A LIKELY 
 STORY
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 JOSEPH VANCE 
 
 An intensely human and humorous novel of 
 life near London in the '50s. $1.75. 
 
 " The first great English novel that has appeared in the 
 20th Century/' New York Times Review. 
 
 ALICE-FOR-SHORT 
 
 The story of a London waif, a friendly artist, 
 his friends and family. $1 .75. 
 
 " If any writer of the present era is read half a century 
 hence, a quarter century, or even a decade, that writer is 
 William De Morgan." Botton Transcript. 
 
 SOMEHOW GOOD 
 
 A lovable, humorous romance of modern 
 England. $1.75. 
 
 " A book as sound, as sweet, as wholesome, as wise, as 
 any in the range of fiction." Nation. 
 
 IT NEVER CAN HAPPEN AGAIN 
 
 A strange story of certain marital complica- 
 tions. Notable for the beautiful Judith Arkroyd 
 with stage ambitions, Blind Jim, and his daugh- 
 ter Lizarann. $1.75. 
 
 " De Morgan at his very best." Independent. 
 
 AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 Perhaps the author's most dramatic novel. 
 It deals with the events that followed a duel in 
 Restoration days in England. The action is ab- 
 sorbing, and lightened by occasional gleams of 
 humor. $1.75. 
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 A capital story in Mr. De Morgan's old vein 
 which should be as popular as anything he has 
 ever written. $1.35 net. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 J- tovi- C
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JOSEPH VANCE," "ALICE-FOR-SHORT," 
 ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1911
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 Published November, 1911 
 
 THE QUINN A BODEN CO. PRESS 
 RAHWAT, N. J.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A GOOD DEAL ABOUT A BOX OF MATCHES. CONCERNING A 
 MABBIED COUPLE, WHOM ANYONE WOULD HAVE 
 THOUGHT QUARRELSOME, TO LISTEN TO THEM. OF THE 
 DIFFICULTY WITH WHICH THE LADY HOUSEKEPT, AND 
 HOW HER HUSBAND WAS NO HELP AT ALL. BUT THEY 
 WENT TO THE OLD WATER COLOUR. HOW SAIRAH ONLY 
 JUST WIPED GENTLY OVER A TACKY PICTURE, AND MR. 
 AIKEN SAID GOD AND DEVIL. OF THE PLURAL NUMBER. 
 OF A VERY PRETTY GIRL, BUT DRESSY, AND HER SOLDIER 
 LOVER, AND HOW MRS. AIKEN WAS PROPER. OF HER 
 MYSTICAL UTTERANCE ABOUT THE YOUNG LADT. HOW 
 MB. AIKEN SOUGHT FOB AN EXPLANATION FROM 
 SAIRAH, AND CREATED A SITUATION. HOW HIS WTFE 
 WENT TO HER AUNT PRISCILLA, AT ATHABASCA VILLA, 
 AND CRIED HERSELF TO SLEEP 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW A LITTLE OLD GENTLEMAN WAS LEFT ALONE IN A 
 LIBRARY, IN FRONT OF THE PICTURE SAIRAH HAD ONLY 
 JUST WIPED GENTLY. HOW HE WOKE UP FROM A 
 DREAM, WHICH WENT ON. THE LOQUACITY OF A PIC- 
 TUBE, AND HOW HE POINTED OUT TO IT ITS UN- 
 REALITY. THE ARTIST'S NAME. THERE WAS PLENTY 
 
 OF TIME TO HEAR MORE. THE EXACT DATE OF AN- 
 TIQUITY. THE RATIONAL WAY OF ACCOUNTING FOB IT 40 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE PICTURE'S TALE. IT WAS so WELL PAINTED THAT 
 WAS WHY IT COULD HEAR FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 HOW ITS PAINTER HUNGERED AND THIRSTED FOR ITS 
 ORIGINAL, AND VICE VERSA. HOW OLD JANUARY HID 
 IN A SPY-HOLE, TO WATCH MAY, AND SAW IT ALL. 
 OF POPE INNOCENT'S PENETRATION. OF CERTAIN 
 BELLS, UNWELCOME ONES. HOW TWO INNAMOBATI 
 iii 
 
 829176
 
 iv CONTENTS 
 
 I'AOK 
 
 TRIED TO PART WITHOUT A KISS, AND FAILED. NEVER- 
 THELESS ASSASSINS STOPPED IT WHEN IT HAD ONLY 
 JUST BEGUN. BUT GIACINTO GOT AT JANUARY'S 
 THROAT. HOW THE PICTURE WAS FRAMED. AND HUNG 
 WHERE MAY COULD ONLY SEE IT BY TWISTING. OF 
 THE DUNGEON BELOW HER, WHERE GIACINTO MIGHT 
 BE. HOW JANUARY DUG AT MAY WITH A WALKING- 
 STAFF. HOW THE PICTURE WAS IX ABEYANCE, BUT 
 LOVED A FIREFLY; THEN WAS INTERRED IN FURNITURE, 
 AND THREE CENTURIES SLIPPED BY. HOW IT SOLD FOR 
 SIX-FIFTY, AND WAS SENT TO LONDON, TO A PICTURE- 
 RESTORER, WHICH IS HOW IT COMES INTO THE TALE. 
 HOW MR. PELLY WOKE UP 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE CHAPTER. HOW FORTUNE'S TOY AND THE 
 SPORT OF CIRCUMSTANCES FELL IN LOVE WITH ONE 
 OF HIS NURSES. PROSE COMPOSITION. LADY UP- 
 WELL'S MAJESTY, AND THE QUEEN'S. NO ENGAGEMENT. 
 THE AFRICAN WAR, AND JUSTIFIABLE FRATRICIDE. 
 CAIN. MADELINE'S BIG DOG CAESAR. CATS. ORMUZD 
 AND AHRIMAN. A HANDY LITTLE VELDT. MADELINE'S 
 JAPANESE KIMONO. A DISCUSSION OF THE NATURE OF 
 DREAMS. NEVER MIND ATHEN.EUS. LOOK AT THE 
 PROPHET DANIEL. SIR STOPLEIGH'S GREAT-AUNT DORO- 
 THEA'S TWINS. THE CIRCULATING LIBRARY AND THE 
 POTTED SHRIMPS. HOW MADELINE READ THE MANU- 
 SCRIPT IN BED, AND TOOK CARE NOT TO SET FIRE TO 
 THE CURTAINS . 107 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MR. AIKEN'S SEQUEL. PIMLICO STUDIOS. MR. HUGHES'S 
 IDEA. ASPECTS OF NATURE. MR. HUGHES'S FOOT. 
 WHAT HAD MR. AIKEN BEEN AT? KOT FANNY SMITH. 
 IT WAS SAIRAH ! ! WHO MISUNDERSTOOD AND TURNED 
 VERMILION? HER MALICE. THE REGENT'S CANAL. 
 MR. AIKEN'S ADVICE FROM HIS FRIENDS. WOMAN AND 
 HER SEX. HOW MR. HUGHES VISITED MR. AIKEN ONE 
 EVENING, AND THE POST CAME. WITH SOMETHING TOO 
 BIG FOR THE BOX, WHILE MRS. PARPLES SLEPT. MR. 
 AIKEN'S VERY SINCERELY MADELINE UPWELL. HER 
 TRANSPARENCY. HOW THE PICTURE'S PHOTO STOOD ON 
 THE TABLE. INTERESTING LUCUBRATIONS OF MB. 
 HUGHES. WHAT WAS THAT? BUT IT WAS NOTHING 
 
 ONLY AN EFFECT OF SOMETHING. THE VERNACULAR 
 
 MIND. NEGATIVE JURIES. HOW MR. AIKEN STOPPED 
 
 AN ECHO, SO IT WAS MR. HUGHES'S FANCY . . . 124
 
 CONTENTS v 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FOLLOWS MRS. EUPHEMIA AIKEN TO COOMBE AND MALDEN. 
 PROPER PRIDE. YOU CANNOT GO BACK ON A RAILWAY 
 TICKET, HOWEVER SMALL ITS PRICE. ONE'S AUNTS. 
 HOW MISS PBISCILLA BAX WAS NOT SURPRISED WHEN 
 SHE HEARD IT WAS REGINALD. OF THE UPAS TREE OF 
 REPUTATIONS THE PURE MIND. HOW AUNT PRISCEY 
 WORKED HER NIECE UP. A DEXTEROUS CITATION FROM 
 EPISTLES. NEVER WRITE A LETTER, IF YOU WANT THE 
 WIND TO LULL. ELLEN JANE DUDBURY AND HER 
 MAMMA. OF JU-JITSU AS AN ANTIDOTE TO TATTLE. 
 OF THE RELATIVE ADVANTAGES OF IMMORTALITY TO 
 THE TWO SEXES. OF GOOD SOULS AND BUSY BODIES, 
 AND OF THE GROOBS. HOW THAT ODIOUS LITTLE DOLLY 
 WAS THE MODERN ZURBARAN. BUT HE HAD NEVER SO 
 MUCH AS CALLED. COLOSSIANS THREE-EIGHTEEN. 
 MISS JESSIE BAX AND HER PUPPY. MISS VOLUMNIA 
 BAX. THE DELICACY OF THE FEMALE CHARACTER. OF 
 THE RADIO-ACTIVITY OF SPACE AND HOW MR. ADOLPHUS 
 GBOOB SAT NEXT TO MRS. AIKEN. THE GODFREY 
 PYBUSES. BUT THEY HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE 
 STORY. HOW TIME SLIPPED BY, AND HOW MR. AIKEN 
 EMPLOYED HIM TILL THE YEAR DREW TO AN END . . 156 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE UPWELL FAMILY IN LONDON. HOW MADELINE PROM- 
 ISED NOT TO GET MIXED UP. A NICE SUBURBAN BOY, 
 WITH A TWO-POWER STANDARD. NO JACK NOW! THE 
 SILVER TEAPOT. MISS PRISCILLA'S EXTRACTION. IM- 
 PERIALISM. HORACE WALPOLE AND JOHN BUNYAN. 
 THE TAPLEYS. HOW AN ITEM IN THE " TELEGRAPH " 
 UPSET MADELINE. HOW SHE FAILED IN HER MISSION, 
 BUT LEFT A PHOTOGRAPH BEHIND HER. THE LATE 
 LADY BETTY DUSTER'S CHIN. HOW MRS. AIKEN STAYED 
 DOWNSTAIRS AND WENT TO SLEEP IN AN ARM-CHAIR, 
 AND OF A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE SHE HAD. HOW SHE 
 RELATED THE SAME TO HER COUSIN VOLUMNIA. OF 
 ICILIA CIARANFI AND DONNINA MAGLIABECCHI, AND OF 
 THE DUST. THE PSYCHOMORPHIC REPORT. HOW MISS 
 VOLUMNIA DID NOT LOSE HER TRAIN .... 193 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOW MRS. EUPHEMIA AIKEN FOUND MADELINE AT HOME, 
 WHO CONSEQUENTLY DID NOT GO TO A BUN-WORRY. 
 BUT SHE HAD MET MISS BAX. HOW THESE LADIES
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EACH CONFESSED TO BOGYISM, OF A SORT, AND MADE- 
 LINE SAID MAKE IT UP. HOW MR. AIKEN TOOK MR. 
 TICK'S ADVICE ABOUT DIANA, BUT COULD NOT FIND 
 HIS TRANSPARENT OXIDE OF CHROMIUM. MAN AT HIS 
 LONELIEST. NO TEA. AND WHAT A JUGGINS HE HAD 
 BEEN! OF MRS. GAPP'S DIPSOMANIA. THE BOYS. HOW 
 MR. AIKEN LIT THE GAS, AND HEARD A CAB. HOW HE 
 NEARLY KISSED MADELINE, WHO HAD BROUGHT HIS 
 WIFE HOME, BUT IT WAS ONLY A MISTAKE, GLORY BE! 
 WAS THERE SOAP IN THE HOUSE? .... 239 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MADELINE'S REPORT, TSEXT MORNING. CHARLES MATHEWS 
 AND MADAME VESTEIS. HOW WELL MADELINE HELD 
 HER TONGUE TO KEEP HER PROMISE. AN ANTICIPATION' 
 OF POST-STORY TIME. HOW A DEPUTATION WAITED OX 
 MRS. AIKEN FROM THE PSYCHOMORPHIC. MR. MACANI- 
 MUS AND MR. VACAW. GEVABTIUS MUCH MORE COR- 
 RECT FOR MISS JESSIE TO LISTEN TO THAN THE 
 LAUGHING CAVALIER. OF SELF-HYPNOSIS AND GHOSTS. 
 THEIR RESPECTIVE CATEGORIES. THE MAD CAT'S NOSE 
 OUTSIDE THE BLANKET. SINGULAR AUTOPHRENETIC EX- 
 PERIENCE OF MR. ATKEN. STENOGRAPHY. A CASE IX 
 POINT. NOT A PHENOMENON AT ALL. HOW MISS 
 VOLUMNIA'S PENETRATION PENETRATED, AND GOT AT 
 SOMETHING. SUGGESTION TRACED HOME. ENOUGH TO 
 EXPLAIN ANY PHENOMENON ...... 263 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HOW MR. PELLY, SUBJECT TO INTERRUPTION, READ ALOUD A 
 TRANSLATION FROM ITALIAN. WHO WAS THE OLD 
 DEVIL? WHO WAS THE DUCHESSA? OF THE KAB- 
 RATOR'S INCARCERATION. OF HIS INCREDIBLE ESCAPE. 
 WHOSE HORSE WAS THAT IN THE AVENUE? HOW 
 MB. PELLY BEAD FASTER. WAS UGUCCIO KILLED? SIR 
 STOPLEIGH SCANDALIZED. BUT THEN IT WAS THE MID- 
 DLE AGES ONE OF THEM, ANYHOW! HOW ONLY 
 DUCHESSES KNOW IF DUKES ARE ASLEEP. OF THE 
 BONE MR. PELLY PICKED WITH MADELINE. BUT 
 WHAT BECOMES OF UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION? AM- 
 BROISE PARE. MARTA'S LITTLE KNIFE. LOVE WAS NOT 
 UNKNOWN IN THE MIDDLE AGES. THE END OF THE 
 MANUSCRIPT. BUT SIR STOPLEIGH WENT OUT TO SEE 
 A VISITOR, IN THE MIDDLE. HOW MADELINE TURNED 
 WHITE, AND WENT SUDDENLY TO BED. WHAT WAS IT 
 ALL ABOUT? SEVENTY-SEVEN COULD WATT . 285
 
 CONTENTS vii 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HOW THE PICTUBE SPOKE AGAIN. ABSTRACT METAPHYS- 
 ICAL QUESTIONS, AND NO ANSWERS. HOW THE PIC- 
 TURE'S MEMORY WAS SHARPENED, AND HOW MR. PELLY 
 WOKE UP. MR. STEBBINGS AND MRS. BUCKMASTER. 
 THE ACTULE FAX. JACK'S RESURRECTION, WITHOUT 
 AN ARM. FULL PARTICULARS. ALL FAIR IN LOVE. HOW 
 MR. PELLY KNEW THE PICTURE COULD SEE ALL AND 
 HOW MADELINE HAD NOT GONE TO BED. CAPTAIN 
 MACLAGAN'S FAMILY. FULLER PARTICULARS. GEN- 
 ERAL FORDYCE AND THE BART. NOT WANTED. WHAT 
 THE PICTURE MUST HAVE SEEN AND MAY HAVE 
 THOUGHT. GOOD-BYE TO THE STORY. MERE POST- 
 SCRIPT 336 
 
 AN APOLOGY IX CONFIDENCE . 359
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 A GOOD DEAL ABOUT A BOX OF MATCHES. CONCERNING A MARRIED 
 COUPLE, WHOM ANYONE WOULD HAVE THOUGHT QUARRELSOME, 
 TO LISTEN TO THEM. OF THE DIFFICULTY WITH WHICH THE 
 LADY HOUSEKEPT, AND HOW HER HUSBAND WAS NO HELP AT 
 ALL. BUT THEY WENT TO THE OLD WATER COLOUR. HOW 
 SAIBAH ONLY JUST WIPED GENTLY OVER A TACKY PICTURE, 
 AND MR. AIKEN SAID GOD AND DEVIL. OF THE PLURAL NUM- 
 BER OF A VERY PRETTY GIRL, BUT DRESSY, AND HER SOLDIER 
 LOVER, AND HOW MRS. AIKEN WAS PROPER. OF HER MYS- 
 TICAL UTTERANCE ABOUT THE YOUNG LADY. HOW MR. AIKEN 
 SOUGHT FOR AN EXPLANATION FROM SAIRAH, AND CREATED 
 A SITUATION. HOW HIS WIFE WENT TO HER AUNT PBISCILLA, 
 AT ATHABASCA VILLA, AND CRIED HERSELF TO SLEEP 
 
 " YOU'LL have to light the gas, Sairah ! " said an 
 Artist in a fog, one morning in Chelsea. For al- 
 though summer was on the horizon, it was cold and 
 damp; and, as we all know, till fires come to an 
 end, London is not fogless if, indeed, it ever is so. 
 This was a very black fog, of the sort that is sure to 
 go off presently, because it is only due to atmos- 
 pheric conditions. Meanwhile, it was just as well 
 to light the gas, and not go on pretending you could 
 see and putting your eyes out. 
 
 This Artist, after putting his eyes out, called out, 
 from a dark corner in his Studio, to something in a
 
 2 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 dark corner outside. And that something shuffled 
 into the room and scratched something else several 
 times at intervals on something gritty. It was 
 Sairah, evidently, and Sairah appeared impatient. 
 
 " They're damp, Sairah," said the Artist feebly. 
 " Why do you get that sort ? Why can't you get 
 Bryant and May ? " 
 
 " These are Bryant and May, Mr. Aching. You 
 can light 'em yourself if it sootes you better. I know 
 my place. Only they're Safety, and fly in your 
 eye. Puttin' of 'em down to dry improves. I'd 
 screw up a spell, only there's no gettin' inside of the 
 stove. Nor yet any fire, in the manner of speaking." 
 
 The scratching continued. So did Sairah's im- 
 patience. Then the supply of the something 
 stopped, for Sairah said : " There ain't any more. 
 That's the hend of the box. And exceptin' I go all 
 the way to the King's Road there ain't another in 
 the house not Bryant and May." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear ! " said the Artist, in the lowest 
 spirits. But he brightened up. " Perhaps there's 
 a Vesta," said he. 
 
 Sairah threw the thing nearest to her against the 
 thing nearest to it to indicate her readiness to 
 search. 
 
 " Look in the pocket of my plaid overcoat, 
 Sairah," he continued. " It was a new box 
 Tuesday."
 
 A LIKELY STORY 3 
 
 Sairah shuffled into another room, and was heard 
 to turn over garments. The Artist seemed to know 
 which was which, by the sound. For he called 
 out : " None of those ! On the hook." Sairah 
 appeared to turn up the soil in a new claim, and 
 presently announced : " Nothing in neither pocket. 
 Only coppers and a thrip'ny ! " 
 
 " Oh dear I'm certain there was ! Are you sure 
 you've looked? Just look again, Sairah." He 
 seemed distressed that there should be no Vesta in 
 his overcoat pocket. 
 
 " You can see for yourself by lookin'," says 
 Sairah. " And then there won't be any turnin' 
 round and blamin' me ! " Whereupon she appears, 
 bearing a garment. The reason she shuffles is that 
 she has to hold the heels of her shoes down on the 
 floor with her feet. 
 
 The owner of the overcoat dived deep into the 
 pockets, but found nothing. He appeared dumb- 
 foundered. "Well, now!" he continued. "What- 
 ever can have become of my Vestas ? " And 
 thereon, as one in panic on emergency, he put down 
 the sponge and brush he was using and searched 
 rapidly through all his other pockets. He slapped 
 himself in such places as might still contain for- 
 gotten pockets; and then stood in thought, as one 
 to whom a light of memory will come if he thinks 
 hard enough, but with a certain glare and distortion
 
 4 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 of visage to say, in place of speech, how truly active 
 is his effort of thought. And then of a sudden he 
 is illuminated, and says of course! he knows! 
 But he doesn't know, for, after leaving the room to 
 seek for his Vestas, and banging some doors, he 
 comes back, saying he thought they were there 
 and they aren't. Wherefore, Sairah must run out 
 and get some more; and look sharp, because they 
 must have the gas! But Sairah, who has not been 
 exerting herself, awakes suddenly from something 
 equivalent to sleep which she can indulge in upright, 
 without support, and says, nodding towards a thing 
 she speaks of, " Ain't that them on the stove ? " 
 And the Artist says, " No, it isn't ; it's an empty 
 box. Cut along and look sharp ! " Sairah made no 
 response and time was lost in conversation, as 
 follows : 
 
 " That ain't an empty box ! " 
 
 " It is an empty box ! Do cut along and look 
 sharp!" 
 
 " It ain't my idear of an empty box. But, of 
 course, it ain't for me to say nothin' ! " 
 
 " I tell you I'm quite sure it's empty. Perfectly 
 certain! " 
 
 " Well ! It ain't for me to say anything. But 
 if you had a asted me, I should have said there 
 wouldn't any harm have come of looking inside of 
 it, to see. Of course I can go, if you come to
 
 A LIKELY STORY 5 
 
 that ! Only there's tandstickers in the kitchen, 
 and for the matter of that, the fire ain't let out; 
 nor likely when it's not the sweep till Wednesday." 
 
 " Get 'em out of the kitchen, then ! Get the tand- 
 stickers or get anything. Anywhere; only look 
 alive ! " He seemed roused to impatience. 
 
 " Of course I can get them out of the kitchen. 
 Or there's missuses bedroom candlestick stood on 
 the landin', with one in, and guttered." Sairah 
 enumerated two or three other resources unex- 
 hausted, and left the room. 
 
 When she had vanished, the Artist went and 
 stood with his back to the stove, for it was too dark 
 to work. Being there, he picked up the empty box 
 and seemed to examine it. Having done so, he 
 left the room, and called over the stair-rail, to a 
 lower region. 
 
 "Sair-ah!" 
 
 "Did you call, Sir?" 
 
 " Yes you needn't go ! There's some here." 
 
 " 'Arf a minute till I put these back." 
 
 And then from underground came the voice of 
 the young woman saying something enigmatical 
 about always wishing to give satisfaction, and there 
 was never any knowing. But she remained below, 
 because her master said : " You needn't come up 
 again now. I'll light it myself." In ^n instant, 
 however, he called out again that she must bring
 
 6 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 the matches, after all, because the Vestas were all 
 stuck to, through being on the stove. When 
 Sairah reappeared, after a good deal of shuffling 
 about below, he asked her why on earth she couldn't 
 come at once. She explained, with some indig- 
 nation, that she had been doing a little dusting in 
 the parlour: and, of course, the tandstickers, she 
 put 'em back in the kitchen, not bein' wanted, as 
 you might say. But all obstacles to lighting the 
 gas were now removed. 
 
 Illumination presented itself first as an incom- 
 bustible hiss; but shortly became a flame, and was 
 bright enough to work by. The Artist did not seem 
 very contented with it, and said that the pressure 
 was weak, and it was off at the main, and there 
 was water in the pipes, and the gas was bad and 
 very dear. But he worked for half-an-hour or so, 
 and then a young woman came in, of whom he took 
 no notice; so she must have been his wife. Of 
 whom anyone might have thought that she was 
 stopping away from a funeral against her will, and 
 resented the restraint. For she bit her lips and 
 tapped with her feet as she sat in the arm-chair 
 she dropped into when she entered the room. She 
 made no remark, but maintained an aggressive 
 silence. Presently the young man moaned. 
 
 " What is the rumpus ? " said he plaintively. 
 " What is the everlasting rumpus ? "
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 7 
 
 " It's very easy for you. Men can ! But if you 
 were a woman, you would feel it like I do. Thank 
 God, Keginald, you are not a woman ! " 
 
 " Good job I ain't! We might quarrel, if I was. 
 You've got something to be thankful for, you see, 
 Mrs. Hay." This way of addressing her, as Mrs. 
 Hay, was due to the substitution of the initial for 
 the whole name, which was Aiken. 
 
 " Oh, you are unfeeling," said she reproachfully. 
 " You know perfectly well what I meant ! " 
 
 " Meant that you thanked God I wasn't a woman." 
 But this made the lady evince despair. " Well I- 
 what did you mean, then ? Spit it out." 
 
 " You are tired of me, Keginald, and I shall go for 
 my walk alone. Of course, what I meant was plain 
 enough, to any but a downright fool. I meant you 
 were to thank God, Reginald on your knees ! 
 that you were a man and not a woman. The idea 
 of my saying anything so silly! Wait till you are 
 a woman, and then see ! But if you're not coming, 
 I shall go. I don't know why you want the gas. 
 It all mounts up in the bills. And then I shall be 
 found fault with, I suppose." 
 
 " I want the gas because I can't see without it." 
 
 After a phase of despair, followed by resignation, 
 the lady said, speaking in the effect of the latter: 
 " I think, Eeginald, if you had any regard for the 
 bills, you would just look out of the window, once in
 
 8 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 an hour or so, and not consume all those cubic feet 
 of gas at three-and-ninepence. The fog's gone! 
 There's the sun. I knew it would be, and it was 
 perfectly ridiculous to put off going to the Old 
 Water Colour." 
 
 " Suppose we go, then ? Hay, Mrs. Hay ? Get 
 your hat, and we'll go." He turned the gas out. 
 
 " Oh no ! It's no use going now it's too late. 
 And it's all so depressing. And you know it is! 
 And I shall have to get rid of this new girl, Sairah." 
 
 " I thought she looked honest." This was 
 spoken feebly. 
 
 She answered irritably : " You always think they 
 look honest when they're ugly. This one's no better 
 than they all are. It's not the honesty, though. 
 It's she won't do anything." 
 
 " Why didn't you have that rather pleasin'- 
 looking gyairl with a bird's wing on her hat ? " 
 
 " That conscious minx ! I really do sometimes 
 quite wonder at you, Reginald ! Besides, she wanted 
 a parlourmaid's place, and wouldn't go where there 
 wasn't a manservant kept. You men are such 
 fools ! And you don't give any help." 
 
 Mr. Aiken, observing a disposition to weep in these 
 last words, seemed embarrassed for a moment; but 
 after reflection became conciliatory. " Sairah does 
 seem lazy. But she says she's not been accus- 
 tomed."
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 9 
 
 " And then you give way ! You might put that 
 magnifying-glass down just for one moment, and 
 pay attention! Of course, she says she's not been 
 accustomed to anything and everything. They all 
 do! But what can one expect when their master 
 blacks his own boots ? " 
 
 " What can / do, when she says she hopes she 
 knows her place, and she ain't a general, where a 
 boy comes in to do the rough work ? " 
 
 "What can you do? Why, of course not carry 
 your dirty boots down into the kitchen and black 
 them yourself, and have her say, when you ask for 
 the blacking, do you know where it's kept ? I've no 
 patience! But some men will put up with any- 
 thing, except their wives; and then one's head's 
 snapped off! 'Do you know where it's kept!' The 
 idea ! . . . Well, are you coming, or are you not ? 
 Because, if you're coming, I must put on my grey 
 tweed. If you're not coming, say so ! " 
 
 But Mr. Aiken did not say so. So, after a good 
 deal of time needlessly spent in preparation, the two 
 asked each other several times if they were ready, 
 shouting about the house to that effect. And then, 
 when they reappeared in the Studio, having suc- 
 ceeded very indifferently in improving their appear- 
 ance, the lady asked the gentleman more than once 
 whether she looked right, and he said in a debili- 
 ^tated way, Yes! he thought so. Whereon she
 
 10 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 took exception to his want of interest in her appear- 
 ance, and he said she needn't catch him up so short. 
 However, they did get away in the end, and Sairah 
 came in to do a little tidin' up not often getting 
 the opportunity in the Studio in pursuance of a 
 programme arranged between herself and her 
 mistress, in an aside out of hearing of her master, 
 in order that the latter should not interpose, as he 
 always did, and he knew it, to prevent anything the 
 least like cleanness or order. How he could go on 
 so was a wonder to his wife. 
 
 As for Sairah, the image of herself which she 
 nourished in her own mind was apparently that of 
 one determined to struggle single-handed to re- 
 establish system in the midst of a world given over 
 to Chaos. Whatever state the place would get 
 into if it wasn't for her, she couldn't tell! The 
 other inhabitants of the planet would never do a 
 hand's turn; anyone could see that! In fact, the 
 greater part of them devoted themselves to leavin' 
 things about for her to clear up. The remainder, 
 to gettin' in the way. When you were that worrited, 
 you might very easy let something drop, and no 
 great wonder! And things didn't show, not when 
 riveted, if only done careful enough. Or a little 
 diamond cement hotted up and the edges brought 
 to. There was a man they knew his address at 
 Pibses Dairy, over a hivory-turner's he lived, done
 
 A LIKELY STORY 11 
 
 their ornamential pail beautiful, and you never see 
 a crack ! 
 
