there was that in Yvonne's eyes — " the light 
 that never was on sea or land " — that no man 
 yet had seen or dreamed of seeing there. The 
 straining, passionate love too deep for smiling, 
 glorified her pure face. 
 
 " There will be no marriage," she murmured 
 faintly, still holding him with her eyes, " I 
 went to Everard this morning." 
 
 She raised her lips almost unconsciously 
 toward him, and then the man's whole ex- 
 istence was drowned in the kiss. 
 
 For many moments they scarcely spoke. 
 Passion plays its part in swift burning utter- 
 ances and tumultuous silences. At last, she 
 freed herself gently and moved towards the 
 hre. But only to be taken once again into his 
 clasp. 
 
 405 
 
Derelicts 
 
 cc Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy 
 mad^ss, or is it real ? " 
 
 " It is real," said Yvonne. " Nothing can 
 ever part us, until we die." 
 
 He helped her off with her hat and jacket 
 and led her to the great armchair by the fire 
 and knelt down by her side. 
 
 " Oh, Stephen dear," she said in piteous 
 happiness, " it has been such suffering." 
 
 " My poor child," he said tenderly. 
 
 " I did n't know that you cared about me — 
 in this way — until last night. I tried to make 
 you tell me — Stephen darling, why didn't 
 you ? I was bound to go to Everard — I had 
 promised, and he wanted me — and what could 
 I tell him ? I could n't say to him, dear, that 
 I would go on for ever living on your dear 
 charity, a burden upon you — yes, in a sense 
 I must be one — rather than keep my promise 
 and marry him, could I, dear? I could only 
 refer Vum to you — and when you said I must 
 go, it was miserable, for I hungered all the time 
 to stay. And I knew you were sad, it was 
 natural — but I thought you found you did 
 not love me enough to want me as a wife and 
 felt it your duty to give me up. Why did you 
 give me up when you loved me so ? * 
 406 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 " I will tell you all, some day, dear, not 
 now," said Joyce. "But one thing — I did 
 not know either that you loved me — like this. 
 When did you begin to love me, Yvonne ? " 
 
 " I think I must have begun in the years 
 and years ago — but I only knew it last night 
 
 — knew it as I do now," she added, with a 
 tremor in her voice. 
 
 She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a 
 flooded moment to the lingering sense of the 
 first great kiss she had ever given. And 
 before she opened them, the memory had 
 melted into actuality as she felt his lips again 
 meet hers. 
 
 " Thank God, I have got you, my own 
 dear love," she murmured. " It has been a 
 hard battle for you — this morning. I went 
 out as soon as I dared — to go to him. I 
 seemed to be going to do an awful thing — to 
 give him that pain for our sakes. He told me 
 I had not treated him wickedly — but I felt 
 as if I had been committing murder, until I saw 
 your face at the door. I told him all — all 
 that I knew about my own feelings and yours. 
 I said that you did not know I loved you 
 
 — that your noble-heartedness was making the 
 sacrifice — that I would marry him and leave 
 
 407 
 
Derelicts 
 
 you and never see you again, and be a devoted 
 wife to him, if he wished it, but that my love 
 was given to you. And he looked all the time 
 at me with an iron-grey face, and scarcely spoke 
 a word. Tell me, Stephen dear, does it pain 
 you to hear ? " 
 
 " No," said Joyce, softly. " Your heart has 
 been bursting with it. It is best for us to 
 share it, as we shall share all things, joy and 
 pain, to the far end." 
 
 " I shall fee) lighter for telling you. It was 
 so terrible to see him — oh, Stephen, if I had 
 not loved you, I couldn't have borne it — he 
 seemed stricken. Oh, why is there all this pain 
 in the world ? And to think that I — Yvonne 
 
 — should have had to inflict it — either on him, 
 who has been good and kind to me, or on you, 
 whom I love better than I thought I could 
 love anything in the world ! And when I had 
 ended, he said, c He is young, and I am old ; 
 he has had all the sufferings and despair of life, 
 and my lot has been cast in pleasant places ; 
 he has come out of the furnace with love and 
 charity in his heart, and I have pampered my 
 pride and uncharitableness. Go back to him 
 
 — and I pray God to bless you both/ He 
 spoke as if each word was a knife driven into 
 
 408 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 him — and his face — I shall never forget it 
 — it seemed to grow old, and ashen, and 
 hardened." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands for a 
 moment, and then, suddenly, the memory of 
 the night flashing through her, she dashed them 
 away with a woman's fierceness and clasped his 
 head. 
 
 " But your need was greater, a million times 
 greater than his," she cried in ringing tones, 
 " and your sufferings greater, and your heart 
 nobler, and I should have died if I had not 
 come to you — you are my king, my lord, 
 my God, my everything." 
 
 In the formally appointed hotel sitting-room, 
 where Yvonne had twice parted from him, sat 
 Everard Chisely, with grey, withered face. The 
 blow had fallen heavily. He had hungered for 
 her of late years with a poor, human, unideal- 
 ising passion. The pitifulness of it had galled 
 fcs pride, and he had striven to put her out of 
 his thoughts. He had lived an austere life, 
 seeking in an unfamiliar asceticism to conquer 
 the inherited, unregenerate cravings for a fuller 
 aesmetx and emotional existence. Yet he had 
 longed intensely for the death of the man who 
 409 
 
Derelicts 
 
 stood between himself and Yvonne. Twice a 
 year his agent in Paris had reported news of 
 Amedee Bazouge. Such communications he 
 .had opened with trembling fingers : the man 
 was still alive ; he prayed passionate prayers 
 that the murder in his heart might not be 
 counted to him as a sin. At last, in the New 
 Zealand spring, came the news of Bazouge's 
 death. His blood tingled like the working sap 
 in the trees. He could not wait. He came 
 and found Yvonne. 
 