 But Sairah's alacrity, when she found herself 
 alone in the Studio, fell short of her implied forecast 
 of it. Instead of taking opportunity by the fore- 
 lock, and doing the little bit of tidying up that she 
 stood pledged to, she gave herself up to the con- 
 templation of the Fine Arts. 
 
 Now, there were two Fine Arts to which this 
 master, Mr. Reginald Aiken, devoted himself. One, 
 the production of original compositions; which did 
 not pay, owing to their date. Some of these days 
 they would be worth a pot of money you see if 
 they wouldn't ! The other Fine Art was that of 
 the picture-restorer, and did pay. At any rate, it 
 paid enough to keep Mr. Aiken and his wife and at 
 this particular moment Sairah in provisions cooked 
 and quarrelled over at the street-door by the latter; 
 leaving Mrs. Aiken's hundred a year, which her 
 Aunt Priscilla allowed her, to pay the rent and so 
 on, with a good margin for cabs and such-like. 
 Anyhow, as the lady of the house helped with the 
 house, the Aikens managed, somehow. Or perhaps 
 it should be said that, somehow, the Aikens managed 
 anyhow. Mrs. Verity, their landlady, had her 
 opinions about this. 
 
 This, however, is by the way; but, arising as it 
 does from this Artist's twofold mission in life, it
 
 12 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 connects itself with a regrettable occurrence which 
 came about in consequence of Sairah's not con- 
 fining herself to tidying up, and getting things a bit 
 straight, but seizing the opportunity to do a little 
 dusting also. 
 
 Those on whom the guardianship of a picture 
 recently varnished has fallen know the assiduous 
 devotion with which it must be watched to protect 
 it from insect-life and flue. Even the larger lepi- 
 doptera may fail to detach themselves from a fat, 
 slow-drying varnish, without assistance; and who 
 does not know how terribly the delicate organization 
 of bettles' legs may suffer if complicated with 
 treacle or other glutinous material. But beetles' 
 legs may be removed with care from varnish, and 
 leave no trace of their presence, provided the 
 varnish is not too dry. Flue, on the other hand, 
 at any stage of desiccation, spells ruin, and is that 
 nasty and messy there's no doing anything with it; 
 and you may just worrit yourself mad, and sticky 
 yourself all over, and only make matters worse than 
 you began. So you may just as well let be, and not 
 be took off your work no longer; nursing, however, 
 an intention of saying well now! you declare, who 
 ever could have done that, and not a livin' soul 
 come anigh the place, you having been close to 
 the whole time, and never hardly took your eyes 
 off?
 
 A LIKELY STORY 13 
 
 That sketches the line of defence Sairah was con- 
 strained to adopt, after what certainly was at least 
 a culpable error of judgment. She should not have 
 wiped over any picture at all, not even with the 
 cleanest of dusters. And though the one she used 
 was the one she kep' for the Studio, nothing war- 
 ranted its application to the Italian half-length that 
 had been entrusted to Mr. Aiken by Sir Stopleigh 
 Upwell, to clean and varnish carefully, and touch 
 up the frame, without destroying the antique feeling 
 of the latter. 
 
 Mr. Aiken was certainly to blame for not locking 
 the door and taking away the key. So he had no 
 excuse for using what is called strong language 
 when he and his wife came back from the Old Water 
 Colour. She had not been in ten minutes a period 
 she laid great stress on when she heard him 
 shouting inside the Studio. And then he came out 
 in the passage and shouted down the stairs. 
 
 " Good God, Euphemia ! where are you ? Where 
 the Devil are you ? Do come up here ! I'm ruined, 
 I tell you ! . . . that brute of a girl ! . . . " And 
 he went stamping about in his uncontrollable 
 temper. 
 
 His wife was alarmed, but not to the extent of 
 forgetting to enter her protest against the strong 
 language. " Reginald ! " she said with dignity, 
 " have I not often told you that if you say God
 
 14 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 and Devil I shall go away and spend the rest of the 
 day with my Aunt Priscilla, at Coombe? Before 
 the girl and all ! " 
 
 But her husband was seriously upset at some- 
 thing. " Don't go on talking like an idiot," he said 
 irritably. Then his manner softened, as though 
 he was himself a little penitent for the strong 
 language, and he subsided into " Do come up and 
 see what that confounded girl has done." Those 
 conversant with the niceties of strong language will 
 see there was concession in this. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken went upstairs, and saw what the con- 
 founded girl had done. But she did not seem 
 impressed. " It wants a rub," she said. Then her 
 husband said, " That's just like you, Euphemia. 
 You're a fool." Whereupon the lady said in a 
 dignified manner, " Perhaps if I am a fool, I'd 
 better go." And was, as it were, under compulsion 
 to do so, seeing that no objection was raised. 
 
 But she must have gone slowly, inasmuch as she 
 presently called back from the landing, " What's 
 that you said ? " not without severity. 
 
 " I said ' Call the girl.' " 
 
 " You said nothing of the sort. What was it you 
 said before that ? " 
 
 Now, what her husband had said was, " The idea 
 of a rub! Idiotic barbarian! " He was unable to 
 qualify this speech effectually, and his wife went
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 15 
 
 some more stairs up. Not to disappear finally; a 
 compromise was possible. 
 
 " Did you say ' idiotic barbarian/ or ' idiotic 
 barbarians ' ? Because it makes all the difference." 
 
 " Barbarians. Plural. Don't be a fool, and 
 come down." 
 
 Thereupon the lady came back as far as the door, 
 but seemed to waver in concession, for she made 
 reservations. 
 
 " I am not coming down because of anything," 
 she said, " but only to remind you that that Miss 
 Upwell was to come some time to see the picture, 
 and I think that's her." 
 
 " What's her ? I don't hear anyone at the door." 
 
 " It's no use gaping out of the front window. 
 You know quite well what I mean. That's her in 
 the carriage, gone to the Macnivensons' by mistake 
 for us, as people always do and always will, Reginald, 
 until Mrs. Verity gets the Borough Council to 
 change the numbers. ' Thirty-seven A ' is a mere 
 mockery." 
 
 Mr. Aiken came out of the Studio, and went up 
 to the side-window on the landing, commanding a 
 view of the street in which thirty-seven A stood, his 
 own tenancy being in the upper half of a corner 
 house. " That's her," said he. " And a young 
 swell. Sweetheart, p'raps! Smart set, they look. 
 But, I say, Mrs. Hay ..."
 
 16 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " Do come away from the window. They'll see 
 you, and it looks so bad. What do you say ? " 
 
 " What the Devil am I to do ? I can't let her see 
 the picture in that state." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Just wipe the mess off. You are 
 such a fidget, Eeginald." 
 
 But the Artist could not have his work treated 
 thus lightly. The girl must say he had been called 
 away on important business. It was absolutely 
 impossible to let that picture be seen in its present 
 state. And it would take over an hour to make it 
 fit to be seen. . . . Well, of course, it was difficult, 
 Mr. Aiken admitted, to think what to say, all in a 
 hurry! He thought very hard, and twice said, 
 " I've an idea. Look here ! " And his wife said, 
 " Well ? " But nothing came of it. Then he said, 
 " Anyhow, she mustn't come into the Studio. 
 That's flat ! . . . " But when, in answer to inquiry 
 as to how the difficulty of the position should be 
 met, he riposted brusquely, " Who's to see her ? 
 Why, you!" Mrs. Aiken said, in the most uncom- 
 promising way, No that she wouldn't; the idea! 
 If there were to be any fibs told, her husband must 
 tell them himself, and not put them off on her. It 
 was unmanly cowardice. Let him tell his own fibs. 
 
 But the colloquy, which threatened to become 
 heated, was interrupted by a knock at the door. 
 Warmth of feeling had to give way before necessity
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 17 
 
 for action. Broadly speaking, this took the form, 
 of affectation, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Aiken, of 
 a remoteness from the Studio not favoured by the 
 resources of their premises, and, on the part of 
 Sairah, of a dramatic effort to which she proved al- 
 together unequal. She was instructed to say that she 
 didn't know if her master was at home, but would 
 see, if the lady and gentleman would walk into the 
 Studio. She was then to convey an impression of 
 passing through perspectives of corridors, and open- 
 ing doors respectfully, and meeting with many fail- 
 ures, but succeeding in the end in running her quarry 
 down in some boudoir or private chapel. She failed, 
 and was audible to the visitors in the Studio, within 
 a few feet of its door, which didn't 'asp, unless 
 pulled to sharp. She had not pulled it to sharp. 
 And her words were not well chosen : " I said to 'em 
 to set down till you come, and you wouldn't be a 
 minute." No more they were; but there are more 
 ways than one of not being a minute, and they chose 
 the one most illustrative to Mrs. Aiken's mind 
 of the frequency of unexpected visits from the elite. 
 " Don't go rushing in, as if no one ever came ! " said 
 she to her husband. 
 
 The young lady and gentleman did not sit down, 
 but walked about the room, the former examining 
 its contents. The gentleman, who was palpably an 
 officer in a cavalry regiment, neglected the Fine
 
 18 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Arts, in favour of the lady, whom he may be said 
 to have gloated over at a respectful distance. But 
 he expressed himself to the effect that this was an 
 awful lark, straining metaphor severely. The young 
 lady, whose beauty had made Sairah's head reel, 
 said, " Yes it's fun," more temperately. But 
 both looked blooming and optimistic, and ready to 
 recognize awful larks and fun in almost any com- 
 bination of circumstances. 
 
 The first instinct of visitors to a Studio is to find 
 some way of avoiding looking at the pictures. A 
 good method towards success in this object is to 
 lean back and peep over all the canvases with their 
 faces to the wall, and examine all the sketch-books, 
 in search of what really interests you so much more 
 than finished work; to wit, the first ideas of the 
 Artist, fresh from his brain incomplete, of course, 
 but full of an indefinable something. They are 
 himself, you see! But they spoil your new gloves, 
 and perhaps you are going on to Hurlingham. 
 These young people were; and that, no doubt, was 
 why the young lady went no further in her re- 
 searches than to discover the rich grimy quality of 
 the dirt they compelled her to wallow in. It 
 repulsed her, and she had to fall back on the easels 
 and their burdens. 
 
 They glanced at " Diana and Actseon," unfinished, 
 the Artist's capo d'opera at this date, and appeared
 
 A LIKELY STORY 19- 
 
 embarrassed for a moment, but conscious that 
 something is still due to High Art. 
 
 " Why don't you say the drawing's fine, or the 
 tone, or something? You're not doing your duty,. 
 Jack." Thus spoke the young lady, who presently, 
 to the relief of both, found an enthusiasm. " She's 
 perfectly lovely! But is she Mr. Malkin's work? 
 She isn't she's our picture! She's Early Italian." 
 She clapped her hands and laughed with delight. 
 Oh dear! how pretty she looked, transfixed, as it 
 were, with her lips apart opposite to the picture 
 Sairah had been attending to ! 
 
 The young man took his eyes off her to glance at 
 the picture, then put them back again. " I don't 
 dislike 'em Early Italian," he said. But he wasn't 
 paying proper attention; and, besides, Sairah's little 
 essay towards picture-restoration had caught his pass- 
 ing glance. " What's all that woolly mess ? " said he. 
 
 " Picture-cleaning, of course," said the lady- 
 "Mr. Malthus knows what he's about at least, I 
 suppose so. ... Oh, here he is ! " Now this 
 young lady ought to have made herself mistress of 
 the Artist's real name before visiting his Studio. 
 Not having done so, his sudden appearance he had 
 taken the bit in his teeth and rushed in as though 
 at most very few people ever came was a little 
 embarrassing to her, especially as he said correc- 
 tively, " Aiken." Thereon the young lady said she
 
 20 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 meant Aiken, which may have been true, or not. 
 However, she got the conversation on a sound 
 footing by a little bit of truthfulness. " I was just 
 saying to Captain Calverley that the ' woolly mess,' 
 as he is pleased to call it, is what you are doing to 
 the picture. Isn't it, now ? " 
 
 Mr. Aiken satisfied his conscience cleverly. He 
 smiled in a superior way as a master smiles at one 
 that is not of his school and said merely, " Some- 
 thing of the kind." 
 
 This young lady, Madeline Upwell, had never been 
 in a real picture-restorer's studio before, and could 
 not presume to be questioning anything, or taking 
 exceptions. So she accepted Sairah's handiwork 
 as technical skill of a high order. And Mr. Aiken, 
 his conscience at ease at having avoided fibs, which 
 so often lead to embarrassments, felt quite in high 
 spirits, and could give himself airs about his knowl- 
 edge of Early Italian Art. 
 
 " A fine picture ! " said he. " But not a Bron- 
 zino." 
 
 Miss Upwell looked dejected, and said, " Oh 
 dear! isn't it? Ought it to be?" Captain 
 Calverley said, " P'raps it's by somebody else." 
 But he was evidently only making conversation. 
 And Miss Upwell said to him, " Jack, you don't 
 know anything about it. Be quiet! " Whereupon 
 Captain Calverley was quiet. He was very good
 
 A LIKELY STORY 21 
 
 and docile, and no wonder ; for the fact is, his inner 
 soul purred like a cat whenever this young lady 
 addressed him by name. 
 
 Mr. Aiken went on to declare his own belief about 
 the authorship in question. His opinion was of 
 less than no value, but he gave it for what it was 
 worth. The picture was palpably the work of 
 Mozzo Vecchio, or his son Cippo probably the 
 latter, who was really the finer artist of the two, in 
 spite of Jupp. As to the identity of the portrait, 
 he did not agree with any of the theories about it. 
 He then, receiving well-bred encouragement to 
 proceed from his hearers, threw himself into a com- 
 plete exposition of his views although he fre- 
 quently dwelt upon their insignificance and his own 
 with such enthusiasm that it was with a wrench 
 to his treatment of the subject that he became aware 
 that his wife had come into the room and was ex- 
 pecting to be taken notice of, venomously. At the 
 same time it dawned on him that his visitors had 
 assumed the appearance of awaiting formal intro- 
 duction. The method of indicating this is not 
 exactly like endeavouring to detect a smell of gas, 
 nor giving up a conundrum and waiting for the 
 answer, nor standing quite still to try on, nor any 
 particular passage in fielding at cricket; but there 
 may be a little of each in it. Only, you mustn't 
 speak on any account mind that! You may say
 
 22 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " er " if that indicates the smallest speakable 
 section of a syllable as a friendly lead to the intro- 
 ducer. And it is well to indicate, if you can, how 
 sweet your disposition will be towards the other 
 party when the introducer has taken action, like 
 the Treasury. But the magic words must be 
 spoken. 
 
 Miss Upwell was beginning to feel a spirit of 
 dhauvinism rising in her heart, that might in time 
 have become " Is this Mrs. Aiken ? " with a certain 
 gush of provisional joy, when the gentleman per- 
 ceived his neglect, and said, " Ah oh ! my wife, 
 of course ! Beg pardon ! " On which Mrs. Aiken 
 said, " You must forgive my husband," with an 
 air of spacious condescension, and the incident 
 ended curiously by a kind of alliance between the 
 two ladies against the social blunders of male man- 
 kind. 
 
 But the Artist's wife declined to fall in with 
 current opinion about the picture. " I suppose it's 
 very beautiful, and all that," said she. " Only 
 don't ask me to admire it! I never have liked 
 that sort of thing, and I never shall like it." She 
 went on to say the same thing more frequently 
 than public interest in her decisions appeared to 
 warrant. 
 
 The young lady said, in a rather plaintive, dis- 
 appointed tone, " But is it that sort of thing ? "
 
 A LIKELY STORY 23 
 
 She had evidently fallen in love with the picture, 
 and while not prepared to deny that sorts of things 
 existed which half-length portraits oughtn't to be, 
 was very reluctant to have a new-found idol pitch- 
 forked into their category. 
 
 The Artist said, " What the dooce you mean, 
 Euphemia, I'm blest if I know ! " He looked like 
 an Artist who wished his wife hadn't come into his 
 room when visitors were there. 
 
 The Captain said, " What sort of thing 2 I don't 
 see that she's any sort at all. Thundering pretty 
 sort, anyhow ! " 
 
 Thereupon the Artist's wife said, " I suppose 
 I'm not to speak," and showed symptoms of a 
 dangerous and threatening self-subordination. The 
 lady visitor, perceiving danger ahead, with great 
 tact exclaimed : " Oh, but I do know so exactly 
 what Mrs. Aiken means." She didn't know, the 
 least in the world. But what did that matter? 
 She went on to dwell on the beauty of the portrait, 
 saying that she should persuade Pupsey to have it 
 over the library chimneypiece and take away that 
 dreary old Kneller woman. It was the best light 
 in the whole place. 
 
 But her sweetly meant effort to soothe away the 
 paroxysm of propriety which seemed to have seized 
 upon the lady of the house was destined to fail, for 
 the husband of the latter must needs put his word in,
 
 24 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 saying, " I don't see any ground for it. Never 
 shall." This occasioned an intensification of his 
 wife's attitude, shown by a particular form of silence, 
 and an underspeech to Miss Upwell, as to one who 
 would understand, " No ground ? with those arms 
 and shoulders! And look at her open throat oh, 
 the whole thing! " which elicited a sympathetic 
 sound, meant to mean anything. But the young 
 lady was only being civil. Because she had really 
 no sympathy whatever with this Mrs. What's-her- 
 name, and spoke with severity of her afterwards, 
 under that designation. At the moment, however, 
 she made no protest beyond an expression of rap- 
 turous admiration for the portrait, saying it was 
 the most fascinating head she had ever seen in a 
 picture. And as for the arms and open throat, they 
 were simply ducky. The Artist's wife could find 
 nothing to contradict flatly in this, and had to con- 
 tent herself with, " Oh yes, the beauty's undeniable. 
 But that was how they did it." 
 
 The young officer appeared to want to say some- 
 thing, but to be diffident. A nod of encouragement 
 from Miss Upwell produced, " Why, I was going to 
 say wasn't it awfully jolly of 'em to do it that 
 way ? " The speaker coloured slightly, but when 
 the young lady said, " Bravo, Jack ! I'm on your 
 side," he looked happy and reinstated. 
 
 But when could the picture be finished and be
 
 A LIKELY STORY 25 
 
 sent to Surley Stakes ? The young lady would never 
 be happy till it was safe there, now she had seen it. 
 Would Mr. Aiken get it done in a week ? . . . no ? 
 then in a fortnight? The Artist smiled in a su- 
 perior way, from within the panoply of his mystery, 
 and intimated that at least a month would be re- 
 quired; and, indeed, to do justice to so important a 
 job, he would much rather have said six weeks. He 
 hoped, however, that Miss Upwell would be content 
 with his assurance that he would do his best. 
 
 Miss Upwell would not be at all content. Still, 
 she would accept the inevitable. How could she 
 do otherwise, with Captain Calverley's sisters wait- 
 ing for them at Hurlingham ? 
 
 " Quite up to date ! " was the verdict of the 
 Artist's wife, as soon as her guest was out of 
 hearing. 
 
 " Who ? " said the Artist. Then, as one who 
 steps down from conversation to communication, 
 he added in business tones : " I say, Euphemia, I 
 shall have to run this all down with turps before 
 the copal hardens, and I really must give my mind 
 to it. You had better hook it." 
 
 " I'm going directly. But it's easy to say 
 'who?'" 
 
 " Oh, I say, do hook it ! I can't attend to you 
 and this at the same time."
 
 26 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " I'm going. But it is easy to say ' who ? ' And 
 you know it's easy." 
 
 The Artist, who was coquetting with one of those 
 nice little corkscrews that bloom on Artists' bottles, 
 became impatient. " Wha-a-aw is it you're going 
 on about ? " he exclaimed, exasperated. " Can't you 
 leave the girl alone, and hook it ? " 
 
 " I can leave the room," said his wife temperately, 
 " and am doing so. But you see you knew per- 
 fectly well who, all along ! " Even so the Japanese 
 wrestler, who has got a certainty, is temperance it- 
 self towards his victim, who writhes in vain. 
 
 Why on earth could not the gentleman leave the 
 lady to go her own way, and attend to his work? 
 He couldn't; and must needs fan the fires of an 
 incipient wrangle that would have burned down, left 
 to itself. " Don't be a fool, Euphemia," said he. 
 " Can't you answer my question ? What do you 
 mean by ' quite up to date ' ? " 
 
 Now, Mrs. Aiken had a much better memory than 
 her husband. " Because," she replied, dexterously 
 seizing on his weak point, " you never asked any such 
 question, Reginald. If you had asked me to tell 
 you what I meant by ' quite up to date,' I should 
 have told you what I meant by ' quite up to date/ 
 But I shall not tell you now, Reginald, because it 
 is worse than ridiculous for you to pretend you do 
 not know the meaning of e quite up to date,' when
 
 A LIKELY STORY 27 
 
 it is not only transparently on the surface, but 
 obvious. Ask anyone. Ask my Aunt Priscilla. 
 Ask Mrs. Verity." The lady had much better have 
 stopped here. But she wished to class her land- 
 lady amongst the lower intelligences, so she must 
 needs add, somewhat in the rear of her enumeration, 
 in a quick sotto voce, " Ask the girl Sairah, for that 
 matter ! " 
 
 " What's that ? " said her husband curtly. 
 
 " You heard what I said." 
 
 " Oh yes, I heard what you said. Well suppose 
 I ask the girl Sairah ! " 
 
 " Reginald ! If you are determined to make 
 yourself and your wife ridiculous, I shall go. I do 
 think that, even if you have no common sense, you 
 might have a little good feeling. The girl Sairah! 
 The idea ! " She collected herself a little more 
 some wandering scraps were out of bounds and 
 went almost away, just listening back on the stair- 
 case landing. 
 
 Now, although an impish intention may have 
 flickered in the mind of Mr. Reginald Aiken, he cer- 
 tainly had no definite idea of catechizing the girl 
 Sairah about the phrase under discussion when he 
 rang the bell for her and summoned her to the 
 Studio. But his wife having taken him au serieux 
 instead of laughing at his absurdity, the impish 
 intention flared up, and had not time to die down
 
 28 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 before Sairah answered the bell. Would it have 
 done so if he had not been conscious that his wife 
 was still standing at pause on the staircase to keep 
 an eye on the outcome ? 
 
 So, when Sairah lurched into his sanctum, asking 
 whether he rang not without suggestion that 
 offence would be given by an affirmative answer 
 his real intention in summoning the damsel wavered 
 at the instigation of the spirit of mischief that had 
 momentary possession of him; and instead of blow- 
 ing her up roundly for damaging his picture, he 
 actually must needs ask her the very question his 
 wife had said " The idea ! " about. He spoke loud, 
 that his speech should reach that lady's listening 
 ears. 
 
 " Yes, Sairah : I rang for you. What is the 
 meaning of . . . ? " He paused a moment, to 
 overhear, if possible, some result of his words in the 
 passage. 
 
 " It's nothin' along o' me. / ain't done nothin'." 
 A brief sketch of a blameless life, implied in these 
 words, seemed to Sairah the safest policy. She 
 thought she was going to be indicted for the ruin 
 of the picture. 
 
 " Shut up, Sairah ! " said the Artist, and listened. 
 Of course, he was doing this, you see, to plague his 
 wife. But he heard nothing, being nevertheless 
 mysteriously aware that Mrs. Aiken was still on the
 
 A LIKELY STORY 29 
 
 landing above, taking mental notes of what she 
 overheard. So he pursued his inquiry, regarding 
 Sairah as a mere lay-figure of use in practical joking. 
 " I expect you know the meaning of l up to date/ 
 Sairah," said he, and listened. But no sign came 
 from without. If the ears this pleasantry was in- 
 tended to reach were still there, their owner was 
 storing up retribution for its author in silence. 
 
 It was but natural that this young woman Sairah, 
 having no information on any topic whatever for 
 this condition soon asserts itself in young women of 
 her class after their Board-School erudition has had 
 time to die a natural death should be apt to 
 ascribe sinister meanings to things she did not under- 
 stand. And in this case none the less for the air 
 and aspect of the speaker, which, while it really was 
 open to the misinterpretation that it was intended 
 to convey insinuating waggery to the person ad- 
 dressed, had only reference to the enjoyment Mr. 
 Aiken had, or was proposing to himself, from a mild 
 joke perpetrated at his wife's expense. However, 
 the young woman was not going to fly out an 
 action akin to the showing of a proper spirit with- 
 out an absolute certainty of the point to be flown 
 out about. Therefore Sairah said briefly, " Ask 
 your parding ! " Briefly, but with a slight asperity. 
 
 The Artist, though he was in some doubt whether 
 his jest was worth proceeding with, was too far com-
 
 30 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 mitted to retreat. With his wife listening on the 
 stairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry? 
 Obviously he must do so, or run the risk of being 
 twitted with his indecision by that lady later on. 
 So he said, with effrontery, " Your mistress says 
 you can tell me the meaning of the expression ' up 
 to date/ Sairah." 
 
 Sairah turned purple. " Well, I never ! " said 
 she. " Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable 
 girl!" 
 
 Mr. Aiken became uncomfortable, as Sairah turned 
 purple. He began to perceive that his jest was a 
 very stupid one. As Sairah turned purpler, he 
 became more uncomfortable still. A panic-stricken 
 review of possible ways out of the difficulty started 
 in his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials. 
 Explanation cajolery severe transition to another 
 topic he thought of all three. The first was simply 
 impossible to reasoning faculties like Sairah's. The 
 second was out of Mr. Aiken's line. If the girl had 
 been a model now! . . . And who can say that 
 then it might not have been ticklish work yes! 
 even with the strong personal vanity of that in- 
 scrutable class to appeal to? There was nothing 
 for it but the third, and Mr. Aiken's confidence in 
 it was very weak. Something had to be done, 
 though, with Sairah's colour crescendo, and probably 
 Mrs. Hay outside the door; that was the image his
 
 A LIKELY STORY 31 
 
 mind supplied. He felt like an ill-furnished storm- 
 ing-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as he 
 said, " There never mind that now ! You've been 
 meddling with this picture. You know you have. 
 Look here! " Had he been a good tactician, he 
 would have affected sudden detection of the injury 
 to the picture. But he lost the opportunity. 
 
 Sairah held the strong position of an Injured 
 Woman. If she was to have the sack, she much 
 preferred to have it "on her own " to wrest it, as 
 it were, from a grasp unwilling to surrender it 
 rather than to have it forced upon her unwilling 
 acceptance, with a month's notice and a character 
 for Vandalism. So she repeated, as one still rigid 
 with amazement, " Mrs. Aching to say that of a 
 respectable girl ! " and remained paralyzed, in dumb 
 show. 
 
 Mr. Aiken perceived with chagrin that he might 
 have saved the situation by, " What's this horrible 
 mess on the picture ? You've been touching this ! " 
 and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. It 
 was too late now. He had to accept his task as 
 Destiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure over it 
 was quite outclassed by Sairah. He could 
 actually manage nothing better than, " Do let that 
 alone, girl ! I tell you it was foolery. ... I tell 
 you it was a joke. Look here at this picture the 
 mischief you've done it. You know you did it ! "
 
 32 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 To which Sairah thus : " Ho, it's easy gettin' 
 out of it that way, Mr. Aching. Not but what I 
 have always known you for the gentleman I will 
 say that. But such a thing to say! If I'd a been 
 Missis, I should have shrank ! " 
 
 The Artist felt that there was nothing for it but 
 to grapple with the situation. He shouted at the 
 indignant young woman, " Don't be such a con- 
 founded idiot, girl! I mean, don't be such an 
 insufferable goose. I tell you, you're under a com- 
 plete misconception. Nobody's ever said anything 
 against you. Nobody's said a word against your 
 confounded character, and be hanged to it! Do 
 have a little common sense! A young woman of 
 your age ought to be ashamed to be such a fool." 
 
 But Sairah's entrenchments were strengthened, 
 if anything. " It's easy calling fool," said she. 
 " And as for saying against, who's using expressions, 
 and passing off remarks now ? " Controversial 
 opponents incapable of understanding anything 
 whatever are harder to refute than the shrewdest 
 intellects. Mr. Aiken felt that Sairah was oak and 
 triple brass against logical conviction. Explanation 
 only made matters worse. 
 