 For thirty-six hours he had become a young 
 man again, treading on air, hurrying on events 
 with a lover's impatience. And now the crash 
 had come. He was an old man. He sat by 
 his untasted breakfast, and covered his face 
 in his hands. His life rose up before him, 
 self-complacent, dignified, immaculate. Yet, 
 somehow, he felt like a Pharisee. He was a 
 Churchman first, a Christian afterwards. His 
 religion had given him very little comfort. It 
 had taken Yvonne from him once, at a time 
 when he might have won her to him forever, 
 and it had brought him no consolation. A man 
 does not often get a glimpse at his own soul ; 
 when he does, he finds it rather a pitiable sight. 
 The Bishop saw in its depths poignant regret 
 410 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 that he then had not loved the woman enough 
 to sin for her sake. And there, too, was re- 
 vealed to him miserably that outraged pride, 
 disillusion, the traditions of social morality, the 
 authority of the Church's ordinances — all ex- 
 ternals — had been the leading factors of his life's 
 undoing. A great wish rose amid the bitter- 
 ness of his heart that he had been, like Stephen, 
 one of the publicans and sinners, upon whom 
 could shine the Light of the World. 
 
 Joyce and Yvonne were married one morning 
 quietly at a registrar's, and came back to con- 
 tinue the day's routine. The old bookseller 
 did not appear astonished when Joyce informed 
 him of the unusual change of relationship. 
 
 " You have both had your troubles," he said, 
 shrewdly, looking up over his spectacles, and 
 keeping his thumb in the volume of Origen he 
 was reading. " Any one can see that. You 
 would n't be here otherwise. And I 'm not 
 enquiring into them. But I hope they 're 
 ended. And now," he continued, rising with an 
 old man's stiffness, " I 've got some old Madeira 
 that I bought thirty years ago with a job-lot 
 of things out of a gentleman's chambers, and 
 I 'd like to open a bottle in your honour." 
 411 
 
Derelicts 
 
 Joyce brought Yvonne down to the back- 
 parlour. The wine came out of the dirt-en- 
 crusted bottle like sunshine breaking through a 
 cloud, and gladdened their hearts. And that 
 was their marriage feast. Thus began the 
 wedded life of these two. Years of struggle, 
 poverty, and ostracism lay before them. They 
 faced it all fearlessly. To each of them the 
 long-denied love had come, at last, new 
 and vivifying, changing the meaning of exist- 
 ence. Yet the final word of mutual revelation 
 awaited the loosening touch. It came with 
 tragic unexpectedness. 
 
 One evening, not long after their marriage, 
 Joyce, looking through the shop copy of " The 
 Islington Gazette," caught the head-line, " Sal- 
 vation lassie commits suicide in New River." 
 A presentiment of what would follow flashed 
 upon him. It was true. Annie Stevens had 
 killed herself. 
 
 " Good God ! " he said involuntarily. 
 
 Yvonne looked up from her sewing, and 
 grew alarmed at the distress on his face. 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 He was silent for a few moments. To tell 
 her would involve long explanations. Yvonne 
 knew of Annie Stevens in connection with 
 412 
 
An End and a Beginning 
 
 his disgrace on the tour of " The Diamond 
 Door," but he had not spoken of after meet- 
 ings. Yvonne put her work aside, in her quick 
 way, and came and sat down on the footstool by 
 his feet. As he bent and kissed her, she drew 
 his arm round her neck, holding his hand. 
 
 u What has pained you ? " 
 
 And then he told her the whole ot the girl's 
 miserable story, her love for him, her degra- 
 dation and downfall, and her wild idea of 
 atonement. 
 
 " And this is the end," he said, showing her 
 the paragraph. 
 
 " Poor girl ! " said Yvonne, deeply touched. 
 " It was so pathetically impossible, was n't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes, dear," Joyce answered. " I, too, 
 know that." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " The tragic futility of such self-crucifixion. 
 I have never told you the history of that night 
 — why I gave you up — and the part this 
 poor dead girl played in it." 
 
 In a low voice, he went over the old ground 
 of degradation and his longing for atonement, 
 and briefly laid before her the facts of his 
 renunciation. 
 
 413 
 
Derelicts 
 
 t€ I know now," he concluded, " that it could 
 only add misery to misery. Nothing that a 
 man or a woman alone can do can restore lest 
 honour and self-reverence. No fasting or 
 penance or sacrifice is of any use." 
 
 Yvonne drew her face away from him, so aj 
 to see him better. Pain was in her eyes. Her 
 lips quivered. 
 
 " Then — Stephen — dear — is it still the 
 same with you about the prison — the old 
 horror and shame ? " 
 
 " My dearest," he said tenderly, " I said man 
 alone was powerless. It is the touch of your 
 lips that has wiped away all stain for ever." 
 
 They looked deep into each others eyes 
 for a long, speechless moment. And then 
 Yvonne, like a foolish woman, fell a-sobbing 
 on his knees. 
 
 " Oh, thank God, my dear, thank God I " 
 she said. 
 
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