 A vague desperate idea of summoning his wife 
 and accusing Sairah of intoxication, as a sort of 
 universal solvent, crossed his mind; and he actually 
 went so far as to look out into the passage for her,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 33 
 
 but only to find that she had vanished for the 
 moment. Coming back, he assumed a sudden 
 decisive tone, saying, " There that'll do, Sairah ! 
 Now go." But Sairah wasn't going to give in, evi- 
 dently, and he added, " I mean, that's enough ! " 
 
 Whether it was or wasn't, Sairah showed no signs 
 of concession. She was going, no fear! She was 
 going ho yes! she was going. She said she was 
 going so often that Mr. Aiken said at last, " Well, 
 go ! " But when the young woman began to go 
 vengefully, as it were even as a quadruped sud- 
 denly stung by an ill-deserved whip he inconse- 
 quently exclaimed, "Stop!" For a fell purpose 
 had been visible in her manner. What, he asked, 
 was she going to do ? 
 
 What was she going to do? Oh yes! it was 
 easy asking questions. But the answer would reach 
 Mr. Aiken in due course. Nevertheless, if he wanted 
 to know, she would be generous and tell him. She 
 wasn't an underhand girl, like the majority of her 
 sex at her age. Mean concealments were foreign to 
 her nature. She was going straight to Mrs. Aching 
 to give a month's warning, and you might summing 
 in the police to search her box. All should be above- 
 board, as had been the case in her family for genera- 
 tions past, and she never had experienced such treat- 
 ment all the places she'd been in, nor yet expected 
 to it.
 
 34 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 It was then that this Artist made a serious error 
 of judgment. He would have done much more 
 wisely to allow this stupid maid-of-all-work to go 
 away and attend to some of it in the kitchen, while 
 he looked after his own. Instead of doing so, he, 
 being seriously alarmed at the possible domestic 
 consequences of his very imperfectly thought out 
 joke for he knew his wife accounted the finding of 
 a new handmaid life's greatest calamity must needs 
 make an ill-advised attempt to calm the troubled 
 waters on the same line that he would have adopted, 
 at any rate in his Bohemian days, with Miss de 
 Lancey or Miss Montmorency these names are 
 chosen at random whose professional beauty as 
 models did not prevent their suffering, now and 
 again, from tantrums. And cajolery, of the class 
 otherwise known as blarney, might have smoothed 
 over the incident, and the whole thing have been 
 forgotten, if bad luck had not, just at this moment, 
 brought back to the Studio the mistress of the 
 house, who had only been attracted by a noise in 
 the street to look out at a front-window. She, 
 coming unheard within hearing, not only was aware 
 of interchanges of unusual amiability between 
 Reginald and that horrible girl Sairah, but was just 
 in time to hear the latter say, " You keep your 
 'ands off of me now, Mr. Aching ! " without any 
 apparent intention of being taken at her word.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 35 
 
 And, further, that the odious minx brazened it out, 
 leaving the room as if nothing had happened, before 
 the gentleman's offended wife could find words to 
 express her indignation. At least, so this lady told 
 her Aunt Priscilla that evening, in an interview 
 from which we have just borrowed some telling 
 phrases. 
 
 As for her profligate husband, it came out in the 
 same interview that he looked " sheepish to a 
 degree, and well he might." He had tried to cook 
 up a sort of explanation " oh yes ! a sort " which 
 was no doubt an attempt on the misguided man's 
 part to tell the truth. But we have seen that he 
 was the last person to succeed in such an enterprise; 
 and, indeed, self-exculpation is tough work, even 
 for the guiltless. Fancy the fingers of reproachful 
 virtue directed at you from all points of the com- 
 pass. And suppose, to make matters worse, you 
 had committed something not a crime, you would 
 never do that; but something or other of a com- 
 mittable nature what on earth could you do but 
 look sheepish to some degree or other? Unless, 
 indeed, you were a minx, and could brazen it out r 
 like that gurl. 
 
 Such a ridiculous and vulgar incident would not 
 be worth so much description, but that, like other 
 things of the same sort, it led to serious conse-
 
 36 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 quences. A storm occurred in what had hitherto 
 been a haven of domestic peace, and the Artist's 
 wife carried out her threat, this time, of a visit to 
 her Aunt Priscilla. That good lady, being a spinster 
 of very limited experience, but anxious to make it 
 seem a wide one, dwelt upon her knowledge of man- 
 kind and its evil ways, and the hopelessness of un- 
 divided possession thereof by womankind. She had 
 told her niece " what it was going to be," when she 
 first learned that Mr. Aiken was an Artist. She 
 repeated what she had said before, that Artists' 
 wives had no idea what was going on under their 
 eyes. If they had, Artists would very soon be un- 
 provided with the raw material of proper infidelity. 
 They would have no wives, and would go on like in 
 Paris. This tale is absolutely irresponsible for Miss 
 Priscilla's informants; it only reports her words. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, in spite of a severe 
 ruction with her husband, had really not consciously 
 imputed to him any transgression of a serious nature 
 when as that gentleman worded it she " flounced 
 away " to her Aunt Priscilla with an angry report 
 of how Reginald had insulted her. She had much 
 too high an opinion of him to form, on her own 
 account, a mental version of his conduct, such as 
 the one her excellent Aunt jumped at, in pursuance 
 of the establishment of a vile moral character for 
 Artists and nephews-in-law generally, with a con-
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 37 
 
 crete foundation in the case of an Artist-nephew a 
 Centaur-like combination with a doubt which half 
 was which. But nothing is easier than to convince 
 any human creature that any other is twice, thrice, 
 four times as human as itself, in respect of what is 
 graceless or disgraceful spot-stroke barred, of 
 course ; meaning felony. So that after a long inter- 
 view with Aunt Priscilla, this foolish woman cried 
 herself to sleep, having accepted the good lady's 
 offered hospitality, and was next morning so vigor- 
 ously urged to do scriptural things in the way of 
 forgiveness and submission to her husband so Mil- 
 tonic, in fact, did the prevailing atmosphere become 
 that she naturally sat down and wrote a healthily 
 furious letter to him. The tale may surmise that 
 she offered him Sairah as a consolation for what it 
 knows she proposed her own withdrawal to a 
 voluntary grass-widowhood. For she flatly refused 
 to return to her deserted hearth. And, indeed, the 
 poor lady may have felt that her home had been 
 soiled and desecrated. But it was not only her 
 Aunt's impudent claim to superior knowledge she 
 was still Miss Priscilla Bax, and of irreproachable 
 character that had influenced her, but the recol- 
 lection of Sairah. It would not have been half as 
 bad if it had been a distinguished young lady with 
 a swoop, like in a shiny journal she subscribed for 
 quarterly. But Sairah ! That gurl ! Visions of
 
 38 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Sairah's coiffure; of the way Sairah appeared to be 
 coming through, locally, owing to previousness on 
 the part of hooks which would not wait for their 
 own affinities, but annexed the very first eye that 
 appealed to them; of intolerable stockings she 
 overlooked large holes in, however careful she see 
 to 'em when they come from the Wash; of her 
 chronic pocket-handkerchief all these kept floating 
 before her eyes and exasperating her sense of insult 
 and degradation past endurance. Perhaps the 
 worst and most irritating thought was the extent to 
 which she had stooped to supplement this maid's 
 all-work by efforts of her own, without which their 
 small household could scarcely have lived within 
 its limited means. No! let Reginald grill his own 
 chops now, or find another Sairah! 
 
 It was illustrative of the unreality of this ruction 
 that the lady took it as a matter of course that 
 Sairah would accept the sack in the spirit in which 
 it was given; for official banishment of the culprit 
 was her last act on leaving the house. ~No idea 
 entered her head that her husband had the slightest 
 personal wish to retain Sairah. 
 
 As for him, he judged it best to pay the girl her 
 month's wages and send her packing. He removed 
 her deposit of flue from the picture-varnish, and in 
 due time completed the job and sent it off to its 
 destination. He fell back provisionally on his old
 
 A LIKELY STORY 39 
 
 bachelor ways, making his own bed and slipping 
 slowly down into Chaos at home, but getting well 
 fed either by his friends or at an Italian restaurant 
 near by others being beyond his means or fraught 
 with garbage and writing frequent appeals to his 
 wife not to be an Ass, but to come back and be jolly. 
 She opened his letters, and read them, and more 
 than once all but started to return to him would 
 have done so, in fact, if her excellent Aunt had not 
 pointed out, each time, that it was the Woman's 
 duty to forgive. Which she might have gone the 
 length of accepting, but for its exasperating sequel, 
 " and submit herself to her husband." 
 
 But neither he nor either of the other actors in 
 this drama had the slightest idea that it had been 
 witnessed by any eyes but those of its performers.
 
 CHAPTEK II 
 
 HOW A LITTLE OLD GENTLEMAN WAS LEFT ALONE IN A LIBRARY, 
 IN FRONT OF THE PICTURE SAIRAH HAD ONLY JUST WIPED 
 GENTLY. HOW HE WOKE UP FROM A DREAM, WHICH WENT 
 ON. THE LOQUACITY OF A PICTURE, AND HOW HE POINTED 
 OUT TO IT ITS UNREALITY. THE ARTIST'S NAME. THERE WAS 
 PLENTY OF TIME TO HEAR MORE. THE EXACT DATE OF AN- 
 TIQUITY. THE RATIONAL WAY OF ACCOUNTING FOR IT 
 
 OLD Mr. Pelly is the little grey-headed wrinkled 
 man with gold spectacles whom you have seen in Lon- 
 don bookshops and curio-stores in late August and 
 early September, when all the world has been away ; 
 the little old man who has seemed to you to have 
 walked out of the last century but one. You may 
 not have observed him closely enough at the moment 
 to have a clear recollection of details, but you will 
 have retained an image of knee-breeches and silk 
 stockings; of something peculiar in the way of a 
 low-crowned hat ; of a watch and real seals ; of a gold 
 snuff-box you would have liked to sell for your own 
 benefit; and of an ebony walking-stick with a silver 
 head and a little silk tassel. On thinking this old 
 gentleman over you will probably feel sorry you did 
 not ask him a question about Mazarine Bibles or 
 Aldus Manutius, so certain were you he would not 
 
 have been rude. 
 
 40
 
 A LIKELY STORY 41 
 
 But you did not do so, and very likely he went 
 back to Grewceham, in Worcestershire, where he 
 lives by himself, and you lost your opportunity that 
 time. However that may be, it is old Mr. Pelly our 
 story has to do with now, and he is sitting before a 
 wood-fire out of all proportion to the little dry old 
 thing it was lighted to warm, and listening to the 
 roaring of the wind in the big chimney of the library 
 he sits in. 
 
 But it is not his own library. That is at Grewce- 
 ham, two miles off. This library is the fine old 
 library at Surley Stakes, the country-seat of Sir 
 Stopleigh Up well, M.P., whose father was at school 
 with Mr. Pelly, over sixty years ago. 
 
 Mr. Pelly is stopping at " The Stakes," as it is 
 called, to avoid the noise and fuss of the little market- 
 town during an election. And for that same reason 
 has not accompanied Sir Stopleigh and his wife and 
 daughter to a festivity consequent on the return of 
 that very old Bart, for the County. They will be 
 late back; so Mr. Pelly can do no better than sit in 
 the firelight, rejecting lamps and candles, and think- 
 ing over the translation of an Italian manuscript, in 
 fragments, that his friend Professor Schrudengesser 
 has sent him from Florence. It has been supposed 
 to have some connection with the cinque-cento por- 
 trait by an unknown Italian artist that hangs above 
 the fire-blaze. And this portrait is the one the story
 
 42 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 saw a little over six months since, in the atelier 
 of that picture-cleaner, who managed to brew a 
 quarrel with his wife by his own silliness and bad 
 taste. 
 
 It is only dimly visible in the half-light, but Mr. 
 Pelly knows it is there; knows, too, that its eyes 
 can see him, if a picture's eyes can see, and that its 
 laugh is there on the parted lips, and that its 
 jewelled hand is wound into the great tress of gold 
 that falls on its bosom. For it is a portrait of a 
 young and beautiful woman, such as Galuppi Bal- 
 dassare wrote music about you know, of course! 
 And Mr. Pelly, as he thinks what it will look like 
 when Stebbings, the butler, or his myrmidons bring 
 in lights, feels chilly and grown old. 
 
 But Stebbings' instructions were distinctly not to 
 bring in lights till Mr. Pelly rang, and Mr. Pelly 
 didn't ring. He drank the cup of coffee Stebbings 
 had provided, without putting any Cognac in it, and 
 then fell into a doze. When he awoke, with a start 
 and a sudden conviction that he indignantly fought 
 against that he had been asleep, it was to find that 
 the log-flare had worn itself out, and the log it fed 
 on was in its decrepitude. Just a wavering irreso- 
 lute flame on its saw-cut end, and a red glow, and 
 that was all it had left behind. 
 
 " Who spoke ? " It was Mr. Pelly who asked the 
 question. But no one had spoken, apparently.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 43 
 
 Yet he would have sworn that he heard a woman's 
 voice speaking in Italian. How funny that the 
 associations of an Italian manuscript should creep 
 into his dream! that was all Mr. Pelly thought 
 about it. For the manuscript was almost entirely 
 English rendering, and no one in it, so far as he 
 could recollect, had said as this voice did, " Good- 
 evening, Signore ! " It was a dream ! He polished 
 his spectacles and watched the glowing log that 
 bridged an incandescent valley, and wondered what 
 the sudden births of little intense white light could 
 be that came and lived on nothing and vanished, 
 unaccounted for. He knew Science knew, and 
 would ask her, next time they met. But, for now, 
 he would be content to sit still, and keep watch 
 on that log. It must break across the middle 
 soon, and collapse into the valley in a blaze of 
 sparks. 
 
 Watching a fire, without other light in the room, 
 is fraught with sleep to one who has lately dined, 
 even if he has a pipe or cigar in his mouth to burn 
 him awake when he drops it. Much more so to a 
 secure non-smoker, like Mr. Pelly. Probably he did 
 go to sleep again but who can say? He really 
 believed himself wide-awake, though, when the same 
 voice came again; not loud, to be sure, but unmis- 
 takable. And the way it startled him helped to 
 convince him he was awake. Because one is never
 
 44 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 surprised at anything in a dream. When one finds 
 oneself at Church in a stocking, and nothing more, 
 one is vexed and embarrassed, certainly, but not 
 surprised. It dawns on one gradually. If this was 
 a dream, it was a very solid one, to survive Mr. 
 Felly's start of amazement. It brought him out of 
 his chair, and set him looking about in the half- 
 lighted room for a speaker, somewhere. 
 
 " Who are you, and where are you ? " said he. 
 For there was no one to be seen. The firelight 
 flickered on the portraits of Sir Stephen Upwell, the 
 Cavalier, who was killed at Naseby, and Marjory, 
 his wife, who was a Parliamentarian fanatic ; and a 
 phenomenal trout in a glass case, with a picture 
 behind it showing the late Baronet in the distance 
 striving to catch it; but the door was shut, and 
 Mr. Felly was alone in the library. He was rather 
 frightened at his own voice in the stillness; it 
 sounded like delirium. So it made him happier 
 that an answer should come, and justify it. 
 
 " I am here, before you. Look at me ! I am 
 La Risvegliata that is what you call me, at least." 
 This was spoken in Italian, but it must be trans- 
 lated in the story. Very likely you understand 
 Italian, but remember how many English do not. 
 Mr. Felly spoke Italian fluently he spoke many 
 languages but he must be turned into English, too, 
 for the same reason.
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 45 
 
 " But you are a picture," said he. " You cannot 
 speak." For he understood then that his hallucina- 
 tion as he thought it, believing himself awake 
 was that the picture-woman over the mantelpiece 
 had spoken to him. He felt indignant with himself 
 for so easily falling a victim to a delusion; and 
 transferred his indignation, naturally, to the blame- 
 less phantom of his own creation. Of course, he 
 had imagined that the picture had spoken to him. 
 For " La Risvegliata " the awakened one was the 
 name that had been written on the frame at the 
 wish of the Baronet's daughter, when a few months 
 back he brought this picture, by an unknown artist, 
 from Italy. 
 
 " I can speak " so it replied to Mr. Pelly " and 
 you can hear me, as I have heard you all speaking 
 about me, ever since I came to this strange 
 land. Any picture can hear that is well enough 
 painted." 
 
 " Why have you never spoken before ? " Mr. 
 Pelly was dumbfounded at the unreasonableness of 
 the position. A speaking picture was bad enough; 
 but, at least, it might be rational. He fell in his 
 own good opinion, at this inconsistency of his dis- 
 tempered fancy. 
 
 " Why have you never listened ? I have spoken 
 many a time. How do I know why you have not 
 heard ? " Mr. Pelly could not answer, and the voice
 
 46 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 continued, " Oh, how I have longed and waited for 
 one of you to catch my voice! How I have cried 
 out to the wooden Marchese whose Marchesa will 
 not allow him to speak, and to that beautiful Signora 
 herself, and to that sweet daughter most of all. 
 Oh, why why have they not heard me ? " But 
 still Mr. Pelly was slow to answer. He found some- 
 thing to say, though, in the end. 
 
 " I can entertain no reasonable doubt that your 
 voice is a fiction of my imagination. But you will 
 confer a substantial favour on me if you will take 
 advantage of it, while my hallucination lasts, to tell 
 me the name of your author of the artist who 
 painted you." 
 
 " Lo Spazzolone painted me." 
 
 "Lo . . . who?" 
 
 " Lo Spazzolone. Surely, all men have heard of 
 him. But it is his nickname the big brush from 
 his great bush of black hair. Ah me! how beauti- 
 ful it was ! " 
 
 " Could you give me his real name, and tell me 
 something about him ? " Mr. Pelly took from his 
 pocket a notebook and pencil. 
 
 " Giacinto Boldrini, of course ! " 
 
 " Ought I to know him ? I have never heard his 
 name." 
 
 " How strange ! And it is but the other day that 
 he was murdered oh, so foully murdered! But
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 47 
 
 no! I am wrong, and I forget. It is near four 
 hundred years ago." 
 
 Mr. Pelly was deeply interested. The question 
 of whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or a 
 vision, or the result of exceeding by two ounces his 
 usual allowance of glasses of Madeira, he could not 
 answer offhand. Besides, there would be plenty of 
 time for that after. His present object should be 
 to let nothing slip, however much he felt convinced 
 of its illusory character. It could be sifted later. 
 He would be passive, and not allow an ill-timed 
 incredulity to mar a good delusion in the middle. 
 He switched off scepticism for the time being, and 
 spoke sympathetically. 
 
 " Is it possible '{ Did you know him ? But of 
 course you must have known him, or he could 
 scarcely have painted you. Dear me ! " Mr. Pelly 
 checked a disposition to gasp; that would never 
 do he might wake himself up, and spoil all. The 
 sweet voice of the picture it was like a voice, mind 
 you, not like a gramophone was prompt with its 
 reply : 
 
 " I knew him well. But, oh, so long ago ! One 
 gets to doubt everything all that was most real 
 once, that made the very core of our lives. Some- 
 times I think it was a dream a sweet dream with 
 terror at the end a nectar cup a basilisk was 
 watching, all the while. Four hundred years!
 
 48 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 Can I be sure it was true? Yet I remember it all 
 could tell it now and miss nothing." 
 
 Mr. Pelly was silent a moment before answer- 
 ing. He reflected that if his reply led to a circum- 
 stantial narrative of events four hundred years old, 
 it would be a bitter disappointment to be waked 
 by the return of the family, and to have it all 
 spoiled. However, it was only ten o'clock, and 
 they might be three hours yet. Besides, it was 
 well known that dreams have no real duration 
 are in fact compressed into a second or so of waking. 
 He would risk it. 
 
 " I have a keen interest, Signora," said he, " in 
 the forgotten traditions of antiquity. It would 
 indeed be a source of satisfaction to me if you would 
 consider me worthy of your confidence, and entrust 
 to me some portion at least of your family history, 
 and that of your painter. I can assure you that 
 no portion of what you tell me shall be published 
 without your express permission. No one can 
 detest more keenly than myself the modern 
 American practice of intrusion into private 
 life. ..." He stopped. Surely that sound was 
 a sigh, if not a sob. In a moment the voice of the 
 picture came again, but with even more of sadness in 
 it than before : 
 
 " Was it antiquity, then, in those days ? We 
 did not know it then. We woke to the day that
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 49 
 
 was to come that had not been, before even as 
 you do now; and the voices of yesterday were not 
 forgotten in our ears. We flung aside the thing of 
 the hour; as you do now, with Jittle thought of 
 what we lost, and lived alone for hope, and the 
 things that were to be. I cannot tell you how 
 young we were then. And remember! I am 
 twenty now; as I was then, and have been, ever 
 since." 
 
 " I see," said Mr. Pelly. " Your original was 
 twenty when you were painted. And you naturally 
 remained twenty." He felt rather prosaic and dry, 
 and to soften matters added, " Tell me of your 
 first painting, and what is earliest in your recol- 
 lection." 
 
 " Then you will not interrupt me ? " Mr. Pelly 
 gave a promise the voice seemed to wait for, and 
 then it continued, and, as it seemed to the listener, 
 told the tale that follows, which is printed as con- 
 tinuous. The only omissions are a few interrup- 
 tions of Mr. Felly's, which, so far as they were 
 inquiries or points he had not understood, are made 
 up for by very slight variations in the text, 
 which he himself has sanctioned, as useful and 
 explanatory. 
 
 Whether he was awake or dreaming, he never 
 rightly knew. But his extraordinary memory 
 he is quite a celebrity on this score enabled him
 
 50 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 to write the whole down in the course of the next day 
 or two, noting his own interruptions, now omitted. 
 
 The most rational way of accounting for the 
 occurrence undoubtedly is that the old gentleman 
 had a very vivid dream, suggested by his having 
 read several pages this he admits of the manu- 
 script translation, in which a too ready credulity has 
 detected a sequel to the story itself. None knows 
 better than the student of alleged supernatural 
 phenomena how frequent is this confusion of cause 
 and effect.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE PICTUBE'S TALE. IT WAS so WELL PAINTED THAT WAS- 
 
 WHY IT COULD HEAR FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO. HOW ITS- 
 PAINTER HUNGERED AND THIRSTED FOR ITS ORIGINAL, AND 
 VICE VERSA. HOW OLD JANUARY HID IN A SPY-HOLE, TO- 
 WATCH MAY, AND SAW IT ALL. OF POPE INNOCENT'S PENE- 
 TRATION. OF CERTAIN BELLS, UNWELCOME ONES. HOW TWO 
 INNAMORATI TRIED TO PART WITHOUT A KISS, AND FAILED. 
 NEVERTHELESS ASSASSINS STOPPED IT WHEN IT HAD ONLY 
 JUST BEGUN. BUT GIACINTO GOT AT JANUARY'S THROAT. HOW 
 THE PICTURE WAS FRAMED, AND HUNG WHERE MAY COULD 
 ONLY SEE IT BY TWISTING. OF THE DUNGEON BELOW HER, 
 WHERE GIACINTO MIGHT BE. HOW JANUARY DUG AT MAY 
 WITH A WALKING-STAFF. HOW THE PICTURE WAS IN ABEY- 
 ANCE, BUT LOVED A FIREFLY; THEN WAS INTERRED IN FUR- 
 NITURE, AND THREE CENTURIES SLIPPED BY. HOW IT SOLD 
 FOR SIX-FIFTY, AND WAS SENT TO LONDON, TO A PICTURE- 
 RESTORER, WHICH IS HOW IT COMES INTO THE TALE. HOW 
 MR. PELLY WOKE UP 
 
 You ask me to tell you what is earliest in my 
 recollection. I will do so, and will also endeavour 
 to narrate as much as I can remember of the life of 
 the lady I was painted from; whose memory, were 
 she now living, would be identical with my 
 own. 
 
 The very first image I can recall is that of my 
 artist, at work. He is the first human being I ever 
 saw, as well as the first visible object I can call to 
 mind. He is at work as I am guided to under- 
 
 51
 
 52 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 stand by what I have learned since upon my right 
 eye. It is a very dim image indeed at the outset, 
 but as he works it becomes clearer, and at last I see 
 him quite plainly. 
 
 He is a dark young man, with hair of one thick- 
 ness all over, like a black door-mat, and a beautiful 
 olive skin. As he turns round I think to myself 
 how beautiful his neck is at the back under the hair, 
 and that I should like to kiss it. But that is 
 impossible. I can recall my pleasure at his fixed 
 gaze, and constant resolute endeavour. Naturally 
 I want him to paint my other eye. Then I shall see 
 him still better. 
 
 I am not surprised at his saying nothing for 
 remember! I did not know what speech was then. 
 He had painted my mouth, only, of course, I did 
 not know what to do with it. Needless also to say 
 that I had not heard a word, for I had no ear at all. 
 I have only one now, but it has heard all that has 
 been spoken near it for four hundred years. I 
 heard nothing then nothing at all! I only gazed 
 fixedly at the fascinating creature before me who 
 was trying his best to make me beautiful too to 
 make me as beautiful as something that I could not 
 see something his eyes turned round to at intervals, 
 something to my right and his left. What I recall 
 most vividly now is my curiosity to know what this 
 thing or person was that took his eyes off me at
 
 A LIKELY STORY 53 
 
 odd moments; to which he made, now and again, 
 slight deprecatory signs and corrective movements 
 with his left hand; from which he received some 
 response I could not guess at, which he acknowl- 
 edged by a full-spread smile of grateful recognition. 
 But always in perfect silence, though I saw, when 
 his brush was not in front of my incomplete eye, 
 that his lips moved, showing his beautiful white 
 teeth; and that he paused and listened a thing 
 I have learned about since with a certain air of 
 deference, as towards a social superior. Oh, how I 
 longed to see this unseen being, or thing! But I 
 was not to do so, yet awhile. 
 
 My recollection goes no farther than the fact of 
 this young artist, working on in a strange, systematic 
 way, quite unlike what I have since understood to 
 be the correct method for persons of genius, until at 
 the end of some period I cannot measure, he paints 
 my other eye, and I rejoice in a clearer image of 
 himself; of the huge bare room he works in; of 
 the small window, high up, with its cage of grating 
 against the sky; of the recess below it, in which, 
 at the top of two steps, an old woman sits plaiting 
 straws, and beside her a black dog, close shaved, 
 except his head, all over. But I get no light upon 
 the strange attraction that takes my creator's 
 attention off me, until after a second experience, 
 as strange as my first new-found phenomenon of
 
 54 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 sight to wit, my hearing of sound. As he painted 
 my ear, it came. 
 
 At first, a musical, broken murmur then another, 
 that mixes with it. As one rises, the other falls; 
 then both together, or as the threads of a cascade 
 cross and intersect in mid-air. Then a third sound, 
 a sound with a musical ring that makes my heart 
 leap with joy a sound that comes back to me now, 
 when in the early mornings of summer, I hear, 
 through the window of this room opened outwards 
 to let in the morning air, the voice of the little brown 
 bird that springs high into the blue heaven, and 
 unpacks its tiny heart in a flood of song. And 
 then I think to myself that thai is the language in 
 which I too should have laughed, had laughter been 
 possible to me. 
 
 For what I heard then from behind the easel I 
 stood on as the young artist painted me was the 
 laughter of Maddalena Raimondi, from whom he 
 was working; whom I may describe myself as being. 
 For ought not the name written on the frame below 
 me to be hers also, with the date of her birth and 
 death ? Are not my eyes that I see with now hers ? 
 Is not the nostril with the lambent curve that is 
 what a celebrated Art-Critic has called it hers, 
 and the little sea-shell ear hers that heard you say, 
 but now, that my original cannot have been more 
 than twenty? . . .
 
 A LIKELY STORY 55 
 
 More than twenty! No, indeed! for in those 
 days a girl of twenty was a woman. And the girl 
 that one day a little later came round at a signal 
 from behind the panel, to see the portrait that I now 
 knew had received its last touch from its maker, 
 was one who at eighteen had been threatened, 
 driven, goaded into harness with an old Devil of 
 high rank, to whom she had been affianced in her 
 babyhood; and who is now, we may hope, in his 
 proper Hell, as Cod has appointed. Yet it may 
 well be he is among the Saints; for his wealth was 
 great, and he gave freely to Holy Church. But to 
 Maddalena, that was myself for was I not she? 
 he was a Devil incarnate. 
 
 For mark you this : that all she had known I too 
 knew, in my degree, so soon as ever I was completed. 
 Else had I been a bad portrait. It all came to my 
 memory at once. I remembered my happy girl- 
 hood, the strange indifference of my utter innocence 
 when I was first told I was destined to marry the 
 great Duke, whose vassal my father was, and how 
 my marriage would somehow I am, maybe, less 
 clear about details than my original would have 
 been release my father from some debt or obliga- 
 tion to the Raimondi which otherwise would have 
 involved the forfeiture of our old home. So 
 ignorant was I that I rejoiced to think that I should 
 be the means of preserving for my family the long
 
 56 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 stretches of vine-clad hills and the old Castello in the 
 Apennines that had borne our name since the first 
 stone was laid, centuries ago. So ignorant, innocent, 
 indifferent call it what you will ! that the moment 
 I was told my destiny I went straight to Giacinto, 
 the page, with whom I had grown from infancy, to 
 tell him the good news, that he might rejoice too. 
 But he would not rejoice at my bidding, and he 
 was moody and reserved, and I wondered. I was 
 but twelve and he thirteen. Although a girl may 
 be older than a boy, even at those years, her eyes are 
 not so wide open to see some things, and it may be 
 the saw plainer than I. I know not. 
 
 This, then, was what had happened to the beautiful 
 creature that came round into my sight on that day 
 that I first saw and heard and knew her for myself, 
 and hoped I was well done, and very like. And 
 thus, also, it all came back to me, so soon as I was 
 finished and was really Maddalena Raimondi, how 
 the great Venetian artist, Angelo Allori, whom 
 they called II Bronzino, came to the Castello to 
 paint my mother, and how he took a fancy to 
 Giacinto, and would have him away to his studio, 
 and taught him how to use brushes and colours, and 
 how to grind and prepare these last, and to make 
 canvas ready for the painter. And it ended by his 
 taking him as an apprentice, at his own wish and 
 Giacinto's. And they went away together to
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 57 
 
 Venice, and I could recall now that Maddalena had 
 not seen Giacinto after that for six years. 
 
 That is to say: she had not seen him till he came 
 to the Villa Raimondi in the first year of her un- 
 happy marriage, an unhappy bride with all the 
 deadly revelation of the realities of life that an 
 accursed wedlock must needs bring. The girl was 
 no longer a girl ; she knew what she had lost. And 
 I knew it too, and all that she had known up to the 
 moment of that last brush-touch, when Giacinto said, 
 " Now, carissima Signora, you may come round and 
 see!" 
 
 And the ringing laugh came round, and slie came 
 round, that had been me. Then I too saw what I 
 had been what I was still. And after that, I will 
 tell you what I saw and heard but presently ! 
 
 For I want you first to know what Maddalena 
 was when her old owner told her that he had com- 
 manded a young Venetian artist, of rising fame, to 
 come at once, under penalty of his displeasure, to 
 paint her portrait in a dress of yellow satin brocade 
 well broidered in gold thread, and a gorgiera of fine 
 linen turned back over it, that had belonged to his 
 first wife, Vittoria Fanfani, who was much of the 
 size and shape of la Maddalena, as who could 
 tell better than he? And for this portrait she was 
 to sit or stand, as the painter should arrange, in 
 front of the tapestry showing Solomon's Judgment
 
 58 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 in the Stanza delle Quattro Corone; which is, as you 
 would say, The Koom of the Four Crowns, so called 
 because it was said four Kings had met there in old 
 days, three of whom had slain the fourth, which 
 was accounted of great fame to the Castello Rai- 
 mondi. And the time for this painting was to be 
 each day after the sun had passed the meridian; 
 for the room looked southeast, and one must study 
 the sun. And Marta Zan would always be in 
 attendance, as a serious person who would keep a 
 check on any pranks such young people might 
 choose to play. For as I too now knew and could 
 well remember, it was a wicked touch of this old 
 birbante's character that he was never tired of a 
 wearisome pretence that this young Maddalena, 
 whose heart was truly broken if ever girl's heart 
 was, was still full of joyousness and youth and 
 kittenish tricks. And he would rally her waggishly 
 before his retinue for pranks she had never played, 
 and pretended youthful escapades she could have 
 had no heart for. For in truth she was filled up 
 with sorrow, and shame of herself and her kind, and 
 intense loathing of the old man her master; but 
 she was forced to reply to his unwelcome badinage 
 by such pretence as might be of gaiety in return. 
 And this, although she knew well all the while that 
 there was not a scullion among them all but could 
 say how little she loved this eighty-year-old lord
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 59 
 
 of hers; though none could guess, not even the 
 women, what good cause she had to hate him. 
 
 But the sly old fox knew well enough ; and when 
 he made his edict that Marta Zan an old crone, 
 who had been, some said, his mistress in his youth 
 should keep watch and ward over his young wife's 
 demeanour with this new painting fellow, he knew 
 too that in the thick wall of the Stanza delle Quattro 
 Corone was a little, narrow entry, where one might 
 lie hid at any time, approaching from without, and 
 see all that passed in the chamber below. And so 
 he would see and know for himself; for he 
 knew Marta Zan too well to place much faith in 
 her. 
 
 You may guess, then, that Maddalena, when il 
 Duca first informed her of his gracious pleasure 
 about the portrait, was little inclined to take an 
 interest in that, or any other scheme of his High- 
 ness; but to avoid incurring his resentment, she 
 was bound to affect an interest she did not feel, and 
 in this she succeeded, so far as was necessary. But 
 my lord Duke was growing suspicious of her; only 
 he was far too wily an old fox to show his mistrust 
 openly. Be sure that when, after Maddalena's 
 first sitting with my young artist, he noticed that 
 the roses had returned to her cheeks, and that her 
 step was light again upon the ground, he said never 
 a word to show his thought, and only resolved in
 
 60 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 his wicked old heart to spy upon the two young 
 people from his eyrie in the wall. 
 
 It was little to be wondered at that Maddalena 
 should show pleasure when she saw who after all 
 was the young Venetian painter; who, still almost 
 a boy, had climbed so high in fame that it was 
 already held an honour to be painted by him. For 
 he was her old friend Giacinto, and she in her languid 
 lack of interest in all about her, had never asked 
 what was the actual name of Lo Spazzolone. For 
 by this nickname only had he been spoken of in her 
 presence, and it may easily be he was known by no 
 other to the old Duca himself, so universal is the 
 practice of nicknaming among the artists of Italy. 
 But he was Giacinto himself, sure enough! only 
 grown so tall and handsome. And you may fancy 
 how gladly the poor Maddalena would have flung 
 her arms round the boy she had known from her 
 cradle, and kissed her welcome into his soul only 
 there! was she not a wife, and the wife too of the 
 thing men called the Duke? What manner of 
 thing was he, that God should have made him, there 
 in the light of day ? 
 
 But if it was difficult for Maddalena to keep her 
 embrace of welcome in check, you may fancy how 
 strong a constraint my young painter had to put on 
 himself when he saw who the great lady was whom 
 he was come to paint. For none had told him,
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 61 
 
 and till she came suddenly upon him in all the 
 beauty of her full and perfect womanhood, he had no 
 idea that she would be la Maddalena la sua sorel- 
 laccia (that is, his ugly sister), as he would call her 
 in jest in those early days because there was no 
 doubt of her beauty, and the joke was a safe one. 
 Only mind you! this would be when they were 
 alone, as might be, in the court of the old Castello, 
 looking down into the deep well and dropping stones 
 to hear them splash long after, or gathering the green 
 figs in the poderi when the great heat was gone from 
 August, and they could ramble out in the early 
 mornings. When her sisters or brothers were there, 
 she was la Signorina Maddalena. I can remember 
 it all now ! One does not lightly forget these hours 
 the hours before the ugly dawn of the real World. 
 Nor the little joys one takes as a right, without a 
 rapture or a thought of gratitude; nor the little 
 pangs one thinks so hard to bear, and so soon 
 forgets. 
 
 If you should ask me how it came about that the 
 two of them should have so completely parted 
 during all those six years, that la Maddalena should 
 not even have known the nickname of the young 
 painter, nor his fame, I must beg that you will 
 remember that these were not the days of daily 
 posts, of telegraphs, and railways; nor of any of 
 the strange new things I hear of now, and find so
 
 62 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 hard to understand. Moreover, my own opinion is 
 that the parents of Maddalena judged shrewdly that 
 this young stripling was no friend to be encouraged 
 for a little daughter that was to be the salvation of 
 their property. The less risk, the less danger! 
 The fewer boys about, the fewer fancies of a chit. 
 They managed it all, be sure of that! It was for 
 the girl's own best interest. 
 
 But dear me ! * if you know anything of life 
 in youth, and of the golden thread of Love that is 
 shot through it in the weft, and starts out some- 
 where always, here or there, whatever light you 
 hold it in if you know this, there is no more to 
 be said of why, when they met again, in the Stanza 
 delle Quattro Corone, each heart should leap out to 
 meet the other, and then shrink back chilled, at 
 the thought of what they were now that they were 
 not once, and of what perforce they had to be 
 hereafter. But the moment was their own, and 
 none pauses in the middle of a draught of nectar 
 because, forsooth, the cup will soon be empty. La 
 Maddalena became, in one magic instant, a Madda- 
 lena whose laugh rang out like the song of the little 
 brown bird I told you of but now, and filled the 
 wicked old room with its music. And as for our 
 
 * Probably the words Mr. Pelly heard were "Dio miof" which 
 some consider the original of the English ' ' Dear me ! " Many 
 of the expressions are evidently literal translations. EDITOR.
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 63 
 
 poor Giacinto well! are you a man, and were 
 you ever young? He could promise the withered 
 old Duca that he would make a merry picture of la 
 Duchessa; none of your sinister death's-head 
 portraits, but with the smile of sua Altezza. For 
 all Maddalena's heart was in her face, and that face 
 wore again the smile of the old, old days, the days 
 long before her bridal. And you see that face before 
 you now. 
 
 Now, if only this old shrunken mummy will 
 begone ! If he will only go away to count over his 
 gold, to rack his tenantry for more than his share 
 of the oil-crop, to get absolution for his sins, or, 
 better still, to go to expiate them in the proper 
 place! If he will only take his venerable presence 
 and his cold firm eye away if it be but for an 
 hour! . . . 
 
 He went sooner than we had hoped. And then 
 when he was quite, quite gone, and the coast was 
 clear, then the laughter broke out. And Marta 
 Zan wondered was this really the new Duchessa? 
 she who had brought from her bridal no smile 
 but a sad one, no glance unhaunted by the memory 
 or the forecast of a tear, no word of speech but had 
 its own resonance of a broken heart. The beldam 
 chuckled to herself, and saw money to come of it, 
 if she winked skilfully enough, and at the right time. 
 But in this she was wrong, for she judged these
 
 64 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 young people by her bad old self; and indeed they 
 thought no harm of her sort. Neither could she 
 see their souls, nor they hers. But the laughter 
 and the voices filled the place, and each felt a child 
 again, and back in the old Castello. ir the hills. 
 
 " And was it really you, Giacinto \ You, your 
 very self the little Giacintino grown so great a 
 man ! Dio mio, how great a man you have grown ! " 
 
 " And was the Duchessa then la nostra Maddalena, 
 grown to be a great Signora ! Was it all true ? " 
 
 And then old Marta scowled from the steps below 
 the window, for was not this saucy young painter 
 bold enough to kiss the little hand her mistress let 
 him hold so long; and most likely she was ready 
 enough to guess that the poor boy had much ado 
 to be off kissing the lips that smiled on him as well. 
 But then, when the Maddalena saw through his 
 heart, and saw all this as plain as I tell it you now, 
 she flinched off with a little sigh, and a chill came. 
 For now, she said, they were grown-up people, 
 responsible and serious, and must behave! And 
 Marta Zan would not be cross; for look you, Marta 
 cara, was not this Giacinto, her foster-brother, and 
 had they not been rocked to sleep in the same 
 cradle? And had they not eaten the grapes of a 
 dozen vintages at her father's little castle on the 
 hill, and heard the dogs bark all across the plain 
 below in the summer nights?
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 65 
 
 So Marta, though she looked mighty glum over 
 it, kept her thoughts for her own use, with due 
 consideration how she might get most profit from 
 what she foresaw, and yet keep her footing firm 
 with her great Duke. She was a cunning old black 
 spot, was Marta, and quick to scheme her own 
 advantage, for all she was near seventy. But she 
 saw no reason for meddling to check her young 
 Duchessas free flow of spirits, and she invented a 
 good apology for letting her alone. She was not 
 going to mar the portrait by making the sitter cry 
 and look sulky: red eyes and swelled cheeks were 
 no man's joy. So she told her employer. And 
 she thought to herself, see how content the old man 
 is, and how clever am I to hoodwink him so ! 
 
 Be sure, though, that she did not know how he 
 was passing his time, more and more, in that little 
 chapel of knavery in the wall, but a few yards from 
 the two happy young folk, as they laughed and 
 talked over their old days. Only in this, you may 
 believe me, that never a word passed between them 
 for all that so many came to the lips of both and 
 were disallowed that might not have been spoken, 
 almost, in the presence of the gracious Duke himself 
 nay, quite! if he had not been so corrupt 
 and tainted an old curmudgeon that he would have 
 found a scutch on the leaf of a lily new-blown, and 
 read dishonour into innocence itself. So there he
 
 66 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 sits in his evil eyrie, day by day, hatching false 
 interpretation of every word and movement, but 
 all silence and caution, for come what may he will 
 not spoil the portrait. It will be time enough when 
 it is quite done. Time enough for what ? We shall 
 see. Meanwhile, as well to keep his eye on them! 
 Small trust to be placed in Marta Zan ! 
 
 So, all this while, I grew and grew. And the 
 laugh that you see on my lips is Maddalena's as she 
 sat looking down on her young painter, and the joy 
 and content of my eyes are her joy and content; 
 and the loose lock of hair that ripples, a stream of 
 golden red, over the red-gold of the brocaded 
 gilliflower on the bosom of my bodice, is the lock of 
 hair Maddalena had almost told Giacinto he might 
 cut away and take, to keep for her sake. But she 
 dared not, because of that dried old fig, old Marta, 
 and the grim eye of her owner. Yet she might 
 never see Giacinto again! She suspected, in her 
 heart, that he would be schemed away from her once 
 more, as before. 
 
 But I grew and grew. And now the hour is near 
 when no pretence can prolong the sittings that have 
 been the happiness the more than happiness of 
 six whole Autumn weeks. How quick they had 
 run away! Could it be six weeks! Yes, it was. 
 And there was an ugly, threatening look in the 
 Duke's old eye; but he said little enough. No
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 67 
 
 doubt Messer il Pittore knew best how long was 
 needed to paint a portrait; but he had said three 
 weeks, at the outset. So it must needs be. And 
 this, to-day, was the last sitting; and the picture 
 that was I would be complete, and have a 
 frame, and hang on the wall in the great room of 
 state, where already were hanging the two portraits 
 of the former wives of his Excellency; whereof the 
 last one died three years before, and left the old 
 miscreant free to affiance himself to the little Madda- 
 lena, who was then too young to marry, being but 
 fourteen years old. So at least said her mother, 
 and his Excellency was gracious enough to defer 
 his nuptials, in spite of his years. And our most 
 Holy Father Pope Innocent was truly convinced 
 by this that the charge of the Duke's enemies made 
 against him of having poisoned his second wife was 
 groundless. For with so young a bride in view, 
 would not any man have deferred poisoning a lady 
 who was still young and comely, at least until the 
 object of his new passion was old enough to take 
 her place? So said his Holiness, and for my part 
 I think he showed in this his penetration and his 
 wide insight and understanding of his fellow-men. 
 For man is, as saith Scripture, created in the Image 
 of God, and it is but seemly and reasonable that 
 His Vicar on Earth should know the inner secrets 
 of the human heart; albeit he may have small
 
 68 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 experience himself of Love, as is the manner of 
 Ecclesiastics. 
 
 I will now tell you all I saw on that day of the 
 last sitting, being now as it were full-grown and able 
 to see and note all; besides being, as I have tried 
 to show, able to feel all the lady Maddalena had 
 felt and to follow her inmost thought. 
 
 When they were come to the end of the work I 
 could see that both were heavy at heart for the 
 parting that was to come; and I knew of myself 
 that Maddalena had slept little, and I knew, too, that 
 this was not because sua Eccellenza the Duke snored 
 heavily all night, for had that been so, poor 
 Maddalena would have been ill off for sleep at the 
 best of times. No I she had lain awake thinking 
 of Giacinto; and he of her, it may be. But what 
 do I know? I could see he was not happy: could 
 you expect it? And his hand shook, and he did 
 no good to me. And he would not touch my 
 face and hands with the colour, and I well knew 
 why. 
 
 Therefore, when he had tried for a little and could 
 not work to any purpose, my lady la Duchessa says, 
 as one who takes courage for neither had yet 
 spoken of how they must part " Come, my Gia- 
 cinto, let us be of better cheer, and not be so down- 
 cast. For who knows but the good God may let 
 us meet again one happy day when His will is?
 
 A LIKELY STORY 69 
 
 Let us be grateful for the little hour of our felicity, 
 and make no complaint now that it was not longer. 
 But you cannot work, my Giacinto, and are doing 
 no good to the beautiful picture. Leave it and come 
 and sit here by me, and we will talk of the old days, 
 the dear old time. And as for the old Marta, she is 
 sound asleep and snoring; only not so loud as my 
 old pig of a husband all last night ! " Indeed, it was 
 true of old Marta, but for my own part I think she 
 was only pretending to be asleep, for my Maddalena 
 had talked to her of how this would be the last time, 
 and softened her, and given her ten Venetian ducats 
 and a cap of lace. But, for the snoring of the old 
 Duke, it had done some service; for the little joke 
 about it had made Maddalena speak more cheerfully, 
 and Giacinto could find a laugh for it, though he 
 had little heart to laugh out roundly at anything. 
 La Maddalena went near to make him, though! 
 For she talked of how thirteen little puppies all 
 came at once of three mothers, and she christened 
 them all after the Blessed Apostles and Judas 
 Iscariot, and every one was drowned or given away 
 except Judas Iscariot; and how she would hold up 
 Judas for Giacinto to kiss, saying he was a safe 
 Judas this time, as how could he be else with that 
 little fat stomach, and not a month old. 
 
 So I was finished, and Giacinto would have put 
 his signature in one corner had he not thought it
 
 70 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 best to wait until sua Eccellenza the Duke had seen 
 it, for who could say he would not have it altered ? 
 Messer Angelo Allori had finished a portrait of la 
 Principessa Gonzaga and just as he was thinking 
 to sign it, what does her ladyship do but say she 
 would rather have been painted in her camorra di 
 seta verde, and thereat he had to paint out the old 
 dress and paint in the new, for none might say nay 
 to la Principessa. So that is how it comes that 
 this picture that I am is unsigned; and that the 
 Art Critics, for once, are not unanimous about who 
 was the author. 
 
 But / know who that author was, and I can see 
 him still as he sits at the feet of his lady, la Duchessa 
 Maddalena, and his thick, black hair that had got 
 him the nickname of Spazzolone; which is, or 
 would be as speech goes now, the scrubbing-brush. 
 And I can see his beautiful olive-tinted throat, 
 more fair than tawny, like ivory, and his great black 
 eyes, like an antelope's. I can see her, la Maddalena, 
 seated above him for he is on the ground her 
 two white hands encircling her knees, with many 
 rings on them, one a great opal, the one you see on 
 my finger now ; and her face, with the red-gold hair, 
 you see on my head, but somewhat fallen about it, 
 for it had shaken down; and the face it hedged in 
 was white so white! It was not as you see me 
 now; rather, indeed, the face of the sad Maddalena
 
 A LIKELY STORY 71 
 
 before ever she saw Lo Spazzolone, than mine as I 
 have it before you. Look awhile upon my face, 
 and then figure it to yourself as it would be if the 
 lips wanted to tremble, and the eyes to weep, 
 but neither would do so, from sheer courage and 
 strength of heart against an evil cloud. Then you 
 will see la Maddalena as she sat there with eyes 
 fixed on Giacinto, knowing each minute nearer the 
 end; but all the more taking each minute at the 
 most, as one condemned to die delays over his last 
 meal on earth. The gaoler will come, and the 
 prison-guard, and he knows it. 
 
 How long, do you ask me, did the pair sit thus, 
 the eyes of each devouring the face of the other; 
 the lips of each replying to the other in a murmured 
 undertone I could not have heard from where I 
 stood on my easel, had it not been that I too, myself, 
 was la Maddalena, and spoke her words and heard 
 his voice? I can only tell you the time seemed too 
 short though it was none so short a time, neither! 
 But I do not know. I do know this, though and 
 I wish you too to know it, that you may think no 
 thought of blame of my Maddalena that never a 
 word passed her lips that any young wife might not 
 fairly and honestly speak to her husband's friend. 
 And scarce a word of his in return that might not 
 have been fairly and honestly spoken back; and 
 for such a slight forgetfulness, as it seemed to me,
 
 72 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 of what was safe for both will you not forgive the 
 poor boy? Remember, he was but a boy at best, 
 for all his marvellous skill. And was not his skill 
 marvellous ? For look at my lips, and see how they 
 are drawn! Look at my eyes and say, have they 
 moved or not or will they not move, in an instant ? 
 Look at the little bright threads of gold in my cloud 
 of hair! And then say, was he not a wondrous 
 boy? 
 
 But a boy for all that! And to my thinking it 
 was because he was a boy, or was only just a man 
 having his manhood forced painfully upon him by 
 sorrow, that he gave the rein for one moment to his 
 tongue. And it was such a little moment, after all ! 
 Listen and I will tell you, if you will not blame him. 
 Promise me ! 
 
 They had talked, the two of them or of us, as 
 you choose to have it over and over of the old 
 days at the Castello, of the old Cappellano who 
 winked at all their misdeeds, and stood between 
 them and the anger of her parents, many a time. 
 How they had frightened him half to death by 
 making believe they had the Venetian plague upon 
 them, by dropping melted wax on their skins with 
 little strawberries in the middle. And how Giacinto 
 undeceived him by eating the strawberries. And 
 what nasty little monkeys they were in those days, 
 to be sure! That made them laugh, and they were
 
 A LIKELY STORY 73 
 
 quite merry for a while. But then they got sad 
 again when la Maddalena told how Fra Poco 
 that was what they called il padre Buti the Cappel- 
 lano, for he was a little man was the only one of 
 them all that had had a Avord to say against her 
 marriage, and how he had denounced her father one 
 day as for a crime, and invoked the vengeance of 
 God upon the old Duke's head for using his power 
 to defraud a young virgin of her life, and saying let 
 him have the lands and enjoy them as he would, 
 and rather go out and beg on the highways for alms 
 than sacrifice his own flesh and blood. And how 
 she had overheard all this speech of Fra Poco, and 
 had said to herself that, come what might, she would 
 save the old domain for her father and her brother. 
 And how that very day her brother, who was but 
 young, had beaten her with her own fan, and then 
 run away with it; and little he knew what she was 
 to suffer for 'him! But in truth she knew little 
 enough herself, for what does a girl-chit know ! 
 
 And it may have been her fault, too, or mine, for 
 talking thus of her marriage, and none of the boy's 
 own, that my Giacinto should have, as I say, half 
 forgotten himself. For it was but just after she 
 had spoken thus, and they had sat sad and silent 
 for a space, that the big bells of San Felice hard by 
 must needs clang out suddenly in the evening air, 
 and then they knew their parting had come, too
 
 74 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 soon, and that then they might never meet again. 
 And on that my Giacinto cried out as one whose 
 heaviness of heart is too sore to be borne, " sorel- 
 laccia mia! Mia carina mio tesoro! Oh, if it 
 might but be all a dream, and we might wake and 
 find it so, at the old Castello in the hills, and hear 
 the croaking of the frogs and the singing of the 
 nightingales when the sun had gone to bed, and be 
 punished for staying out too late to listen to them! 
 Oh, Maddalena mia! the happy days when there 
 were no old Dukes! ..." But la Maddalena 
 stopped him in his speech, saying, but as one says 
 words that choke in his throat, " Enough enough, 
 Signore Giacinto! Remember what we are now 
 remember what I am ! what you are ! " For this, 
 said she, was not how sua Eccellenza the Duke should 
 be spoken of in his own house. And then the great 
 bells, that were so near they went nigh to deafen 
 you, stopped jangling; but the biggest had some- 
 thing to say still, a loud word at a time, and far 
 apart. And what he said was, that now the hour 
 had come, and they should meet no more. And 
 then he paused, and they thought he was silent. 
 But he came back suddenly once again, to cry out 
 " Never ! " and was still. 
 
 Then comes the old Marta from her corner, rubbing 
 her eyes, for she had been very sound asleep. And 
 her mistress, as one who will not be contradicted,
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 75 
 
 points her on in front, and she passes out, and her 
 black dog. Then says my Maddalena to the painter, 
 " And now, farewell, my friend," and holds out her 
 hand for him to kiss, for is she not the Duchess ? 
 And he kisses it without speech, but with a sort of 
 sob, and she gathers up her train, and turns to go. 
 But as she reaches the door, she hears behind her 
 the voice that tries to speak, but cannot. 
 
 Then she turns, and her despair is white in her 
 face. And Giacinto's eyes are in his hands he 
 dares not look up. But she goes back and he hears 
 her, and his name as she speaks it. And then he 
 looks up, and see! they are locked in each other's 
 arms, as though never to part. And then Madda- 
 lena knows, and I know with her, what Love is, and 
 what Life might have been. To think now, at such 
 a moment, of the abhorred caresses that must be 
 endured, later! l$o, my Maddalena, nothing to be 
 thought of now, nothing said, nothing seen nor 
 heard, just for that few moments that will never 
 come again! 
 
 That was so, and therefore neither of these im- 
 prudent young people heard the gasp or snarl of 
 anger that came through the little slot in the wall 
 above. Down comes my lord, unheard; reaches 
 the room, unheard. But not alone! For there are 
 behind him two of his retinue, rough troopers, buff- 
 jerkined and morion-capped with steel, ready for
 
 76 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 any crime at their master's noble bidding. So 
 silently have they come that the first sound that 
 rouses the young artist and his sorellaccia from their 
 little moment of rapture for which I for one see 
 little reason to blame them and brings them back 
 to conscious life and the knowledge of their lot, is 
 the slight ring of the short sword-dagger one of 
 them draws from the scabbard. Their eyes are 
 opened now, and Lo Spazzolone sees his execu- 
 tioners; while Maddalena and I see a cold, hard old 
 face to which all pleading for mercy if there had 
 been a crime would have been vain; and which 
 would make a crime, inexorably, of what was none, 
 from inborn cruelty and jealous rage. It is all 
 over! 
 
 All over ! Yes, for any chance of life for Giacinto, 
 for any chance of happiness for la Maddalena for 
 the rest of her term of life. But it may give pleas- 
 ure to you to know as it gives me pleasure how- 
 ever little ! that our young painter, who was strong 
 and active as a wild cat, got at the old man's wicked 
 throat and wellnigh choked him before his assassins 
 could cover the three or four steps between them; 
 and before the one whom Maddalena did not stop 
 for she flung herself bodily on the man with the 
 sword could strike with a mace he had. And the 
 blow fell on the olive-tinted neck I had loved so 
 well, and the poor Giacinto fell with a thud and
 
 A LIKELY STORY 77 
 
 lay, killed or senseless. But the old Devil had felt 
 his grip with a vengeance, and the two men-at-arms 
 looked pleased, and lifted up and bore away the 
 seeming dead Gacinto with admiration. The old 
 man choked awhile, and la Maddalena remained 
 marble-white as a new cut block at Massa Carrara, 
 and as motionless, until her old owner had drunk 
 some wine and done his choking; and then he 
 pinched her tender white wrist savagely I could 
 show you where he made his mark, but I cannot 
 move and drew her away, saying, " You come 
 with me, young mistress ! " But first he goes and 
 stands opposite the picture, still gripping her wrist. 
 Then says he, " Non c'e male }> not bad and leads 
 her away, dumb. And they leave me alone in the 
 Stanza delle Quattro Corone, and I hear the door 
 locked from the outside. And the night comes, and 
 I hear the voices of the frogs in the flat land, and 
 think of the boy and girl that heard them together 
 in that other old Castello I remember so well, but 
 have never seen. And the sun comes again and 
 shines upon some blood upon the floor. It is not 
 Giacinto's- it is Maddalena's, where she cut herself 
 on the man with the sword. 
 
 After that I remember no more till two men came 
 to measure for the frame I now have on. They 
 came next day, accompanied by the old Marta, who 
 unlocked the door. But her little dog came with
 
 78 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 them, too, and no sooner had he run once all round 
 the room, to see for cats or what might be else, than 
 he goes straightway to the blood-mark on the floor. 
 And so shrewd is he to guess what it is remember, 
 he had gone away with Marta when all the riot came 
 about that he looks round from one to the other 
 for explanation, and tries hard to speak, as a dog 
 does. Whereat each of the three also looks to the 
 other two, and makes believe the dog is goi\e mad, 
 to be making little compassionate whines and cries, 
 and then, going to each one in turn to tell of it, 
 touching them with his fore-paws, and then back 
 again to the blood. But none would give him a 
 good word, and as for la Marta, she must needs 
 slap him, to the best of her withered power, on his 
 clean-shaved body; which very like hurt but little, 
 but the poor dog cried out upon the injustice ! For 
 he knew well this that he smelt was blood. As I 
 believe, so did the three of them; however, in that 
 household each knew that blood, anywhere, was best 
 not seen by whoever wished to keep his own in his 
 veins. So they took the measure for my frame, 
 and went their way. And presently, when they 
 have gone, back comes the old woman, but no dog, 
 and brings with her burnt wood-ash, such as the 
 fire leaves in the open grate, quite white and dry. 
 And she makes a heap on the blood-stain with it, 
 and water added, and goes away again and locks
 
 79 
 
 the door without, as before. After which the sun 
 goes many times across the brick floor, stopping 
 always to look well upon the blood-spot; and the 
 night comes back, and I see a little sharp edge of 
 silver in the sky, beyond the window-grating, and I 
 remember that it was the new moon, in the days of 
 the old Castello, and I say to myself, now I shall 
 see it grow again, as it grew in those old days when 
 Giacinto watched it with me. And it grows to 
 be a half-moon before la Marta comes again and 
 gathers up the ashes, and leaves the floor clean. 
 But then I know they will soon come with the 
 frame. So it happens ; and then I am in my frame 
 and am carried away to the great old Castle in the 
 Apennines, and hanged upon the wall in the State 
 banqueting-room ; and after a while, I know not 
 how long, the old Duke comes to see, and is pleased 
 to approve. And my Maddalena comes, or rather 
 he leads her, stark dumb, and white as the ashes 
 that dried up the drops of her blood upon the 
 floor. 
 
 And then day follows day, and each day my lord 
 leads a thinner and a whiter Maddalena to the head 
 of his board, and each day she answers him less 
 when he speaks to her, which he does with an evil 
 discourtesy when none other is there to check it; 
 and a courtesy, even worse to bear, when they are 
 in the presence of the household, or of noble guests
 
 80 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 on a visit. He sees, as I see, that her eyes are 
 always fixed on me, as I hang behind his chair, for 
 well he knows she would not be giving him her eyes 
 not she ! So he tells the primo maggiordomo, who 
 is subservient, but dropsical, and goes on a stick, 
 to see that I am moved to a place in a bay to the 
 left of his mistress; the old Devil having indeed 
 chosen this place cleverly so that la Maddalena 
 might not easily see me by turning her eyes only; 
 but when she gives a little side turn to her head as 
 well, then she may see me plainly. And, of course, 
 it fell out as the cunning fox had foreseen, and the 
 poor Maddalena's eyes wandered more and more to 
 her picture, and then, as they came back, they 
 would be caught in the cold gaze that came at her 
 from the other table-end, and would fall down to 
 look on the food she was fain to send away un- 
 tasted. This goes on awhile, and then my Duke 
 speaks out when they are alone. Pie knows, he 
 says, what all these sly glances mean all this 
 furtive peeping round the corner we are hankering 
 after that old lover of ours, are we not ? And there 
 are things it is not easy to forget ho, ho! And 
 he laughs out at the poor girl and her sorrow. But 
 she is outspoken, as one in despair may well be, and 
 says to her old tormentor that if he means by the 
 word " lover " that she has in any way whatever 
 made light of her wifely duty to his lordship, it is
 
 A LIKELY STORY 81 
 
 false, and he knows it; for the boy was no more 
 to her than any foster-brother might have been, 
 brought up with her from the cradle. Only, let him 
 not suppose, for all that, that she held him, husband 
 as he was, and all his lands and hoarded wealth, 
 and titles from his Holiness the Pope, one tithe as 
 dear as the shoelace or the button on the coat of 
 the boy he had murdered. On that his Eccellenza 
 sniggered and was amused. " I should have thought 
 so much," says he, " from the good round buss you 
 gave him at parting. But who has told you your 
 so precious treasure is dead? None has said so to 
 me, so far. When last I heard of him, he was down 
 below, beneath your feet, ' con rispetto parlando' '' 
 which is a phrase folk use in Tuscany, not to be 
 too plain-spoken for delicacy about feet and the 
 like. 
 
 But now I must tell you something the old mis- 
 creant meant when he said this, and pointed down 
 below the great table, which else might be hard to 
 understand. For this great table stood over a trap 
 or well-hole in the floor, and this well-hole went 
 straight down to the dungeons under the Castle, 
 where, if all tales told were true, there was still 
 living a very old man who was first incarcerated 
 forty years since, and had lived on, God knows how ! 
 And others as well, though little was known of them 
 by those above in the daylight. But this old man
 
 82 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 had made some talk, seeing that he was first con- 
 fined there in the days of the old Duke, our Duke's 
 father, a just man and well-beloved, for a crime 
 committed near by, on the evidence of his wife and 
 his brother. Of whom, having lived some while par 
 amours, the brother having died by poison, and the 
 woman having died in sanctity as Mother Superior 
 of the nuns of Monte Druscolo in Umbria, it was 
 known that the latter made confession on her death- 
 bed that her paramour was truly, but unknown to 
 her, the author of the crime for which his brother 
 was condemned. Now, this came to her knowledge 
 by a chance, later. On which she, learning with 
 resentment the concealment of this from herself, and 
 seeing that the victim of this crime had been a 
 young girl under her care and charge, had com- 
 passed the death of the real culprit for justice' sake, 
 but had not thought it well to proclaim the truth 
 about her husband's innocence, for she might have 
 found it hard to look him in the face. So he was 
 left where he was, the more that it was thought he 
 might die if brought out into the sun; and, indeed, 
 lie was very old, and the Holy Abbess in extreme 
 old age when she made her confession. But he is 
 aot in my tale, nor she, .and I speak of him only 
 because of the chance by which he made known to 
 me the existence of this same well-hole beneath my 
 lord's dining-table. For it? was the telling of this
 
 A LIKELY STORY 83 
 
 story at the banquet that caused it to be spoken of, 
 and also how in old days its use was to be opened 
 after the meal, that the guests might of their genti- 
 lezza throw what they had not cared to eat them- 
 selves to the prisoners below. And the Prince 
 Cosmo dei Medici, who was graciously present, was 
 pleased to say it would have been a pretty tale for 
 the great Boccaccio or perhaps our good Ser 
 Bojardo would try his hand upon it ? 
 
 But now you may see, plain enough, what the 
 wicked old man meant when he pointed down in 
 that way. He thought to make his young wife 
 believe that her lover as he would call him; 
 though he knew the word, as he used it, was a lie 
 was still living, and that, too, underground, where a 
 ray of light might hardly penetrate at high-noon; 
 and almost surely, too, the victim of starvation and 
 tortures she shuddered to think of; even for 
 witches or Jews aye, even for heretics! She 
 could see the whole tale in the cruelty of her princely 
 husband's eyes; except, indeed, his victim was 
 really dead, slain by the cruel blow she herself had 
 seen; and seeing it, what wonder was it that she 
 longed only to know that he was dead; for then 
 she could die too? But to slip away and leave 
 Giacinto still alive! in a damp vault with the old 
 bones of those who had died and been buried there, 
 so that none should know of them; and neither
 
 84 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 day nor the coming of night, but only one long 
 darkness, and not one word from her, and ignorance 
 of whether she herself still lived or died. Surely, 
 if she were to die and leave him thus in ignorance, 
 her ghost would rise from the grave to be beside 
 him in the darkness of his dungeon; and then how 
 her heart would break to speak with him, and be 
 as might chance half-heard, and serve only to 
 add a new terror to his loneliness. 
 
 Such things I could guess she felt in her heart. I 
 could not feel them now myself, not being la Madda- 
 lena as she was at this moment, I am still, as I was 
 then, the Maddalena as she laughed back, from the 
 dais she sat on, her delight in response to the 
 pleasure in her young painter's eye; and all she 
 became after is to me like a tale she might have 
 heard, or some sad pretty ballad one gives a tear 
 to and forgets. But I can fancy, and maybe you 
 can too, how her whole young soul was wrenched 
 as she flung herself at her old tormentor's feet, and 
 besought him in words that I would myself have 
 wept for gladly had God not made me as I am 
 to tell her truly, only to tell her, was he living or 
 dead ? She would ask no more than just that much 
 of his clemency. What wrong had she done him? 
 what had Giacinto? that he should make her 
 think the sun itself a nightmare; for it would shine 
 on her, but never reach the black pit below them,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 85 
 
 where, for all she knew, Giacinto might be now, at 
 this very moment ? Oh, would he not tell her ? 
 It was so little to ask ! 
 
 But the old miscreant had not paid her yet for 
 that kiss, and he would have his account discharged 
 in full. So he takes her face in his two old hands, 
 and pats her on the cheek, and tells her, smiling, to 
 be of good cheer, for she will never know any more 
 of the young maestro, nor whether he be alive or 
 dead. But if she wishes to throw down some dainty 
 titbits from the dinner-leavings, on the chance they 
 shall reach the lips she kissed, why it is but telling 
 Raouf and Stefano to lift the trap. It may be a 
 bit rusty, but if it were oiled on the hinges this time, 
 the less trouble the next ! At this la Duchessa gave 
 a long shriek, holding her head tight on, on either 
 side, and then fell backward on the floor, and lay so, 
 stark motionless. And then my great Duke seats 
 himself on the nearest chair; and he has in his 
 hand his crutched stick, to lean on against the gout 
 in his foot. He takes it in his left hand, and just 
 digs with it at the girl's body on the ground, either 
 to rouse her or see if she be dead. But she does not 
 move, and he has her carried away to bed; and his 
 face is contented, as is that of a man who has 
 worked well and deserved his fee. 
 
 I wish I could remember more of this old tale of 
 four hundred years ago, but I had no chance to do
 
 86 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 so, for after the scene I have just described the 
 noble Duke, hobbling a short space about the hall, 
 brings up short just facing the bay where I have 
 been hanged by his orders, to spite la Maddalena; 
 and then, after choking a little as indeed he often 
 did since that fierce grip of my young maestro, Lo 
 Spazzolone he calls out to his fat maggiordomo, 
 and bids him to see that I am removed to his own 
 private room and hanged under the picture of 
 Ganymede. But now he must only take it down 
 and remove it to the old stone chamber, where the 
 figs are put to dry on trays, and so leave it, to be 
 hanged in his room when he is away at Rome, as 
 will be shortly. So he hobbles away and I hear 
 him getting slowly up the little stair that goes to 
 his private room, and his attendants following him. 
 The dropsical maggiordomo stays to see that another 
 man should come, with a ladder and a boy, to help, 
 and they get me down from my hooks, and carry 
 me off; and I can smell the dried figs, and the stoia 
 that is rolled up in a stack, and the empty wine- 
 flasks. But I can see nothing, for they place me 
 with my face against the wall, and cover me over 
 with a sacking; and I can hear little more; and 
 then the great door clangs to and is locked, and I 
 am alone in the dark, without feeling or measure- 
 ment of time, and only catching faint sounds from 
 far-off.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 87 
 
 I could guess, rather than hear, the sound of a 
 footstep when one came, rarely enough, in the long 
 corridor without. I could feel its rhythm in the 
 shaken floor, but I could be scarcely said to hear it. 
 I was aware of a kind of scratching close to me, that 
 may have been some kind of beetle or scorpion, but 
 of course it was quite invisible. There was one sort 
 of scaraffaggio that would come, even between me 
 and the wall one time, and make a noise like a 
 thousand whirlwinds, and beat against me with his 
 wings, and I should have liked to be able to ask him 
 to come often. But he seemed not to care about 
 me; and I could just hear him boom away in the 
 darkness, joyous at heart and happy in his freedom. 
 Oh, if he could have known how different was my 
 lot! I thought of how he would float out into the 
 sunlight, whirring all the while like the wheels of the 
 great orologio at the old Castello when Era Poco let 
 it run down at noon so that he might reset it fair 
 from the sundial on the wall in the Cortile where 
 the well was our well ! 
 
 It may have been days, or it may have been 
 weeks or months, before a change came, and I 
 again heard human voices. But it would not be 
 longer than two or three months at most ; seeing that 
 it was immediately, as far as I could judge, on 
 the top of a little chance that is dear to my memory 
 now, after so I gather some four hundred years.
 
 88 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 For a sweet firefly came, by the blessing of God, 
 between me and the dry wall, and paused and hung 
 a moment in the air that I might get a sight of his 
 beauty. You have seen them in the corn, how they 
 stop to think, and then shoot on ahead, each to seek 
 his love, or hers: so it is taught by those who say 
 they know, and may be truly. This one also must 
 needs go on, though I would have prayed him to 
 stay, that I might be his love. Yet this could not 
 be, for neither did I know his tongue, nor was aught 
 else fitting. So he went away and left me sad- 
 hearted. He was a spot of light between a gloom 
 behind and a gloom before, even as the Star of 
 Bethlehem. 
 
 But about this that I was telling of. I had a 
 sense of half-heard turmoil without. Then the lock 
 in the door, and the imprecations of a man that 
 could not turn the key. He swore roundly tet him 
 who made it, and at all locksmiths soever, as persons 
 who from malevolence scheme to exclude all folk 
 from everywhere; and I wished to rebuke him for 
 his injustice, for how can a locksmith do less than 
 make a key ? And it was for him to choose the right 
 key, not to keep on twisting at the wrong one, and 
 swearing, which is what he was doing. But he was 
 a noisy, blustering person, for when he did get in, 
 being helped to the right key by a clever young boy 
 who saw his error, he was much enraged with that
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 89 
 
 boy for telling him; and he was ill-satisfied with 
 such a place as this to stow away the furniture, but 
 he supposed they must make it do. 
 
 Then came much moving in of goods. And I 
 could gather this, but no more, from the conversa- 
 tion of those who brought it in that it was the 
 furniture of some one who was little loved, and only 
 spoken of as " he " or " il Vecchiostro " that he 
 was gone on a journey, and much they cared how 
 soon he arrived at the end of it. The boy, who was 
 young and inquisitive, then asking whither this was 
 that he had gone, they told him with a laugh that 
 it was to his oldest friend, another like himself; to 
 whom he had given his whole soul, and who would 
 not care to part with him in a hurry. They hoped 
 he would have a cool bed to sleep in. And when the 
 boy hoped this too, they were very merry. But they 
 worked hard, and brought in a great mass of furni- 
 ture, which they stacked against the wall where I 
 was, so that I was quite hidden away. There 
 would be new fittings all through the Castle now, 
 they said. But one said no no! it would only be 
 in the Vecchiostro's own private rooms. " 'Tis done 
 that he should be soonest forgotten," said one of 
 them. But it was only just when they had brought 
 in the last of it that this same one said that if ever 
 he this Vecchiostro came back from Hell there 
 would be all his gear ready for him. And then I
 
 90 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 saw this was some dead man's property that his 
 successor would have put out of his sight. 
 
 Then says my young boy to his father, who was 
 the man who had sworn at the key, why did they 
 not take the Signora's portrait down instead of 
 leaving it there, because everyone loved her; and 
 for his part, she kissed him once, and said he was 
 carino. Then says his father, what portrait? 
 And he answers, " In there behind." For he had 
 peeped in round my frame thinking he knew me 
 again; being in fact the same that had helped to 
 get me down in the banqueting-hall, how long since 
 I could not say. But his father calls him a young 
 fool not to say so before it was too late; and as for 
 him, it was time for his supper and bed, and whoever 
 else liked the job might move all the chairs and 
 tables again to fish her ladyship out. And as all 
 were of one mind they laughed over this and went 
 noisily away. And the door was locked and I 
 heard no more. And the darkness was darker still 
 and the silence deeper. And I longed for the 
 scaraffaggio to come and whirr once more, and for 
 the sweet light of the lucciola. But there was none 
 such for me. And my Maddalena must be surely 
 dead, I thought, else that young boy would tell her 
 I was here, and she would come to find the 
 picture Giacinto painted of her in that merry time. 
 But I waited for her voice in vain, and had
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 91 
 
 nothing for myself but the darkness and the 
 silence. 
 
 Just as the diver holds his breath and longs for 
 the sudden air that he must surely meet in a 
 moment in another moment! so I held as it 
 were the breath of expectation, and believed in the 
 coming of those who could not but seek me; for at 
 first I felt certain they would come. They would 
 never leave me here, to decay! But there came no 
 voice, no glimmer of light, and I fell into a stupor 
 in which all memory grew dim, even that of my 
 Maddalena. 
 
 What I suffered through that long period of 
 silence and darkness I cannot tell, nor could you 
 understand. The prisoner in his solitude is grateful 
 for each thing that enables him to note the flight of 
 time; and the fewer such things are the drearier is 
 the sameness of his lot. Can you imagine it if they 
 were all removed a condition of simple existence 
 in black space, with no means of marking time at 
 all? Would you become, on that account, un- 
 conscious altogether of weariness from the long 
 unalleviated hours ? No, indeed ! Take my word 
 for it. Rather, you would find it, as I found it, a 
 state of bondage such as one would long and pray 
 might be the lot of such as had been, in this life, 
 devils against the harmless; but going on through
 
 92 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 all eternity, no nearer the end now than when it 
 started countless ages ago, an absolute monotone 
 of dulled sense without insensibility even pain it- 
 self almost an alleviation. 
 
 That is what my life, if you can call it life, was 
 to me through all that term; but, as thought is 
 dumb, though I know the time goes on, how long 
 it goes on I know not. When I next hear human 
 speech, the voices are new and the words strange 
 and barbarous. Also, when I am taken from the 
 wall and turned round to the light, I can see 
 nothing, and I know not why. Perhaps it is all 
 dark here at all times, and they have brought no 
 light. I shall see, though, well enough when I am 
 hanged up under Ganymede, and see my bad old 
 Duke again, and even my other self, my Maddalena. 
 I have a longing on me to see her once more, and to 
 see her more like me, if it may be. It seems so 
 long! So much longer than the time when I was 
 left alone in the Stanza delle Quattro Cor one. But 
 what you may find hard to understand is this, that 
 though I could not know how long this dreadful 
 waking sleep had been, neither could I be sure it 
 had not been a few hours only. I now know, for I 
 have learned since, that it was over three hundred 
 years. Yet when the end came it found me not 
 without a hope of Maddalena; or if not Maddalena, 
 at least the Duke.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 93 
 
 But I do not see them, either of them. Nor old 
 Marta Zan and her little dog. Nor the dropsical 
 old maggiordomo. That there is no Giacinto is little 
 wonder to me. For I believe him dead, killed by 
 that fell blow on the olive neck I loved so well, just 
 behind the ear. I wonder, though, that I see none 
 of the others. But indeed I have much ado to see 
 anything. All is in a mist of darkness. 
 
 Also, I am presently stunned by the clash of many 
 voices. I can catch from the w T ords of those who 
 speak Maddalena's language, the tongue that I can 
 follow, that there is a great wranglement over me 
 and my sale price. For I am to be sold, and the 
 foreigners who wish to buy me are loud in their 
 dispraise of me; so much so that I do not under- 
 stand why they should wish to possess me at all. 
 In fact, they do actually go away after much heated 
 discussion, speaking most scornfully of pictures as 
 things no man in his senses would ever buy, and of 
 pictures with frames like mine as the most valueless 
 examples. I gather all this from repetitions made 
 by others, in Maddalena's tongue, nearly but not 
 exactly. 
 
 Presently back comes one of them to say he will 
 go to six hundred francs, but not a penny more. 
 Then says a woman's voice, " Ah, Signore ! Six 
 hundred and fifty ! " Then he, six hundred and 
 twenty-five. And then some price between the
 
 94 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 two. And so we are agreed at last. And I am to 
 be put in a box and sent to a place whose name I 
 have never heard, that sounds like L'Ombra, a name 
 that frightens me, for it sounds like the Inferno of 
 the great poet, Dante. 
 
 But I should tell you that, before this riot, and 
 noise, and disputation over me and my price, I had 
 heard the unpacking and removal of the great stack 
 of furniture that hid me. Only, as the persons who 
 removed it have no interest for us, and did not seem 
 from their conversation to be especially cultivated 
 or intelligent, but rather the reverse, I have not 
 said anything of them, nor of their valuations in 
 lire of each article as it was brought to light. Their 
 voices were the very first that I heard; but though 
 their words sounded strange to me, they only made 
 me think that maybe they were from Milan or 
 Genoa or some other place in Italy. I should not 
 have guessed them Tuscans; that is all. Indeed, 
 I hardly distinguished much of what they said until 
 they had removed the last of the furniture and I 
 was turned round to the light. Then I saw things 
 in a cloud, and heard indistinctly. I made out, 
 however, that I was thick with dust, and must be 
 brought out and cleaned before anyone could see 
 what I was like. Then I was carried away down 
 some stairs, and in the end I was aware, but dimly, 
 as in a dream, that I was again in the great chamber
 
 A LIKELY STORY 95 
 
 where I last saw la Maddalena lying on the ground 
 insensible, while the old Duke prodded at her with 
 a stick. I could see there were many people in the 
 room, talking volubly. But I could not catch their 
 words well until a Signora, who seemed to take the 
 lead, wiped my face over with a wet sponge; and 
 then I heard more. Her voice was clearest, and 
 what she said was " Ecco, Signori! Now you can 
 see the ear quite plain. Ma com'e bella! Bella 
 bella!" And then it was I came to hear all the 
 clamour of voices of a sudden. 
 
 Then follows all the bargaining I told you of. 
 The Signora's husband would not sell an old picture 
 not he! for a thousand pounds in gold; not till 
 all the dirt was off and he could see it fairly. All 
 applauded this, and said in chorus neither would 
 they! Who could tell what might not be, under 
 the dirt? However, they knew so little about it 
 that they would not mind buying this one, on the 
 chance. But for a decently reasonable price say 
 five thousand Italian lire. On which the owner 
 said, "Come mai! E pochissimo!" Then the 
 Signori Inglesi took another tone, and would have 
 none of the picture, nor any picture, at any price ! 
 They would not know where to hang it. They did 
 not like pictures on their walls. All the walls were 
 covered with pictures already, all favourites, that 
 must not be moved. But why need I tell you all
 
 96 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 this? You have heard folk make bargains, and the 
 lies they tell. 
 
 The English Signori departed, having bought me 
 for six hundred and fifty English pounds. And 
 then my lady and gentleman are mightily delighted, 
 and dance about the room with joy. Now they will 
 go to Monte Carlo and win back all they lost last 
 year. Then I hear them talking in an undertone, 
 thus : 
 
 (He) " I hope they never suspected it was none 
 of ours 
 
 (She) "Ah, Dio mio! And I had told them we 
 were only inquilini " that is, tenants. 
 
 (He) " Non ti confondi? Don't fret about that. 
 They don't know what inquilini means. They can 
 only say ' mangia bene, quanta cosial" 
 
 (She) " Speriamo! But what a fine lot of old 
 furniture ! Couldn't we sell some of it, too ? " 
 And this young Signora, who was very pretty and 
 impudent, and what I have since heard called 
 svelte, danced about the room in high glee. But 
 the good gentleman stopped her. 
 
 (He) " Troppo pericolo! The fat old Marchesa 
 would find out. No, no! The picture is quite an- 
 other thing " 
 
 (She) "Perche?" 
 
 (He) "Can't you see, thickhead? If the old 
 strega " the old witch, that is " had known the
 
 A LIKELY STORY 97 
 
 picture was there, do you suppose she wouldn't have 
 had it out, long ago? And that other picture in 
 front of it, with the eagle. . . . Don't dance, but 
 listen ! " 
 
 (She) "... Picture in front of it, with the 
 eagle . . . yes, go on ! " But she won't quite stop 
 dancing, and makes little quick tiptoe movements, 
 not to seem over-subservient and docile. 
 
 (He) " I would have sold that, too, only it's too 
 big for safety. This one will go in a small case. 
 The famiglia will have to be well paid. What was 
 it la Filomeua told you first of all about the room 
 and the furniture ? Do stop that dancing ! " 
 
 (She) " There, see now, I've stopped! But you 
 have been told, once ! " 
 
 (He) "Then tell again!" 
 
 (She) " It wasn't la Filomena. It was that old, 
 old Prisca who knows all about the Castello more 
 than the Marchesa herself. She told me there was 
 an old room in the great tower that had not been 
 open for hundreds of years, as no one dared to go 
 near it for fear of the wicked old Duke's ghost. I 
 told her we were liberi pensatori " that is to say, 
 free-thinkers " and he would not hurt us, and 
 where was the key? We would not touch anything 
 
 )nly look in ! " 
 
 (He) " Won't she tell about it all ? " 
 
 (She) "Not till we go! Besides, she doesn't
 
 98 
 
 know. La Filomena won't tell her; she knows I 
 know all about her and Ugo Pistrucci. And she's 
 the only person that goes near the old Prisca, who 
 hasn't been off her bed for months. Oh no! 
 She's all right. As for the man, I told them 
 la Prisca said the mdbiglia was to be taken out 
 and dusted and placed in the passage. Stia tran- 
 quillo, mio caro ! " 
 
 (He) " What a happy chance these pig-headed 
 rich milords happened to come in just as we got it. 
 They might have gone before we found it! Only 
 to think of it ! Seicento e cinquante lire . . . ! " 
 
 And so they went on rejoicing, and thinking of 
 new schemes, and how they would get me packed 
 off the very next day, and not a soul in the Castle 
 would ever know I had ever been there. They were 
 certainly very bad, unprincipled adventurers. You 
 should have heard them talk of what fun they would 
 have telling the old Marchesa about the great dis- 
 covery of treasures they had made, and the care 
 they had taken nothing should be lost. And then 
 who knows but she might trust them to get a sale 
 for all her old rubbish in England, and what a lot 
 of money they might make, with a little discretion. 
 If I had remained there I should have been longing 
 always for a chance of telling the old strega, as they 
 called her, what a nice couple she had let her Castle 
 to for the summer months. For I am convinced,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 99 
 
 not only that they were thieves, but that they were 
 not even lawfully married. However it may have 
 been, I saw no more of them. For next day the 
 same man that had done the removal of the furni- 
 ture came with a box, and I was carefully packed, 
 and saw nothing more, and distinguished little 
 sound, for weeks it may have been, even months. 
 As the solidity of the box absorbed all sight and 
 hearing, and I knew nothing till I found myself on 
 an easel in a sort of Studio in a town that I at once 
 perceived to be L'Ombra. For what else could it 
 have been ? 
 
 At this point Mr. Pelly, who had been listening 
 intently, interrupted the speaker. " I think you 
 have got the name of the place wrong," he said. " I 
 imagine it must have been London Londra the 
 English Metropolis not L'Ombra. The sounds are 
 very similar, and easy to mistake." 
 
 " Possibly I was misled by the darkness. It made 
 the name seem so appropriate. But it was not 
 exactly night. There was a window near me, and 
 I could see there was a kind of yellow smoke over 
 everything. But there was music in the street, 
 and children appeared to be running and shouting. 
 Other things gave me the impression the time had 
 been intended for morning, but that something had 
 come in the way. It was a terrible place, much 
 like to that dark third circle in Hell, where
 
 100 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Dante and Virgilio saw the uncouth monster Cer- 
 berus. 
 
 " But let us forget it ! Why should such a place 
 be remembered or spoken of? I was there for no 
 great length of time: long enough only for the 
 picture-cleaner, in whose workshop I was, to remove 
 the obscurations of four hundred years, and safeguard 
 me with a glass from new deposits. For I under- 
 stood him to say that I should be just as bad as 
 ever in a very short space of time, in this beastly 
 sooty hole, but for such protection. 
 
 " And yet this place was not entirely bad, nor in 
 darkness at all times, for at intervals a phenomenon 
 would occur which I supposed to be a peculiarity of 
 the climate, causing the lady of the house to say, 
 1 There the sun's coming out. I shall get my 
 Things on. Are you going to stay for ever in the 
 house, and get fustier and fustier, or are you going 
 to have a turn on the Embankment? You might 
 answer me, instead of smoking, Reginald ! ' But I 
 noticed that this phenomenon, whatever its cause, 
 never seemed to attain fruition, the lady always 
 saying she knew how it would be they had lost 
 all the daylight. I only repeat her words. I 
 observed another thing worthy of remark, that it 
 very seldom held up. I am again repeating a 
 phrase that was to me only a sound. I have no 
 idea what ' it ' was, nor what it held up, nor why.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 101 
 
 I am only certain that the performance was a rare 
 one, however frequently it was promised. But the 
 gentleman who restored me seemed to have confi- 
 dence in its occurrence, conditionally on his taking 
 his umbrella. Otherwise, he said, it was cocksure 
 to come down cats and dogs, and they would be in 
 for a cab, and he only had half-a-crown. 
 
 " These persons were of no interest in themselves, 
 and I should never remember or think of them at all 
 but for having been the unwilling witness of a 
 conjugal misunderstanding, which may quite pos- 
 sibly have led to a permanent breach between them. 
 It is painful to think that the whole difference might 
 have been made in the lady's jealous misinterpreta- 
 tion of her husband's behaviour towards a maiden 
 named la Sera who, as I understood, came in 
 by the week at nine shillings, and always had her 
 Sunday afternoons, whatever those phrases mean; 
 no doubt you will know if I had been able to add 
 my testimony to her husband's disclaimer of amorous 
 intent. For it was most clear that the whole thing 
 was but an innocent joke throughout, however ill- 
 judged and stupid. I saw the whole from my place 
 on the easel, and heard all that passed. I cannot 
 tell you how I longed to say a word on his behalf, 
 when, some days later, two friends paid him a visit, 
 who had evidently been taken into his confidence, 
 but who seemed to think that he had withheld
 
 102 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 something from them, not treating them so frankly 
 as old friends deserved. Whereupon he warmly 
 protested that his wife had no solid ground of com- 
 plaint against him, having gone off, unreasonably, 
 in what he called ' a huff ' ; but that he had just 
 paid la Sera her wages and sent her packing, so 
 that now he had to make his own bed and black 
 his own shoes. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that these two friends showed 
 only an equivocal sympathy, winking at each other, 
 and each digging the other in the ribs with strange 
 humorous sounds, as of a sort of fowl. Also, they 
 shook their hea'ds at their friend, though not, as 
 I think, reproaching him seriously, yet implying 
 thus, as by other things said, that he was of a gay 
 and sportive disposition that might easily be misled 
 by the fascinations of beauty, which they were 
 pleased to ascribe to la Sera. This was, however, 
 scarcely spoken with an earnest intent, since this 
 maiden, despite the beauty of her name for one 
 might conceive it to ascribe to her the tender 
 radiance and sad loveliness of the sunset was 
 wanting in charm of form and colour, and had not 
 successfully cultivated such other fascinations as 
 sometimes make good their deficiency; as sweetness 
 and fluency of speech, or a quick wit, or even the 
 artificial seductions of well-ordered dress. I de- 
 rived, too, a most unfavourable impression from a
 
 A LIKELY STORY 103 
 
 comment of her employer to the effect that if, when 
 she cleaned herself of a Sunday morning, she 
 couldn't do it without making the whole place smell 
 of yellow soap, she might as well chuck it and stop 
 dirty. 
 
 " But I should grieve to think that this Signore's 
 wife should have left him permanently for so foolish 
 a quarrel. For, though their lives seemed filled 
 with a silly sort of bickering, I believed from what 
 I saw that there was really a sort of love between 
 them, and I cannot conceive that they will be any 
 happier apart. Indeed, had she been indifferent to 
 her husband, could she have felt a trivial incon- 
 stancy, implying no grievous wrong, of such im- 
 portance? But, indeed, it is absurd to use the 
 word inconstancy at all in such a case, though we 
 may condemn the ill-taste of all vulgar trifling with 
 the solemn obligations of conjugal duty. I wish I 
 might have spoken, to laugh in their faces and make 
 a jest of the whole affair. But silence was my lot. 
 
 " I have hung here, as I suppose, for six months 
 past, and have often striven to speak, but none has 
 heard me till now. Think, dear Signore, how I 
 have suffered ! Think how I have longed to speak 
 and be heard, when my Madeline, my darling who 
 loves me, and says she loves me has talked to her 
 great dog of her lover that was killed in the 
 war. ."
 
 104 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Mr. Pelly interrupted. "Are you referring to 
 young Captain Calverley ? " he said. " Because, if 
 so, it is not certain that he is dead. Besides, I sup- 
 pose you know that Miss Upwell and the Captain 
 were not engaged ? " And then the old gentleman 
 fancied he heard a musical laugh come from the 
 picture. 
 
 " How funny and cold you English are ! " said the 
 voice. " Was I engaged to my darling, my love, 
 that only time he pressed me to his bosom ; that only 
 time I felt his lips on mine ? Was I not the bond- 
 slave for life to the evil heart and evil will of that 
 old monument of Sin, soaked deep in every stain of 
 Hell? Was I not called his wife? Yet my heart 
 and my soul went out to my love in that kiss, and 
 laughed in their freedom in mockery of the laws 
 that could put the casket that held them in bond, 
 and yet must perforce leave them free. And when 
 that young soldier tore himself away from my 
 Madeline I saw them here myself; there by the 
 shiny fish, in the glass case was their parting kiss 
 less real than ours was, that hour when I saw him 
 last, my own love of those years gone by ? " 
 
 " A it isn't a subject I profess to understand 
 much about," said Mr. Pelly. He blew his nose and 
 wiped his spectacles, and was silent a moment. Then, 
 he said, " But whatever the sentiment of the young 
 lady herself may be, there can be no doubt about
 
 A LIKELY STORY 105 
 
 her mother's. In fact, she has herself told me that 
 she is most anxious that it should not be supposed 
 that there was any engagement. So I trust if 
 you ever do have the opportunity of speaking to 
 anyone on the subject that you will be careful not 
 to give the impression that such was the case. I do 
 not, perhaps, fully realize the motives that influence 
 Lady Upwell a and Sir George, of course it's 
 the same thing. ..." 
 
 Mr. Pelly stopped with a jerk. He found himself 
 talking uncomfortably and inexplicably to space, 
 beside the embers of a dying fire, and in the distance 
 he could hear the carriage bringing the absentees 
 back through the wintry night, and the ringing 
 tread of the horses on the hard ground. 
 
 " Poor Uncle Christopher all by himself, and the 
 fire out ! " said the first comer into the Library. It 
 was the young lady who came to see the Italian 
 picture at the restorer's Studio in Chelsea, a little 
 over six months past. She had changed for the older 
 since then, out of measure with the lapse of time. 
 But her face was beautiful none the less that it 
 was sad and pale in the glow as she brought the 
 embers together to make life worth living to one or 
 two more faggots, just for a little blaze before we 
 went to bed. 
 
 " I was asleep and dreaming," said the old gentle- 
 man. u Such a queer dream ! "
 
 106 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " You must tell it us to-morrow, Uncle Chris- 
 topher. I like queer dreams." This young lady, 
 Madeline TJpwell, always made use of this mode of 
 address, although the old gentleman was no uncle of 
 hers, but only a very old friend of the family who 
 knew her father before she was born, and called him 
 George, which was his Christian Christian-name, so 
 to speak, " Stopleigh " being outside family recogni- 
 tions a mere Bartitude ! 
 
 But the picture, which might reasonably have 
 protested against Mr. Felly's statement, remained 
 silent. So, when his waking judgment set the whole 
 down as a dream, it was probably right.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE CHAPTER. HOW FORTUNE'S TOY AND THE SPORT 
 OF CIRCUMSTANCES FELL IN LOVE WITH ONE OF HIS NURSES. 
 PROSE COMPOSITION. LADY UPWELL'S MAJESTY, AND THE 
 QUEEN'S. NO ENGAGEMENT. THE AFRICAN WAR, AND JUSTI- 
 FIABLE FRATRICIDE. CAIN. MADELINE'S BIG DOG CAESAR. 
 
 CATS. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. A HANDY LITTLE VELDT. 
 MADELINE'S JAPANESE KIMONO. A DISCUSSION OF THE NA- 
 TURE OF DREAMS. NEVER MIND ATHEN^US. LOOK AT THE 
 PROPHET DANIEL. SIR STOPLEIGH's GREAT-AUNT DOROTHEA'S 
 TWINS. THE CIRCULATING LIBRARY AND THE POTTED SHRIMPS. 
 HOW MADELINE BEAD THE MANUSCRIPT IN BED, AND TOOK 
 CARE NOT TO SET FIRE TO THE CURTAINS 
 
 THE story of Madeline, the young lady who is go- 
 ing one day to inherit the picture Mr. Pelly thought 
 he was talking to last night, along with the Surley 
 Stakes property for there is no male heir is an 
 easy story to tell, and soon told. There were a 
 many stories of the sort, just as the clock of last 
 century struck its hundred. 
 
 Whether the young Captain Calverley, whom the 
 picture alluded to, was a hero because, when, one 
 day in the hunting-field, our young heiress and her 
 quadruped came to grief over a fence, he made his 
 horse swerve suddenly to avoid disastrous complica- 
 tions, and thereby came to greater grief himself, 
 Mr. Pelly, at any rate, could form no judgment. It 
 
 107
 
 108 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 was out of his line, he said. So, according to him, 
 was the sequel, in which the sadly mauled mortal 
 portion of the young soldier, with a doubt if the 
 immortal portion was still in residence, was carried 
 to Surley Stakes and qualified though rather 
 slowly to resume active service by the skill of the 
 best of surgeons and the assiduity of an army of 
 nurses. But, hero or not, he was credited with 
 heroism by the young lady, with all the natural 
 consequences. And no doubt his convalescence 
 was all the more rapid that he found himself, when 
 he recovered his senses forty-eight hours after his 
 head struck the corner of a stone wall in his in- 
 voluntary dismount, in such very delightful com- 
 pany, with such opportunities of improving his 
 relations with it. In fact, the scheme for his re- 
 moval must have developed very soon, to give him 
 a text for a sermon to the effect that he was For- 
 tune's Toy and the Sport of Circumstances, that he 
 accounted concussion of the brain and a fractured 
 thigh-bone the only real blessings his lot had ever 
 vouchsafed to him, and that happiness would 
 become a Thing of the Past as soon as he rejoined 
 his regiment. He would, however, devote the re- 
 mainder of his life to treasuring the memories of this 
 little hour of unalloyed bliss, and hoping that his 
 cherished recollections would at almost the rarest 
 possible intervals find an echo somehow and some-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 109 
 
 where that his adoration badly in love as he was 
 failed in finding a description for, as the climax of 
 a long sentence. And perhaps it was just as well 
 that his resources in prose composition gave out 
 when they did, as nothing was left then but to 
 become natural, and say, " You'll forget all about 
 me, Miss Up well, you know you will. That's what 
 I meant " the last with a consciousness that when 
 we are doing prose composition we are apt to say 
 one thing and mean another. 
 
 Madeline wasn't prepared to be artificial, with 
 this young dragoon or anyone else. She gave him 
 the full benefit of her large blue eyes because, you 
 see, she had got him down, as it were, and he couldn't 
 possibly become demonstrative with a half-healed 
 fracture of the thigh and said, " I hope I shan't. 
 I shall try not to, anyhow." But this seemed not 
 to give entire satisfaction, as the patient said, rather 
 ruefully, " You could, if you tried, Miss Ilpwell! " 
 To which the young lady, who was not without a 
 mischievous side to her character, answered, " Of 
 course I could ! " but immediately repented, and 
 added, " One can do anything one likes, if one tries 
 hard enough, you know ! " 
 
 It would only be the retelling of a very old 
 story, the retreading of very old ground, to follow 
 these young people through the remainder of their 
 interview, which was interrupted by the appearance
 
 110 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 of Madeline's mamma; who, to say the truth, had 
 been getting apprehensive that so many tetes-d-tete 
 with this handsome patient might end seriously. 
 And though his family was good, he was only a 
 younger son; and she didn't want her daughter to 
 marry a soldier. Fancy " Mad " being carried off 
 to India ! For in the bosom of her family this 
 most uncomfortable of namelets had caught on 
 naturally, without imputation of Hanwell or Colney 
 Hatch. 
 
 However, her ladyship was too late, this time. No 
 clinical practice of any Hospital includes kissing or 
 being kissed by the patient, and " Mad " and her 
 lover were fairly caught. Nothing was left for it 
 but confession at high tension, and throwing our- 
 selves on the mercy of the Court. But always with 
 the distinct reservation that neither of us could ever 
 love another. 
 
 Lady TJpwell, a very beautiful woman in her day, 
 was indulging in a beautiful sunset, and meant to 
 remain fine till midnight. There was a gleam of 
 the yellow silver of a big harvest moon in the hair 
 that had been gold. She was good, but very 
 majestic; in fact, her majesty, when she presented 
 her daughter to her Queen, competed with that of 
 the latter, which has passed into the language. To 
 do her justice, she let it lapse on hearing the full 
 disclosure of these two culprits, and had the presence
 
 A LIKELY STORY 111 
 
 of mind to ask them if they had no suspicion that 
 they might be a couple of young fools, to fancy they 
 could know their own minds on so short an acquaint- 
 ance, etc. For this was barely seven weeks after 
 the hunting-field accident. " You silly geese ! " she 
 said. " Go your own way but you'll quarrel in 
 a fortnight. See if you don't ! " She knew all 
 about this sort of thing, though Mr. Pelly didn't. 
 
 The latter was right, however, and prudent, when 
 in his dream he laid stress on the wish of Madeline's 
 parents that there should be " no engagement." 
 This stipulation seemed to be accounted by both 
 of them but especially by the Baronet as a sort 
 of panacea for all parental responsibilities. It could 
 not be reiterated too often. The consequence was 
 that there were two concurrent determinations of 
 the relative positions of Madeline and the Captain; 
 one an esoteric one a sort of sacramental serv- 
 ice of perpetual vows of fidelity; the other the 
 exoteric proclamations of a kind of many-headed 
 town-crier, who went about ringing his bell and 
 shouting that it was " distinctly understood that 
 there was no engagement." Mr. Felly's repetition 
 of this in his dream may have had an intransitive 
 character; but he was good and prudent, just the 
 same. How we behave in dreams shows whether 
 the high qualities we pride ourselves on are more 
 than skin-deep.
 
 112 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 But all the efforts of the exoteric town-crier were 
 of no avail against the esoteric sacramental services. 
 The most unsettling condition lovers can have im- 
 posed upon them that of being left entirely to their 
 own devices, and never stimulated by so much as a 
 hint of a chaperon failed to bring about a coolness. 
 And when within a year after his accident Jack 
 Calverley was ordered away with his Company to 
 South Africa, where war had already broken out, 
 the -sacramental service the picture or someone 
 had witnessed, just by the glass case with the big 
 fish in it, was the farewell of a couple of heart- 
 breaks, kept under by the upspring of Hope in 
 youth, that clings to the creed that the stricken 
 classes, the mourning classes, are Other People, and 
 that to them pity shall be given from within our 
 pale of well-fenced security. It was a wrench to 
 part, certainly, but Jack would come back, and be 
 a great soldier and wear medals. And the Other 
 People would die for their country. 
 
 And then came the war, and the many un- 
 pleasant discoveries that always come with a war, 
 the most unpleasant of all being the discovery of 
 the strength of the enemy. The usual recognitions 
 of the obvious, too late ; and the usual denunciations 
 of everybody else for not having foreseen it all the 
 time. The usual rush to the money-chest of un- 
 exhausted Credit, to make good with pounds
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 113 
 
 deficiencies shillings spent in time would have 
 supplied; the usual storms of indignation against 
 the incompetence in high places that never spent, 
 in time, the shillings we refused to provide. The 
 usual war-whoops from sheltered corners, safe out 
 of gunshot; and the usual deaths by scores of men 
 on both sides who never felt a pang of ill-feeling to- 
 each other, or knew the cause of quarrel yes, a 
 many of whom, had they known a quarrel was 
 pending, would have given their lives to avert it! 
 The usual bearing, on both sides, of the brunt of the 
 whirlwind by those who never sowed a wind-seed, 
 and the usual reaping of a golden harvest by the 
 Judicious Investor, he who buys and sells, but 
 makes and meddles not with what he sells or buys, 
 measuring its value alone by what he can get and 
 must give for it. And a very respectable person he 
 is, too. 
 
 The history of Madeline's next few months made 
 up for her a tale of anxious waitings for many mails : 
 of pangs of unendurable tension over journals that, 
 surrendered by the postman, would not open; that, 
 opened at last, seemed nothing but advertisements; 
 that, run to earth and convicted of telegrams, only 
 yielded new food for anxiety. A tale of these 
 periods of expectation of letters from Jack, by every 
 mail. The first of expectation fulfilled; of letters 
 full of hope and confidence, of forecast of victories
 
 114 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 easily won and a triumphant quick return. The sec- 
 ond of expectation damped and thwarted ; of victories 
 revised; of Hope's rebukes to Confidence, the 
 coward who fails us at our need; of the slow dawn 
 of the true horrors of war mere death on the battle- 
 field the least of them that will one day change 
 the reckless young soldier to an old grave man that 
 has learned his lesson, and knows that the curse of 
 Cain is on him who stirs to War, and that half the 
 great names of History have been borne by Devils 
 incarnate. And then the third a weary time of 
 waiting for a letter that came not, for only one little 
 word of news to say yes or no to the question we 
 hardly dare to ask : " Is he dead ? " For our poor 
 young friend, after distinguishing himself brilliantly 
 and yet coming almost scathless out of half-a-dozen 
 actions, was missing. When the roll was called 
 after a memorable action from which the two 
 opponent armies retreated simultaneously, able to 
 bear the slaughter by unseen guns no longer, no 
 answer came to the name called formally of 
 Captain Calverley. The survivors who still had 
 breath to answer to their names already knew that 
 he was missing knew that he was last seen appar- 
 ently carried away by his horse, having lost control 
 over it probably wounded, said report. That was 
 all soon told! And then followed terrible hours 
 that should have brought more news and did not.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 115 
 
 And the hearts of those who watched for it went 
 sick with the fear that no news would ever come, 
 that none would ever know the end of that ride 
 and the vanished rider. But each heart hid away 
 its sickness from its neighbour, and would not tell. 
 
 And so the days passed, and each day's end was 
 the grafting of a fresh despair in the tree nourished 
 in the soil of buried hopes; and each morning 
 Madeline would try to reason it away and discover 
 some new calendar rule, bringing miscalculation to 
 book always cutting short the tale of days, never 
 lengthening them. She talked very little to any- 
 one about it, for fear her houses of cards should be 
 shaken down by stern common sense; or, worse 
 still, that she should be chilled by the hesitating 
 sympathy of half-hearted Hope. But her speech 
 was free to her great dog Caesar, when they were 
 alone together. 
 
 Caesar was about the size of a small cart-horse, 
 and when he had a mind and he often had to lie 
 on the hearthrug, and think with his eyes shut, he 
 was difficult to move. Not that he had an opposive 
 or lazy disposition, but that it was not easy to make 
 him understand. The moment he knew what was 
 wanted of him he was only too anxious to comply. 
 As, for instance, if he could be convinced of Cats, 
 he would rise and leave the room abruptly, knocking 
 several persons down, and leaving behind him the
 
 116 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 trail of an earthquake. But his heart was good and 
 pure, and he impressed his admirers somehow that 
 he was always on the side of Ormuzd against 
 Ahriman : he always took part with the Right. 
 
 So Madeline, when she found herself alone with 
 Caesar, in those days, would cry into his fur as he 
 lay on the rug, and would put sentiments of sym- 
 pathy and commiseration into his mouth, which may 
 have been warranted by the facts, only really there 
 was nothing to show it. In these passages she al- 
 leged kinship with Ca?sar, claiming him as her son. 
 
 " Was he," she would say, " his own mamma's 
 precious Angel? And the only person in the house 
 that had any real feeling! All the other nasty peo- 
 ple keep on being sorry for her, and he says he knows 
 Jack's coming back, and nobody need be sorry at 
 all. And when Jack comes home safe and well, his 
 mamma's own Heavenly Angel shall run with the 
 horses all over Household Common he shall ! And 
 he shall catch a swallow at last, he shall, and bring 
 it to his own mamma. Bless him! Only he 
 mustn't scratch his darling head too suddenly; at 
 least, not till his mamma can get her own out of the 
 way, because she's not a bull or an elephant, and 
 able to stand anything. . . . That's right, my 
 pet ! Now he shall try and get a little sleep, he 
 shall." This was acknowledgment of a deep sigh, 
 as of one who had at last deservedly found rest.
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 117 
 
 But it called for a recognition of its unselfish nature, 
 too. " And he never so much as thought of going 
 to sleep till he'd consoled his poor mamma the 
 darling ! " And really her interviews with Caesar 
 grew to be almost Madeline's only speech about her 
 lost lover; for her father and mother, though they 
 talked to each other, scarcely dared to say a word 
 to her, lest their own disbelief in the possibility of 
 Jack's return should show itself. 
 
 And so the hours passed and passed, and the days 
 grew to weeks, and the weeks to months; and now, 
 at the time of the cold March night when Mr. Pelly 
 dreamed the picture talked, the flame of Hope was 
 dying down in the girl's tired heart like the embers 
 he sat by, and none came bringing fuel and a new 
 lease of life. 
 
 But the way she nursed the flame that flickered 
 still was brave. She kept up her spirits entirely 
 on the knowledge that there was no direct proof of 
 Jack's death. She fostered a conception in her 
 mind of a perfectly imaginary Veldt, about the size 
 of Hyde Park, and carefully patrolled day and 
 night. They would have been certain to find him if 
 he were dead was her thought. What a handy lit- 
 tle Veldt that was ! and, oh, the intolerable leagues 
 of the reality ! But it did help towards keeping her 
 spirits up, somehow or other. 
 
 Her father and mother ascribed more than a fair
 
 118 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 share of these kept-up spirits to their great panacea. 
 They laid to their souls the flattering unction that 
 if there had been a regular engagement their 
 daughter would have given way altogether. Think 
 what a difference it would have made if she had had 
 to go into mourning! Lady Upwell took exception 
 to the behaviour of Jack's family at Calverley Court, 
 who had rushed into mourning six weeks after his 
 disappearance, and advertised their belief in his 
 death, really before there was any need for it. Her 
 daughter, on the contrary, rather made a parade of 
 being out of mourning. Perhaps it seemed to her 
 to emphasize and consolidate her own hopes, as well 
 as to rebuke dispositions towards premature despair 
 in others. 
 
 Therefore, when this young lady came upon old 
 Mr. Felly, just aroused from his dream, she was 
 certainly not clad in sackcloth and ashes. She had 
 on her heliotrope voile de sole; only, of course, Mr. 
 Pelly didn't see it until she took off her seal-colour 
 musquash wrap, which was quite necessary because 
 of the cold. And the third evening after that, 
 which was to be a quiet one -at home for Mr. Pelly 
 to read them the memoranda of his dream in the 
 Library, she put on her Jap kimono with the em- 
 broidered storks, which was really nearly as smart 
 as the voile de sole; and, of course, there was no need 
 to fig up, when it was only Mr. Pelly. And what-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 119 
 
 ever tale her looks might tell, no one could have 
 guessed from her manner she had such a sorrow at 
 heart, so successfully did she affect, from fear of 
 it, a cheerfulness she was far from feeling ; knowing 
 perfectly well that if she made any concession, she 
 must needs break down altogether. 
 
 " Fancy your being able to remember it all, and 
 write it out like that ! " said she to Mr. Pelly when 
 they adjourned into the Library after dinner. 
 
 " We must bear in mind," he replied, " that the 
 story is a figment of my own mind, and therefore 
 easier to recall than a communication from another 
 person. Athenaeus refers to an instance of . . ." 
 
 " Never mind Athenseus ! How do you know it 
 is a figment of your imagination ? " 
 
 " What else can it be ? " 
 
 " Lots of things. Besides, it doesn't matter. 
 Look here, now, you say it was a dream, don't you ? " 
 
 " I certainly think so." 
 
 " Well ! and aren't dreams the hardest things to 
 recollect there are? Look at the Prophet Daniel, 
 and Nebuchadnezzar." Mr. Pelly thought to him- 
 self that he would- much sooner look at the speaker. 
 But he only said, " Suppose we do ! " To which 
 the reply was, " Well, then of course ! . . . " 
 
 " Of course what ? " 
 
 " Why of course when you can recollect things 
 that proves they're not dreams."
 
 120 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Then, when Daniel recollected or, I should 
 rather say, recalled his dream to Nebuchadnezzar 
 did that prove that it wasn't a dream ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, because he was a Prophet. The 
 Chaldeans couldn't recollect, and that proved that 
 it was." 
 
 The Baronet and his Lady remained superiorly 
 silent, smiling over the heads of the discussion. 
 The attitude of Debrett towards human weaknesses 
 such as Philosophical Speculation, or the Use of 
 the Globes was indicated. 
 
 When Mr. Pelly had finished reading his account 
 of the dream on which our relation of it, already 
 given, was founded discussion ensued. It em- 
 bodied, intelligently enough, all the things that it 
 is dutiful to say when we are disconcerted at the 
 inscrutable. 
 
 The Baronet said we must guard ourselves care- 
 fully against being carried away by two or three 
 things; superstition was one of them. It did not 
 require a Scientific Eye to see that there was nothing 
 in this narrative which might not be easily ascribed 
 to the subconscious action of Mr. Pelly's brain. 
 It was quite otherwise in such a case as that of his 
 great-aunt, Dorothea, whose wraith undoubtedly 
 appeared and took refreshment at Knaresborough 
 Copping at the very time that she was confined of 
 twins here in this house. The testimony to the
 
 A LIKELY STORY 121 
 
 truth of this had never been challenged. But when 
 people came and told him stories of substantial 
 tables floating in the air and accordions being 
 played, he always asked this one question, " Was 
 it in the dark ? " That question always proved a 
 poser, etc., etc. and so forth. From which it 
 will be seen that Sir Stopleigh belonged to that 
 numerous class of persons which, when its 
 attention turns towards wondermongering of 
 any sort, loses its head promptly, and runs 
 through the nearest available gamut of accepted 
 phrases. 
 
 Her ladyship said she was not the least surprised 
 at anything happening in a dream. She herself 
 dreamed only the other night that Lady Pirbright 
 had gone up in a balloon shaped like a gridiron, and 
 the very next day came the news that old Canon 
 Pirbright, at Trenchards Plaistowe, had had a 
 paralytic stroke. It was impossible to account for 
 these things. The only wonder to her was that Mr. 
 Pelly should have recollected the whole so plainly, 
 and been able to write it down. She would give 
 anything to recollect that dream about the Circu- 
 lating Library and the potted shrimps. Her lady- 
 ship discoursed for some time about her own 
 dreams. 
 
 Mr. Pelly entirely concurred in the view that the 
 whole thing was a dream. In fact, it would be
 
 122 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 absurd to suppose it anything else. When he got 
 an opportunity to read Professor Schrudengesser's 
 translation of the Italian MS. to his friends, they 
 would readily see the source of most of the events 
 his mind had automatically woven into a con- 
 tinuous narrative for the picture-woman to tell. 
 He would rather read it to them himself than leave 
 them the MS. to read, as there were points that 
 would require explanation. He could not offer to 
 do so till he came back from his great-grandniece 
 Constance's wedding at Cowcester. A little delay 
 would not matter. They would not have forgotten 
 the dream-story in a fortnight. To this, assent was 
 given in chorus. 
 
 But Madeline was not going to have the story 
 pooh-poohed and 'made light of. "I believe it was 
 a ghost, Uncle Christopher," said she. " The ghost 
 of the woman in the picture. And you christened 
 her after me by subconscious thingummy. Madda- 
 lena's Italian for Madeline. But they never give 
 their names right. Ask anyone that has phe- 
 nomena." Then she lit candles for all parties to 
 go to bed, and kissed them all, including her alleged 
 uncle, who laid stress on his claim for this grace in 
 duplicate, as he had no one to kiss him at home. 
 " Poor Uncle Christopher," said she, " he's been shut 
 up in the dark with a ghost. ... Oh yes ! I'm 
 in earnest, and you're all a parcel of sillies." Then
 
 A LIKELY STORY 123 
 
 she borrowed his written account of the dream to 
 re-read in bed, and take care the lamp didn't set 
 fire to the curtains. She said she particularly 
 wanted to look at that last sentence or two, about 
 when the picture was in Chelsea.
 
 CHAPTEE V 
 
 ME. AIKEN'S SEQUEL. PIMLICO STUDIOS. MB. HUQHES'S IDEA. 
 ASPECTS OF NATUBE. MB. HUGHES's FOOT. WHAT HAD MB. 
 AIKEN BEEN AT ? NOT FANNY SMITH. IT WAS SAIBAH ! ! 
 WHO MISUNDEBSTOOD AND TUBNED VEBMILION? HEB MALICE. 
 THE BEGENT'S CANAL. MB. AIKEN'S ADVICE FBOM HIS 
 FBIENDS. WOMAN AND HER SEX. HOW MB. HUGHES VISITED 
 MB. AIKEN ONE EVENING, AND THE POST CAME, WITH SOME- 
 THING TOO BIG FOB THE BOX, WHILE MRS. PABPLES SLEPT. 
 MB. AIKEN'S VEBY SINCERELY MADELINE UPWEIX. HEB 
 TBANSPABENCY. HOW THE PICTUBE'S PHOTO STOOD ON THE 
 TABLE. INTEBESTING LUCUBBATIONS OF MB. HUGHES. WHAT 
 
 WAS THAT? BUT IT WAS NOTHING ONLY AN EFFECT OF 
 
 SOMETHING. THE VEBNACULAR MIND. NEGATIVE JURIES. 
 HOW MB. AIKEN STOPPED AN ECHO, SO IT WAS MB. HUGHES'S 
 
 FANCY 
 
 THE story's brief reference to Mr. Aiken's life 
 after his good lady forsook him, may be sufficient for 
 its purposes, but the author is in a certain sense 
 bound to communicate to the reader any details 
 that have come to his knowledge. 
 
 Mr. Aiken's first step was to take an intimate 
 friend or two into his confidence. But his intimate 
 friend or two had a quality in common with Mr. 
 Pickwick's bottle or two. An intimate friend or 
 six would be nearer the mark or even twelve. 
 He did not tell his story separately to each; there 
 was no need. If the mention of a private affair 
 
 124
 
 A LIKELY STORY 125 
 
 within the hearing of cat or mouse leads to its 
 being shouted at once from the top of the house 
 and that was the experience of Maud's young man 
 who went to the Crimea how much more public 
 will your confidences become if you make them to 
 a tenant of a Studio that is one of a congeries. 
 Pimlico Studios was a congeries, built to accom- 
 modate the Artists of a great age of Art, now pend- 
 ing, as though to meet the needs of locusts. For 
 there can be no doubt that such an age is at hand, 
 if we are to judge by the workshop accommodation 
 that appears to be anticipating it. An ingenious 
 friend of the author you must have noticed how 
 many authors have ingenious friends ? has been 
 able to determine by a system of averages of a most 
 irresistibly convincing nature, that the cubic area 
 of the Studios in Chelsea and Kensington alone 
 exceeds that of the Lunatic Asylums of the Metrop- 
 olis by nearly seven and a quarter per cent. This 
 gentleman's researches on the subject are conse- 
 quent upon his singular conviction that the output 
 of the Fine Arts, broadly speaking, is small in 
 proportion to the amount of energy and capital 
 devoted to them. "We have reasoned with him in 
 vain on the subject, pointing out that the Fine Arts 
 have nothing in common with the economies of 
 Manufacture, least of all in any proportions between 
 the labour expended and the results attained.
 
 126 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Were it otherwise, the estimation of a painter's 
 merit would rise or fall with his colourman's bill 
 and the rent of his studio. This gentleman 
 although he is a friend of the author has no Soul. 
 If he had, the spectacle of the life-struggle which 
 is often the lot of Genius would appeal to him, and 
 cause him to suspend his opinion. It is always, 
 we understand, desirable to suspend one's opinion. 
 And he would do so, for instance, in the case of an 
 Artist, a common acquaintance of ours, whom at 
 present he condemns freely, calling him names. 
 This Artist has five Studios, each of them full of 
 easels and thrones. The number of his half-used 
 colour tubes that won't squeeze out is as the sands 
 of the sea, while his bundles of brushes that only 
 want washing to be as good as new, may be likened 
 to corn-sheaves, in so far as their stems go a mere 
 affair of numeration. But their business ends are 
 another pair of shoes altogether; for, in the former, 
 the hairs have become a coagulum as hard as agate, 
 calling aloud for Benzine Collas to disintegrate them 
 in the tune, this Artist admits, of threepence 
 each whereas the ear of corn yields to less drastic 
 treatment. Contrivances of a specious nature in 
 japanned tin and celluloid abound, somewhat as 
 spray abounds on oceans during equinoxes, and 
 each of these has at one time fondly imagined it 
 was destined to become that Artist's great resource
 
 A LIKELY STORY 127 
 
 and stand-by, the balustrade his genius would not 
 scorn to be indebted to. But he has never drawn 
 a profile with the copying-machine that has legs, 
 nor availed himself of the powers of the grapho- 
 scope if that is its name that does perspective, 
 nor done anything with the countless wooden 
 figures except dislocate their universal joints; nor, 
 we fear, for a long time paid anything on account 
 of the quarterly statements that flutter about, with 
 palette-knives full of colour wiped off on them, that 
 are not safe to sit down upon for months. But no 
 impartial person could glance at any of the in- 
 augurations of pictures on the thousand canvases 
 in these five Studios without at once exclaiming, 
 " This is Genius ! " The Power of the Man is every- 
 where visible, and no true lover of Art ever regrets 
 that so few of them have been carried into that 
 doubtful second stage where one spoils all the 
 moddlin' and the colour won't hold up, and some- 
 how you lose the first spirit of the Idear and don't 
 get any forwarder. It never occurs to any mature 
 Critic to question the value of this Artist's results, 
 even of his least elaborated ones. And, indeed, an 
 opinion is current among his friends that restriction 
 of materials and of the area of his Studios might 
 have cramped and limited the free development of 
 a great mind. They are all unanimous that a 
 feller like Tomkins must have room to turn round,
 
 128 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 or where are you ! And, if, as we must all hope, the 
 growth of genius such as his is to be fostered as it 
 deserves, no one should look with an ungenerous 
 eye upon such agglomerations of Art-workshops as 
 the Pimlico Studios, or sneer at them as uncalled 
 for, merely because a Philistine Plutocracy refuses 
 to buy their produce, and has no walls to hang it on 
 if it did. We for our part can only note with regret 
 that any Studios should be so badly adapted to their 
 purpose, and constructed with so little consideration 
 for the comfort of their occupants, as these same 
 Pimlico Studios. 
 
 We have, however, been tempted away from our 
 subject, which at present is the community of 
 Artists that occupied them; and must return to it 
 to say that these very drawbacks were not altogether 
 without their compensations. For though these 
 Studios were unsound, like the arguments of Dis- 
 sent, being constructed to admit rainwater and 
 retain products of combustion, each of its own 
 stove and the Studio beneath it; these structural 
 shortcomings were really advantages, in so far as 
 they promoted interchange of social amenities be- 
 tween the resident victims of the speculative builder 
 who ran up the congeries. Sympathy against their 
 common enemy, the landlord, brought all the oc- 
 cupants of Pimlico Studios into a hotchpot of broth- 
 erly affection, and if the choruses of execration in
 
 A LIKELY STORY 129 
 
 which they found comfort have reached the ears for 
 which they were intended, that builder will catch it 
 hot, one of these odd-come-shortlies. This expression 
 is not our own. 
 
 When Mr. Reginald Aiken, with his domestic 
 perplexity burning his tongue's end and crying 
 aloud for utterance, called upon the Artist from 
 whom we have borrowed it, that gentleman, Mr. 
 Hughes, one of his most intimate friends, was 
 thinking. He had been thinking since breakfast 
 thinking about some new aspects of Nature, which 
 had been the subject of discussion with some friends 
 the evening before. They were those new Aspects 
 of Nature which have been presented so forcibly by 
 Van Schronk and Le Neutre ; and of which, in this 
 Artist's opinion, more than a hint is to be found 
 in Hawkins. He was thinking deeply when Mr. 
 Aiken came in, and not one stroke of work had he 
 done, would that gentleman believe him, since he 
 set out his palette. Mr. Aiken's credulity was not 
 overtaxed. 
 
 Mr. Hughes wanted to talk about himself, and 
 said absently, " You all right, Crocky ? " address- 
 ing Mr. Aiken by a familiar name in use among his 
 intimate friends. He was not well disposed towards 
 a negative answer when Mr. Aiken gave one ; an 
 equivocal one certainly, but not one to whose 
 meaning it was possible to affect blindness. The
 
 130 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 words were " Hiddlin' considerin' ! " But Mr. 
 Hughes was not going to be too coming. 
 
 " Wife well ? " said he, remotely. 
 
 Mr. Aiken sprang at his inattentive throat, and 
 nailed him. "Ah, that's it," said he. "That's 
 the point." 
 
 Mr. Hughes was forced to inquire further, and 
 stand his Idea over, for later discussion. But he 
 might just as well have let it alone better, if you 
 come to that. He really was a stupid feller, Hughes, 
 don't you know ? "I say," said he, " don't you 
 run away and say I didn't tell you what would 
 happen." For he had interpreted his friend's 
 agitated demeanour and equivocal speech as the 
 result of a recent insight into futurity, showing him 
 in the position of a detected and convicted parent, 
 without the means of providing for an increasing 
 family. For they do that, families do. 
 
 " Don't be an ass, Stumpy," said he, using a 
 familiar name no fact in real life warranted. " It's 
 not that sort of thing, thank God! No I'll tell 
 you what it is, only you mustn't on any account men- 
 tion it." 
 
 "All right, Crocky! I never mention things. 
 Honest Injun! Go ahead easy." Mr. Hughes was 
 greatly relieved that his surmise had been wrong. 
 Good job for Mr. Aiken, as also for his wife! Mr. 
 Hughes desired his congratulations to this lady, but
 
 A LIKELY STORY 131 
 
 withdrew them on second thoughts. Because, you 
 see, her escape from the anxieties of maternity was 
 entirely constructive. Mr. Hughes felt that he had 
 put his foot in it, and that his wisest course would 
 be to take it out. He did so. But Mr. Aiken had 
 something to say about his wife, and made it a 
 corollary to her disappearance from the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " She's bolted ! " said he lugubriously. " Went 
 away Thursday and wrote to say she wasn't coming 
 back, Friday. It's a fact." 
 
 Mr. Hughes put back his foot in it. " Who's she 
 bolted with 1 Who's the feller ? " 
 
 Mr. Aiken flushed up quite red, like any turkey- 
 cock. " Damn it, Stump ! " said he, " you really 
 ought to take care what you're saying. I should 
 like to see any fellow presume to run away with 
 Euphemia. Draw it mild ! " He became calmer, 
 and it is to be hoped was ashamed of his irritability. 
 But really it was Mr. Hughes's fault talking just 
 as if it was like in a novel, and Euphemia a character. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said that offender humbly. 
 " It was the way you put it. Besides, they are 
 generally supposed to." 
 
 Mr. Aiken responded, correctively and loftily: 
 " Yes, my dear fellow, on the stage and in novels." 
 He added, with something of insular pride, " Chiefly 
 French and American."
 
 132 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 "What's her little game, then?" asked Mr. 
 Hughes. " If it's not some* other beggar, what is 
 it she's run away with ? " 
 
 " She has not run away with anybody," said Mr. 
 Aiken with dignity. " Nor anything. Perhaps I 
 should explain myself better by saying that she has 
 refused to return from her Aunt's." 
 
 " Any reason ? " said Mr. Hughes, who wanted to 
 get back to his Idea. 
 
 " I'm sorry to say it was my fault, Stumpy," 
 came very penitently from the catechumen. 
 
 Interest was roused. " I say, young man," said 
 Mr. Hughes, with a tendency of one eye to close, 
 " what have you been at ? " 
 
 " Absolutely nothing whatever ! " 
 
 " Yes, of course ! But along of who ! Who's the 
 young woman you haven't been making love to ? Tell 
 up and have done with it." 
 
 " You don't understand, Stump. Really nobody! " 
 
 Mr. Hughes thought a moment, as though he 
 were at work on a conundrum. Then he pointed 
 suddenly. " Fanny Smith ! " said he, convictingly. 
 
 Mr. Aiken quite lost his temper, and got demon- 
 strative. " Fanny Smith Fanny grandmother ! " 
 he exclaimed, meaninglessly. " How can you talk 
 such infernal rot, Stumpy ! Do be reasonable ! " 
 
 " Then it was somebody" said his tormentor, and 
 Mr. Aiken felt very awkward and humiliated.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 133 
 
 However, he saw inevitable confession ahead, and 
 braced himself to the task. " Keally, Stump," 
 said he, " it would make you cry with laughing to 
 know who it was that was at the bottom of it. I 
 said ' Fanny grandmother/ just now, but at any 
 rate Fanny Smith's a tailor's wife with no legs to 
 speak of, who sits on the counter, and a very nice 
 girl if you know her. I mean there's no funda- 
 mental absurdity in Fanny Smith. This was." 
 Which wasn't good speechwork, but, oh dear, how 
 little use accuracy is ! 
 
 " Who was it then ? " Mr. Hughes left one eye 
 shut, under an implied contract to reopen it as soon 
 as the answer came to his question. 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Aiken reluctantly. " If you 
 must have it, it was Sairah! " He was really 
 relieved when his friend looked honestly puzzled, 
 repeating after him " Sairah ! What ! the gurl ! " 
 in genuine astonishment. It was now evident that 
 the Idea would have to stand over. 
 
 Mr. Hughes said farewell to it, almost audibly; 
 then said " Stop a minute ! " and lit a pipe ; then 
 settled down in a rocking chair to listen, saying, 
 " Now, my boy! off you go." He was a long and 
 loose-limbed person who picked his knees up 
 alternately with both hands, as though to hold his 
 legs on. Whenever he did this, the slipper in that 
 connection came off, with the effect of bringing its
 
 134 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 owner's sock into what is called keeping with the 
 rest of the Studio, one which many persons would 
 have considered untidy. 
 
 After which Mr. Aiken went off, or on which- 
 ever you prefer. " Of course I don't expect you 
 fellers to do anything but chaff, you know. But 
 it's jolly unpleasant, for all that. It was like this, 
 don't you see? A young female swell had brought 
 her sweetheart I suppose^ unless he was her cousin 
 to see a picture I'm cleaning for her parent, who is 
 a Bart. In Worcestershire. Know him ? Sir Stop- 
 leigh Upwell." 
 
 Mr. Hughes didn't, that he could call to inind, 
 after a mental search which seemed to imply great 
 resources in Barts. 
 
 " Well she was an awfully jolly girl, but quite 
 that sort." Mr. Aiken tried to indicate, by gesture, 
 a fashionably dressed young lady with a stylish 
 figure, and failed. But Mr. Hughes, an Impres- 
 sionist Artist, could understand, and nodded prompt 
 appreciation. So Mr. Aiken continued : 
 
 " When they cleared out, Euphemia said the 
 young woman was ' up-to-date.' And I suppose she 
 was. ..." 
 
 " Oh certainly quite up to date not a doubt 
 of it!" 
 
 " Well I made believe not to know the meaning 
 of the expression, just to take a rise out of Euphemia,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 135 
 
 And you know she has just one fault she's so 
 matter-of-fact! She said everyone knew the mean- 
 ing of l up-to-date/ that knew anything. Ask 
 anybody! Ask her Aunt Priscilla and I cer- 
 tainly wasn't going to do that; just like bearding 
 a tigress in her den with impertinent questions! 
 or Mrs. Verity the landlady. Or, for that matter, 
 ask the gurl, Sairah ! That's where she came in, 
 Stump." Mr. Aiken seemed to hang fire. 
 
 " But," said Mr. Hughes, " she only comes in as 
 an abstraction, so far. I can't see her carcass in 
 it." From which we may learn that Mr. Hughes 
 thought that abstract means incorporeal; or, at 
 least, imponderable. It is a common error. " What 
 did you say ? " he asked. 
 
 " I said ' Suppose I ask Sairah ! ' and rang for 
 her, for a lark. Euphemia was in an awful rage and 
 pretended to go, but stopped outside to listen." The 
 speaker's hesitation appeared to increase. 
 
 ''Well and when she came ? . . ." 
 
 " Why, the stupid idiot altogether misunder- 
 stood me. Damn fool ! What the doose she thought 
 I meant, I don't know. ..." 
 
 " What did you say ? Out with it, old chap ! " 
 Mr. Hughes seemed to be holding intense amuse- 
 ment back, with a knowledge that it would get the 
 bit in its teeth in the end. 
 
 Mr. Aiken, seeing this, intensified and enlarged his
 
 136 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 manner. " I merely said No, really it's the simple 
 honest truth, every word I merely said, ' Your 
 mistress says you know the meaning of " up-to- 
 date," Sairah.' And what does the beast of a girl 
 do but turn vermilion and stand staring like a stuck 
 pig." 
 
 Mr. Hughes began shaking his head slowly from 
 side to side. But he did not get to the direction 
 accelerando, for he stopped short, and said abruptly, 
 " Well what next?" 
 
 Mr. Aiken assumed a responsible and mature 
 manner, rather like that of a paterfamilias on his 
 beat. " I reasoned with the girl. Pointed out that 
 her mistress wouldn't say things to turn vermilion 
 about. I tried to soothe her suspicions. . . ." 
 
 Mr. Hughes interrupted. " I see. No tong- 
 dresses, of course ? " 
 
 Mr. Aiken explained that that was just where the 
 misapprehension had come in. If his wife had 
 been inside the room instead of on the stairs, she 
 would have seen that there was absolutely nothing. 
 Mr. Hughes looked incredulous. 
 
 " There must have been something old chap, to 
 set your missis off. Don't tell me ! " 
 
 But Mr. Aiken would tell Mr. Hughes would 
 insist on doing so. " It was the horrible, shameless 
 brute's diabolical malice ! " he shouted. " Nothing 
 more nor less! What does she do but say out loud
 
 A LIKELY STORY 137 
 
 just as my wife was coming into the room, ' You 
 keep your 'ands off of me, Mr. Aching ! ' and of 
 course, when Euphemia came in, she thought I had 
 just jumped half a mile off. And it was rough on 
 me, Stump, because really my motive was to save 
 my wife having to get another house-and-parlour- 
 maid." 
 
 " Motive for what ? " said Mr. Hughes shrewdly. 
 He had touched the weak point of the story. " Did 
 you, or did you not, young man, take this young 
 person round the waist or chuck her under the 
 chin?" 
 
 " My dear Hughes," said Mr. Aiken, with un- 
 disguised impatience, " I wouldn't chuck that 
 odious girl under the chin with the end of a barge- 
 pole. Nor," he added after reflection, " take her 
 round the waist with one of the drags in readiness 
 at the Lodge." The barge-pole had conducted his 
 imagination to the Regent's Canal, and left it 
 there. 
 
 Mr. Aiken had had no intention when he called 
 on his friend Hughes to take the whole of Pimlico 
 Studios into his confidence. But what was he to 
 do when another Artist dropped in and Mr. Hughes 
 said, " You won't mind Triggs ? The most dis- 
 creet beggar / ever came across ! " What could 
 he say that would arrest the entry of Mr. Triggs 
 into the discussion of his family jar that would not
 
 138 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 appear to imply that that gentleman was an in- 
 discreet beggar ? And what course was open to him 
 when Mr. Hughes told yet another Artist, whose 
 name was Dolly, that he might come in, but he 
 wasn't to listen? And yet another, whose name 
 was Doddles ? 
 
 Even if there had been no other chance visitors 
 to the Studio during the conclave on Mr. Aiken's 
 private affairs, there would have been every likeli- 
 hood of complete publicity for them in the course of 
 a day or two at most. For nothing stimulates 
 Rumour like affidavits of secrecy. It's such fun 
 telling what is on no account to go any farther. But 
 as a matter of fact more than one gentleman who 
 would have resented being called a flaneur, looked 
 in at Mr. Hughes's Studio casually that morning 
 to talk over that gentleman's Idea, mooted yesterday 
 at The Club, and found himself outside a circle 
 whose voices subsided to inaudible exchanges of 
 postscripts to finish up. As each newcomer acted 
 upon this in the sweet and candid manner of this 
 community, saying unaffectedly " What's the fun ? " 
 and some friend of his within the circle usually said 
 to him " Shut up 1 Tell you after ! " and as more- 
 over it was invariably felt that a single exclusion 
 only embarrassed counsel, no opportunity was 
 really lost of making Europe acquainted with the 
 disruption of Mr. Aiken's household. And it was
 
 A LIKELY STORY 139 
 
 a pity, because so much gossip doesn't do any good. 
 Besides, the time might have been profitably em- 
 ployed ventilating Mr. Hughes's Idea, and getting 
 a sort of provisional insight into the best means of 
 carrying it out. As it was, when, some time after 
 midday, someone said, " I say, Stump, my boy, 
 how about that Idea of yours we were talking about 
 at The Club yesterday ? " everyone else looked at 
 his watch, and said it was too late to get on to that 
 now; we must have lunch, and have a real serious 
 talk about it another time. Then we went to lunch 
 at Machiavelli's, and it was plenty early enough if 
 we were back by three. 
 
 Mr. Aiken received a good deal of very sound 
 advice from his friends as to how he might best deal 
 with his emergency. He turned this over in his 
 mind as he turned himself over on his couch when 
 he got home about three in the morning, and was 
 rather at a loss to select from it any samples from 
 different Mentors which agreed upon a course. In 
 fact, the only one thing they had in common was 
 the claim made by their respective promulgators 
 to a wider and deeper knowledge of that mysterious 
 creature Woman than Mr. Aiken's inexperience 
 could boast. One said to him speaking as from 
 long observation of a Sex you couldn't make head 
 or tail of that depend upon it she would come 
 round, you see if she didn't. They always did.
 
 140 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Another, that this said Sex was obstinacy itself, 
 and you might depend upon it she would stick put. 
 They always did. Another, that a lot the best 
 thing for a husband in like case to do was to go 
 and cosset the offended lady over with appropriate 
 caresses, before which she would be sure to soften. 
 They always did. Another, that if you could 
 convince her by some subtle machinations that 
 you didn't care a twopenny damn how long she 
 stayed away, back she would come on the nail. 
 They always did. In the multitude of counsellors 
 there is Wisdom, no doubt, but when the multitude 
 is large enough to advise every possible course, it is 
 just as easy to run through all the courses open to 
 adoption by oneself, and choose one on the strength 
 of its visible recommendations. More particularly 
 because so many advisers insist on your taking their 
 advice, and go on giving it, cataballatively, if you 
 don't. Mr. Aiken felt, when he retired for the 
 night, like the sheet Aunt Sally hangs up behind 
 her being folded up at the end of a busy day on 
 Epsom Downs. 
 
 It was a great pity that Mr. Aiken's domestic 
 upset did not occur a few days later, because then 
 Mr. Hughes's Idea would have had such a much 
 clearer stage for its debut. As it was, what with one 
 thing and what with another, the mature discussion 
 of this subject was delayed a full week. Xext day
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 141 
 
 Triggs had to go to Paris, and of course it was 
 nonsense to attempt anything without him for 
 look at the clearness of that man's head! Then, 
 when Triggs came back, a day later than expected, 
 his Aunt must needs invite her nephew down to 
 Suddington Park, which is her place in Shropshire, 
 which had earned for Mr. Triggs the name of The 
 Pobble you remember Aunt Jopiska's Park, if 
 you read Lear in youth and which was an 
 expectation of his, if he kept in favour with the old 
 lady. Of course, the Idea didn't depend on Triggs, 
 or any one man. Xo, thank you! But Triggs 
 had a good business head on his shoulders, and was 
 particularly sound on the subject of Premises. It 
 is a singular and noticeable thing that whenever 
 any great motive or scheme germinates in the 
 human brain, that brain, before it has formulated 
 the conditions thereof, or fully defined its objects, 
 will begin to look at Premises, and while it is examin- 
 ing some very much beyond its means in Picca- 
 dilly, for instance, or Old Bond Street will feel 
 that the project is assuming form, and that now 
 we shall get on to really doing something, and come 
 to the end of this everlasting talk, talk, talk, that 
 leads to nothing, and only sets people against us. 
 So really very little could be done till The Pobble 
 came back from Aunt Jopiska. When he did come 
 back there was some other delay, but it's always
 
 142 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 well to be beforehand. The enthusiasts of this Idea 
 could look at Premises ; and did so. 
 
 All this has little or nothing to do with the story. 
 But it serves to individualize Mr. Hughes, who, but 
 for it, would be merely a long artist with a goatee 
 beard, who not infrequently looked in to smoke a 
 pipe on the split wild boar whose head endangered 
 the safety of self-warmers on Mr. Aiken's floor in 
 the Studio near the stove where he found the Vestas 
 that were all stuck together. 
 
 Mr. Hughes was standing there, a good many 
 weeks after our last date, chatting with Mr. Aiken, 
 who was becoming quite slovenly and dirty with 
 nobody to look after him because, of course, Mrs. 
 Parples, who came in by the day, hadn't the sense to 
 see to anything; and, moreover, he was that snappy 
 at every turn, there wasn't, according to Mrs. 
 Parples, many would abear him. 
 
 He had been hoping that the first of his advisers 
 whom we cited was right, and that if he waited a 
 reasonable time he would see if his wife wouldn't 
 come round. If they always did, she would. But 
 he was beginning to be afraid they sometimes 
 didn't. He had even impatiently expressed a 
 view equivalent to that which identified her with 
 obstinacy itself, the quality. But this was only 
 temper, though no doubt she might stick out. 
 They might sometimes, those curious examples of
 
 A LIKELY STORY 143 
 
 a perfectly unique Sex. He really wanted to go 
 to her with persuasive arts and procure a reconcilia- 
 tion. But he was too proud. 
 
 Besides, if that was possible now, it would be 
 equally so three months hence. As to the fourth 
 alternative, that of showing he didn't care, that 
 would be capital on the stage, but he wasn't going 
 to burn his fingers with it in real life. So he passed 
 his days working, in his own conceit; and smoking 
 in a chair opposite to his work, in Mrs. Parples'. 
 Perhaps neither conception was quite correct. His 
 evenings he mostly passed seeing bad plays well 
 acted, or good plays ill acted these are the only 
 sorts you can get free paper for. It was ridiculous 
 for him, knowing such a lot of actors, to pay at the 
 door. Now and again, however, he stayed at 
 home, and a friend came in for a quiet smoke. 
 Even so Mr. Hughes, this evening. 
 
 " Things improvin' at all, Crocky ? " said 
 he, not exactly as if he thought he wasn't 
 inquisitive. 
 
 Mr. Aiken kept an answer, which was coming, 
 back for consideration. He appeared to reject it, 
 going off at a tangent by preference. He had made 
 up his mind, he said, not to fret his kidneys any 
 more over his wife's absence. She would come 
 round before long, and eat humble pie for having 
 made such a fool of herself. He preferred the
 
 144 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 expression " damn fool," but chivalry limited its 
 utterance to a semi-so^o voce. " I might get a 
 letter from her any minute," said he. " Why, 
 when the post came just now, I fully expected it 
 was a letter from her." He appeared to confuse 
 between expectation's maximum and its realiza- 
 tion. " There he is again. I shouldn't be the least 
 surprised if this one was." 
 
 He left the room with a transparent parade of 
 deliberation. But before he had reached the stair- 
 case the postman knocked again, and Mr. Aiken 
 came back saying : " It isn't her. It's something 
 that won't go in the box." This was slack language 
 and slack reasoning confusion confounded. But 
 Mr. Aiken retired on it with dignity, saying : " Mrs. 
 Parples attends to the door." 
 
 The something continued to refuse, audibly, to 
 go in the box, and Mrs. Parples didn't attend to the 
 door. The postman put all his soul into a final 
 knock, which seemed to say, " I am leaving, half- 
 out, what may be only an advertisement, or may 
 be vital to your hereafter, or somebody's ; " and 
 then washed his hands of it and took up Next 
 Door's case. Mr. Aiken listened for Mrs. Parples, 
 who remained in abeyance, and then went out again 
 and returned with a very ill-made-up consignment 
 indeed, and a normal square envelope with a be- 
 spoken " M " embossed on its flap, directed in
 
 A LIKELY STORY 145 
 
 an upright hand, partly robust, partly esthetic, an 
 expression applied nowadays to anything with a 
 charm about it. This handwriting had one. 
 
 " Parples is sleeping peacefully," said Mr. Aiken. 
 " It would be a shame to disturb Parples. I know 
 who this is." He opened the envelope with 
 difficulty, but looked stroked and gratified. The 
 latter was from his very sincerely Madeline Up well. 
 Just you notice any male friend of yours next time 
 you have a chance of seeing one open a letter from 
 youth and beauty which remains however theo- 
 retically his very sincerely, and see if he doesn't 
 look stroked and gratified. 
 
 Mr. Hughes picked up the delivery that had given 
 the letter-box so much trouble, and looked through 
 it at each end. Mr. Aiken was busy reading his 
 letter over and over; so he could only throw out 
 a sideways carte-blanche to Mr. Hughes to unpack 
 the inner secret of the roll. This was what he was 
 reading : 
 
 " DEAR MK. AIKEN, 
 
 " I think you may like a copy of the photo Cap- 
 tain Calverley (who perhaps you will remember came 
 with me to your Studio) made of this beautiful pic- 
 ture, which I am never tired of looking at. I think 
 it so good. Please accept it from us if you care to 
 have it. Believe me, dear Mr. Aiken, with kind
 
 146 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 regards to yourself and Mrs. Aiken, in which my 
 mother joins, 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " MADELINE UPWELL. 
 
 " P.S. I know you will be sorry to hear that 
 Captain Calverley's regiment is ordered out to South 
 Africa. Of course, it makes us very anxious." 
 
 " Transparent sort of gurl ! " said Mr. Hughes, 
 when Mr. Aiken read the letter aloud to him. " Of 
 course, Captain Carmichael's her sweetheart. Any- 
 body can see that with half an eye." 
 
 " Calverley," said Mr. Aiken. " Yes they get 
 like that when it's like that." And both pondered 
 a little, smoking, over the peculiarities of humanity, 
 especially that inexplicable female half of it. 
 " Chuck it over here and let's have a look at it," he 
 added, and Mr. Hughes chucked him over the 
 photograph. He contemplated it for a moment in 
 silence ; then said : "I expect she wasn't far out, 
 after all. Euphemia, I mean." 
 
 " Chuck it back again and let's have another 
 look," said Mr. Hughes. Mr. Aiken did so, and let 
 him have the other look. " Yes," said he. " They 
 went it in Italy, about that time, don't you know! 
 Fifteenth or sixteenth century. That sort of 
 thing ! " For Mr. Hughes knew a lot about Italy, 
 and could quote Browning. He uncrickled a result
 
 A LIKELY STORY 147 
 
 of the shape of that letter-box, or tried to, and then 
 stood the photograph so that they could both see 
 it, while they talked of something else, against the 
 gres-de-Flandres straight-up pot that was so handy 
 to stand brushes in, like umbrellas. 
 
 They had plenty to talk about, because at this 
 time the Idea of Mr. Hughes that was destined to 
 fill so important an horizon in the History of Modern 
 Art, and was also pregnant with incalculable con- 
 sequences to several things or persons, besides 
 having an indirect bearing on several others, and 
 challenging the bedrock of Modern Art Criticism 
 for it had the courage of its convictions, and stuck 
 at nothing this Idea was taking form slowly but 
 surely, and was already making itself felt in more 
 ways than one. It was easy to laugh at it this 
 was indisputable but he who lived longest would 
 see most. It had a future before it, and if you 
 would only just wait twenty years, you would see 
 if it hadn't. You mark the words of its disciple, 
 whoever he was you were talking to that was all 
 he said and see if he wasn't right! He was a 
 little indignant some samples of him with audi- 
 ences who decided to wait, his own enthusiasm 
 believing that the results might be safely anticipated. 
 However, the Idea prospered, there is no doubt of 
 that, and the circle of enthusiasts who had leagued 
 themselves together to foster it and promote a true
 
 148 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 understanding of it had already taken premises, 
 and their telephone number was 692,423 Western. 
 
 " It's true," said Mr. Hughes, " that the light in 
 the Galleries is bad, and the hot-air system of 
 warming will destroy any ordinary oil picture in 
 a month. But altering all that is the merest 
 question of money comes off the guarantee fund, 
 in fact. And one thing nobody but a fool can help 
 seein', at the first go off, is that the Galleries are 
 rum. Rumness is half the battle." This expressed 
 so deep and indisputable a truth that Mr. Aiken 
 could not assent strongly enough in mere words. 
 He nodded rapidly and most expressively, without 
 speech. However, when he had reached the natural 
 limits of a nod's assenting power, he added, " Right 
 you are, Stumpy, my boy. Gee up ! " and Mr. 
 Hughes resumed : 
 
 " I ain't sayin', mind you, Crocky, that any sort 
 of hocus-pocus is justifiable in any case. When I 
 use the expression ' rum,' I am keepin' in view the 
 absolute necessity for a receptive attitude of mind 
 in the visitor to the Galleries. Tell me such an at- 
 titude of mind is possible without a measure of rum- 
 ness as a stimulant, and I say ' Humbug ! ' 
 
 Mr. Aiken said again, " Right you are, Stumpy." 
 But he did not rise to enthusiasm seemed low and 
 depressed. 
 
 " It all connects with the fundamental root of
 
 A LIKELY STORY 149 
 
 the Idea," Mr. Hughes continued. " No one would 
 be more repugnant than myself to any ramification 
 in the direction of Wardour Street . . . you under- 
 stand me ? . . . " 
 
 "Rather!" said Mr. Aiken. And he seemed to 
 do so. It is not necessary for the purposes of this 
 story to prove that either of these gentlemen un- 
 derstood what they were talking about, or anything 
 else, but their conversation has a bearing on their 
 respective characters and their preoccupations at this 
 moment, which are part of it. 
 
 Mr. Hughes had mounted a rhetorical hobby, and 
 wished to have his ride. He rigged up three fingers 
 of his left hand, holding them in front of him to 
 check off three heads on, as soon as he should come 
 to that inevitable stage. He did not know what 
 they would be, but his instinctive faith made 
 nothing of that. They would be needed, all in good 
 time. 
 
 " I am not saying," he pursued, " that Wardour 
 Street, in its widest sense, has nothing to recom- 
 mend it. I am not saying that it makes no appeal. 
 I am not disputing its historical and ethical stand- 
 points . . . you see what I mean ? " This was a 
 concession to the difficulties that await the orator 
 who expects to round up his sentences. Mr. Aiken 
 interjected, to help this one out of an embarrass- 
 ment :
 
 150 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Couldn't be better put ! Let it go at that ; " 
 and knocked some ashes out of his pipe. 
 
 Mr. Hughes was grateful, because he had had no 
 idea what to say next. His indebtedness, however, 
 had to be ignored ; else, what became of Dignity ? 
 An enlarged manner accepted a laurel or two due 
 to lucidity, as he continued: "But I do say this, 
 that, considered as a basis perhaps I should say 
 a fulcrum or shall I say as a working hypothesis of 
 the substratum or framework of the Idea? . . ." 
 The speaker hesitated. 
 
 " That's the safest way to put it," said Mr. 
 Aiken, but rather gloomily. He was re-lighting his 
 pipe. 
 
 " I think so," said Mr. Hughes judicially. " Con- 
 sidered as ... what I said just now . . . "War- 
 dour Street is, to my thinkin', played out. Quite 
 distinctly played out. . . . What's that ? " 
 
 " What's what ? " The questions seemed to 
 refer to something heard and unheard, by each 
 speaker respectively. Mr. Aiken did not press for 
 an answer, but went to the door, persuading his 
 pipe to draw by the way. " Want anything, Mrs. 
 Parples ? " said he, looking out. But no answer 
 came. " Mrs. P. is sleeping happily in the 
 kitchen," said he, returning. " It wasn't her. It 
 was an effect of something." 
 
 " I suppose it was. Thought I heard it, too."
 
 A LIKELY STORY 151 
 
 Perhaps, if you ever chanced to hear a conversa- 
 tion about nobody could exactly say what, you 
 noticed that nobody did say anything very exactly, 
 and everybody talked like these two gentlemen r 
 who certainly had heard something, but who 
 decided that they hadn't, because they couldn't find 
 out what it was. It was too slight to discuss. 
 
 They each said " Rum ! " and settled down to 
 chat again, after turning down the gas, which made 
 a beastly glare. Mr. Hughes had forgotten about 
 the three heads, though, and taken his fingers down. 
 He did, however, pursue the topic which claimed 
 his attention, having embarked upon it, and feeling 
 bound to conduct it to a close. He said something 
 to this effect, and we hope our report is fairly 
 accurate. He certainly appeared to say that some- 
 thing, which could hardly have been anything r 
 grammatically, but the close to which he conducted 
 the topic, embodied the point which underlay the 
 whole of the extensive area which the Idea opened up 
 for development, and turned upon the indisputable 
 truth that the Highest Art sculpture, music, 
 painting, poetry is never intelligible to the ver- 
 nacular mind. How could any inference be more 
 incontestable than that no Art could rise above 
 mediocrity until a quorum of commonplace persons 
 should be found honestly incapable of attaching 
 any meaning to it? By making unintelligibility to
 
 152 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 the banal mind a criterion of superiority in Art, we 
 established a Standard of Criticism, and eliminated 
 from consideration a wilderness of insipidity which 
 Mr. Hughes did not hesitate to call a nightmare. 
 For his part, he was so confident that the system 
 of Negative Juries, as they had been called, was 
 sounder than any appeal to popular applause that 
 he was quite willing that his own work should stand 
 or fall by the decision of the Commonplace Intelli- 
 gence as to which side up the picture should be 
 looked at. He would go that length, and take the 
 consequences. Let the Selection Committee of their 
 proposed Annual Exhibition consist entirely of such 
 Intelligences, and let the Hanging Committee hang 
 all the pictures they were unable to make head or tail 
 of, and such a galaxy of productions of Genius would 
 be accumulated every year on their walls as the World 
 had never before seen. 
 
 " Not work in practice ? " said Mr. Hughes, re- 
 plying to a morose doubt of Mr. Aiken's. " Just 
 you redooce it to practice. Take the case that 
 your Jury guesses the subject of a picture. Out 
 it goes! Did you ever know that class able to 
 make head or tail of the subject of a work of Genius ? 
 Gradual and infallible elimination, my boy that's 
 the ticket ! " The speaker, who, though perhaps 
 rather an idiot only, mind you, he was subject now 
 and then to something almost like Inspiration threw
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 153 
 
 himself back in his chair as though he had exhausted 
 the subject, and might rest. 
 
 " Don't b'lieve it would work/' said Mr. Aiken, 
 sucking at his pipe. But he was evidently in a 
 temper this evening, and Mr. Hughes paid no 
 attention to his nonsense. However, it was no use 
 talking about the Idea to him until he was more 
 sympathetic. He would come right presently. 
 
 To cajole him into a better frame of mind, Mr. 
 Hughes began talking of something else. " Queer 
 sort of Studio, this of yours, Crocky," said he. 
 
 " What do you make out's queer about it, 
 Stumpy \ " said Mr. Aiken. 
 
 " Such peculiar echoes ! " 
 
 " I don't hear any echoes." 
 
 " Well, when you went to the door you heard 
 that?" 
 
 " Oh, that wasn't an echo : that was somebody 
 spoke outside." 
 
 " Somebody spoke outside ? What did she say ? 
 What was it you heard ? " 
 
 " Couldn't say. What did you ? " 
 
 " Well, what I heard sounded like l Where is 
 Mrs. Aiken ? ' You shut up and listen a minute." 
 Mr. Aiken accepted the suggestion, and the two sat 
 listening in the half -dark. 
 
 Now, whenever sounds are listened for, they show 
 a most obliging spirit, becoming audible where
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 you thought silence was going on peacefully alone. 
 The first sound that made Mr. Hughes say " There 
 now ! what's that ? " turned out to be the gas, 
 which, at a carefully chosen point, rippled. The 
 next proved to be an intermittent spring fizzing on 
 the hot stove from a water- jar placed upon it. 
 The third was a spontaneous insect unknown to 
 Entomology, which had faced the difficulties of 
 self-making, behind the skirting, and evidently was 
 not going to remain a mere cipher. The fourth 
 was something or other that squeaked on the table, 
 and if one changed the places of things, noises like 
 that always stopped. So Mr. Aiken shifted the 
 things about, and said Mr. Hughes would see that 
 would stop it. He faced the responsibilities of the 
 Investigator by quenching the phenomenon, a time- 
 honoured method. He wrapped up the photograph, 
 and put it away in a drawer to show to Euphemia. 
 It would be interestin' to see if she recognized it. 
 . . . Oh yes ! she would be back in the next few 
 days sure to! 
 
 And Mr. Hughes saw that the shifting about of 
 the things on the table had stopped the noise he 
 called an echo, and what more could he or anybody 
 want? So he sat down again and had some toddy, 
 and talked about the Idea. And towards one in 
 the morning he got the opportunity of checking off 
 three heads on his three fingers, and feeling that
 
 A LIKELY STORY 155 
 
 he ought to have been in Parliament. He had felt 
 previously rather like a Seneschal with three spears 
 vacant over his portcullis, longing for a healthy de- 
 capitation to give them employment. 
 
 The foregoing chapter, apart from the way in 
 which it emphasizes Mr. Aiken's loneliness and dis- 
 content as a bachelor, would be just as well left 
 out of the story, but for the seemingly insignificant 
 incident of the echo, or whatever it was, which 
 might have been unintelligible if referred to here- 
 after, without its surroundings.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FOLLOWS MRS. EUPHEMIA AIKEN TO COOMBE AND MALDEN. 
 PBOPEB PRIDE. YOU CANNOT GO BACK ON A RAILWAY TICKET, 
 HOWEVER SMALL ITS PRICE. ONE'S AUNTS. HOW MISS 
 PRISCILLA BAX WAS NOT SURPRISED WHEN SHE HEARD IT 
 WAS REGINALD. OF THE UPAS TREE OF REPUTATIONS THE 
 PURE MIND. HOW AUNT PRISCEY WORKED HER NIECE UP. 
 A DEXTEROUS CITATION FROM EPISTLES. NEVER WRITE A 
 LETTER, IF YOU WANT THE WIND TO LULL. ELLEN JANE 
 DUDBURY AND HER MAMMA. OF JU-JITSU AS AN ANTIDOTE 
 TO TATTLE. OF THE RELATIVE ADVANTAGES OF IMMORTALITY 
 TO THE TWO SEXES. OF GOOD SOULS AND BUSY BODIES, AND 
 OF THE GROOBS. HOW THAT ODIOUS LITTLE DOLLY WAS THE 
 MODERN ZURBABAN. BUT HE HAD NEVER SO MUCH AS 
 CALLED. COLOSSIANS THREE-EIGHTEEN. MISS JESSIE BAX 
 AND HER PUPPY. MISS VOLUMNIA BAX. THE DELICACY OF 
 THE FEMALE CHARACTER. OF THE RADIO-ACTIVITY OF SPACE 
 AND HOW MR. ADOLPHUS GROOB SAT NEXT TO MRS. AIKEN. 
 THE GODFREY PYBUSES. BUT THEY HAVE NOTHING TO DO 
 WITH THE STORY. HOW TIME SLIPPED BY, AND HOW MB. 
 AIKEN EMPLOYED HIM TILL THE YEAR DREW TO AN END 
 
 EUPHEMIA AIKEN, be it understood, had not 
 brought definition to bear on her motives for run- 
 ning away to her Aunt Priscilla at Coombe. It 
 seemed the nearest handy way of expressing her in- 
 dignation at her profligate husband's conduct that 
 was all. 
 
 By the time she had got to Clapham Junction her 
 indignation had begun to cool. But no ruction 
 
 156
 
 A LIKELY STORY 157 
 
 would hold out for five minutes if it depended on 
 legitimate indignation. Unfortunately, when that 
 emotion gets up, it always awakens pride, with whom 
 or which it has been sleeping. And pride, once 
 roused and she or it is not a sound sleeper 
 won't go to bed again on any terms, not even when 
 indignation is quite tired out, and ready for another 
 snooze. So when Euphemia got to Clapham Junc- 
 tion, it was not her drowsy indignation that made 
 tip its mind she should take a third-class single 
 ticket, but her proper pride, which said peremp- 
 torily that even a weekly return would be absurd. 
 Besides, there weren't any weekly returns. Be- 
 sides, it was only threepence difference. Anyhow, 
 she wasn't going to come back till she had given 
 Reginald a severe lesson. Her condition of mind 
 was no doubt the one her husband described by 
 an expression obscure in itself, but too widely ac- 
 cepted to be refused a place in the language. He 
 said that her monkey was up. 
 
 There is a sense of the irrevocable about the 
 taking of a railway ticket. Even when it is only 
 ninepence-halfpenny the sum Euphemia paid to go 
 third to Coombe and Maiden one's soul says, as 
 the punch bites a piece viciously out of it, that the 
 die is cast. If you were to hear suddenly that 
 bubonic plague had broken out at, for instance, 
 Pegwell Bay, you having booked to Ramsgate,
 
 158 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 would not you feel committed to your visit, plague 
 or no ? Would not your wife say, " But we have 
 taken our tickets " ? Ours would. Was it any 
 wonder that, with Pride at her elbow and her ticket 
 inside her glove, Mrs. Reginald Aiken resisted a 
 faint temptation to get out at Wimbledon and go 
 back by the next up train that would promise to 
 stop at Clapham Junction ? The story cannot pre- 
 tend it is sorry she did not, because it would have 
 lost all interest for the general reader by her do- 
 ing so. 
 
 We ourselves believe that if it had not been for 
 Miss Priscilla Bax, she might have returned to her 
 husband next day. The human race has, however, 
 to stand or fall by its aunts, as it finds them, they 
 being almost always faits accomplis when its com- 
 ponent individuals are born. Miss Bax had been 
 one some forty years when her niece Euphemia came 
 on the scene, and one of the good lady's strong points 
 was the low opinion she had of persons who married 
 into her family. She was, however, a kind-hearted 
 old lady, in spite of her disapproval of her niece's 
 choice of a husband, and his choice of a profession; 
 and had not only countenanced the marriage, but 
 had allowed the couple, as above related, a hundred 
 a year. Being the only well-off member of her 
 family, she was expected to do this sort of thing. 
 Like the well-off members of other families, she
 
 A LIKELY STORY 159 
 
 was only permitted to have property on condition 
 that she did not keep it for herself. 
 
 When Euphemia's cab from the station drove her 
 up to Athabasca Villa, her aunt's residence, this 
 lady had got through her seven o'clock dinner, and 
 couldn't imagine who that could possibly be. It 
 was such a queer time for visitors. It must be a 
 mistake. She was so satisfied of this that she in- 
 augurated a doze, listening through its preamble for 
 something to explain the mistake. She was betrayed 
 by the doze, which might have had a minute's pa- 
 tience, and was roused from what it insidiously be- 
 came by a voice, saying guardedly : " Oh dear, I'm 
 afraid I waked you up ! " 
 
 " I was not asleeep," said Miss Priscilla, with 
 dignity, kissing the owner of the voice. " I was 
 listening." However, it took time to wake quite 
 up, and until that happened the old lady did not 
 fully grasp the surprising character of so late a 
 visit; and indeed, until she became aware that a 
 box was being carried upstairs, had but dreamy 
 impressions of the event. In time reality dawned, 
 and she showed it by saying : " I suppose, Euphemia, 
 you will want your bed made up." 
 
 As this was the case, and no human ingenuity 
 could soften the fact, Mrs. Aiken only said : "I 
 know it's very troublesome." 
 
 To which Miss Priscilla replied : " Nothing is
 
 160 . A LIKELY STORY 
 
 troublesome, so long as you only say distinctly. 
 Now, do you want anything to eat? Because din- 
 ner is taken away." Reviving decision, after sleep, 
 became emphatic. Self-respect called for self- 
 assertion. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken shuffled. She wasn't hungry, she said. 
 
 " Have you had dinner ? Because if you have not 
 had dinner, you must have dinner. Ring the bell 
 twice, and Pemphridge will come." 
 
 Pemphridge came, and could warm the chicken. 
 Pemphridge did warm the chicken, and Mrs. Aiken 
 hardly touched it. After which she returned, look- 
 ing extremely miserable, to her aunt in the drawing- 
 room, who said majestically : " And now perhaps, 
 Euphemia, you will tell me what all this means." 
 
 " It's Reginald," said Euphemia. 
 
 " I am not surprised," said her aunt. 
 
 " But you don't know yet." 
 
 " I know nothing whatever. But I am not sur- 
 prised. Is it reasonable, Euphemia, to expect me to 
 be surprised? After what I have so frequently had 
 occasion to say. But I am quite prepared to hear 
 that I have said no such thing. Pray tell me any- 
 thing you like. I will not contradict you." Aunt 
 Priscilla assumed a rigid continuousness, as of one 
 who forms to receive aspersions. Truth will triumph 
 in the end; meanwhile there is no harm in portend- 
 ing that triumph by an aggressive stony patience.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 161 
 
 " Only you don't know what it is, Aunt Priscey," 
 said her niece. No more she did, speaking academ- 
 ically. She was, however, quite prepared for every 
 contingency. 
 
 " I do not think you are the person to say that 
 to me, Euphemia, seeing that you have told me 
 nothing absolutely nothing! But I can wait." 
 She waited. As she lay face upwards on the sofa 
 the nearest approach to an Early Victorian recum- 
 bent effigy that the Nature of things permits she 
 presented the appearance of a deserving person 
 floating on her back in a sea of exasperation. Un- 
 less this image justifies itself, it must be condemned. 
 Nothing in literature can excuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Euphemia was so used to her aunt, with 
 whom she had lived since the death of her parents 
 fifteen years since, that she knew she might never 
 get a better moment than this for telling the story 
 of her passage of arms with her husband. She there- 
 fore embarked on a narrative of the events we know, 
 and contrived to get them told, in spite of interrup- 
 tions, the nature of which, after the foregoing sample 
 of Aunt Priscilla, we can surmise. Neither need 
 be repeated. 
 
 Thereafter followed a long conversation, the sub- 
 stance of which has already been given. Its effect 
 was to try Mrs. Euphemia's faith in her husband 
 which still existed, mind you ! very severely. Have
 
 '162 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 you ever noticed but of course you have that 
 when Inexperience testifies to the sinfulness of the 
 human race passim, Average Experience hides her 
 diminished head, and does not venture on whatever 
 there is to be said on behalf of the culprit. A 
 shocking race, no doubt, but scarcely so bad as pure 
 minds paint it ! Old single ladies have pure minds, 
 as often as not, and wield them with a fiendish 
 dexterity, polishing off Lancelot and Galahad, 
 Modred and Arthur himself, all in a breath. Which 
 of us dares to try a fall with a pure-minded person, 
 in defence of his sex, or anyone else's? Miss 
 Priscilla, having a pure mind and getting the bit 
 in her teeth in connection with her nephew-in-law's 
 shortcomings, bolted, and dragged her niece after 
 her through an imaginary Society compounded of 
 London in the days of the Regency and Rome in 
 the days of Tiberius, with a touch of impending 
 Divine vengeance in the bush, justifying reference 
 to Sodom and Gomorrah. She succeeded in making 
 the young woman thoroughly uncomfortable, and 
 causing the quarrel to assume proportions which is 
 what things that get bigger are understood to do 
 nowadays such as it never dreamed of at first. 
 For Mrs. Euphemia's scheme of life allowed for ever- 
 lasting bickerings, never-ending recriminations, last 
 words ad libitum, short tiffs, long tiffs, tempersome- 
 ness and proper spirit all, in fact, that makes life
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 163 
 
 drag in families but always under chronic con- 
 ditions that precluded a crisis. If her worthy aunt's 
 suggestion that this incident of Sairah was the 
 merest spark from ignes suppositos cineri, and that 
 her husband had never been even as good as he 
 should be if this indicated a true view of his 
 character, she for one wasn't going to put up with 
 such conduct, Corinthians or no! This was a 
 crisis, only it was one that never would have come 
 about but for Miss Priscilla. So, as we mentioned 
 some time since, Mrs. Euphemia cried herself to 
 sleep, and next day, galled by ill-considered moral 
 precepts about the whole duty of Woman, wrote an 
 infuriated letter to her dear Reginald not her 
 dearest; she might have any number of dearer 
 Reginalds on draught stating at a very high figure 
 the amount of penance she would make a necessary 
 condition of reconciliation, and even then it would 
 never be the same thing underlined. She was, 
 however, so completely the slave of a beautiful 
 disposition, that no course was open to her but 
 forgiveness, subject only to a reduction of some 
 ninety-percent, at the dictation of a rarely sensi- 
 tive consciousness of obligation to Duty, which she 
 gave him to understand was her ruling passion. 
 The letter demanded the assimilation of an amount 
 of humble pie outside practical politics so Mr. 
 Aiken said to a friend after reading it; the phrase-
 
 164 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 ology is his. He hadn't done anything to deserve 
 the character imputed to him in language he could 
 identify by the style as Aunt Priscilla's, shorn of 
 much of its Scriptural character. It incensed him, 
 and caused him to write a letter which widened the 
 breach between them. Then she wrote back, and 
 the breach fairly yawned. There is nothing so 
 effective as correspondence to consolidate a quarrel. 
 She had been at all times since her marriage a 
 frequent visitor enough at Athabasca Villa for the 
 inquisitiveness of her aunt's circle of friends to 
 remain unexcited; for a week or so, at any rate. 
 But that good lady's unholy alacrity in disclaiming 
 all knowledge of her niece's domestic affairs stimu- 
 lated a premature curiosity. When the Peter 
 Dudburys called, Aunt Priscilla might quite easily 
 have said, in reply to Mrs. Peter Dudbury's " And 
 how is the Artist ? " that she believed the said 
 Artist was enjoying good health. Instead of which 
 she was seized with a sort of paroxysm, exclaiming 
 very often : " Don't ask me ! I know nothing 
 whatever about it. Nuth, thing-what, ever ! " and 
 shaking her head with her eyes tight shut. Where- 
 upon Ellen Jane Dudbury said, " Shishmar! " and 
 stamped cruelly on her mother's foot. Now really 
 that amiable woman had only expanded into her 
 gushy inquiry after Mr. Aiken because she knew that 
 she and her three daughters had asked more than
 
 A LIKELY STORY 165 
 
 once after everyone else. She felt hurt, and re- 
 solved to have it out with Ellen Jane, and indeed 
 began to do so as soon as they were out of hearing. 
 
 " Wellmar," said Ellen Jane, " what is one to do 
 when you won't take the slightest notice ? " She 
 went on to explain that any person of normal 
 shrewdness would have seen, the moment Mrs. 
 Aiken made excuses and went upstairs, that there 
 was something. You could always see when there 
 was anything if you chose to use your eyes. It was 
 no use telling her Ellen Jane, that is that there 
 was nothing. She knew better. It was compli- 
 mentary to Ellen Jane's penetration that her mother 
 and sisters hoped aloud at the next house where 
 they called and captured the tenants to inquire 
 after them, that there really was nothing between 
 young Mrs. Aiken and her husband, and most likely 
 it was all fancy, because there was nothing what- 
 ever to go upon, and such absurd stories did get 
 about. 
 
 To our thinking it is clear that the receptivity 
 of the Peter Dudburys was caused by that paroxysm 
 of Aunt Priscilla's. An adoption of a like attitude 
 with other visitors tended to enrich the gossip of 
 Coombe and Maiden at the expense of Mrs. Euphemia 
 Aiken. 
 
 Miss Priscilla did not have paroxysms of this class 
 in her niece's presence, so of course the latter had
 
 166 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 the less chance of guessing that the cause of her 
 visit to Athabasca Villa had become common prop- 
 erty. She did, however, wake up to the fact that 
 Coombe and Maiden were commiserating her. The 
 impertinence of those neighbourhoods! She would 
 have liked to knock their heads together. The worst 
 of it was that no one put commiseration into a con- 
 crete form, such as " How is dear Mr. Aiken's 
 infidelity going on ? " or " We are so shocked to 
 think how your most sacred affections are being 
 lacerated." Then she might have flown at such 
 like sympathizers with a poker, or got them down 
 and cricked their joints by Ju-jitsu. This practice 
 of talking about everyone else's private affairs to 
 every-other else, never to their proprietor, is good 
 for our father the Devil, but bad for his sons and 
 daughters. Amen. 
 
 The truth is that, for some unexplained reason, a 
 lady who runs away from her husband gets no sort 
 of credit or glory by doing so, but only puts herself 
 in an uncomfortable position ; unless, indeed, she 
 takes up with some other male, preferably a repro- 
 bate. Then an unhallowed splendour envelops 
 her, and protects her from the cards of respectability, 
 which has misgivings about her possible effect on 
 its sons and husbands. We wonder, is this what 
 is meant when one hears that some lady is living 
 under the protection of Duke Baily or Duke
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 167 
 
 Humph y? Are those is one of them, we mean 
 protecting her from Mrs. Peter Dudbury ? Honour 
 to his Grace, whichever he is, if he acts up to his 
 description ! 
 
 With the nobler sex the reverse is the case. 
 Whether deserting or deserted, he is rather looked 
 up to by his more securely anchored male friends 
 as the subject of a wider and more illuminating 
 experience than their own. Of course, the forsaken 
 example does not shine with the radiance of a self- 
 supporting inconstancy. It may be that he comes off 
 best in the end, if he is a man of spirit, and finds 
 consolation elsewhere. For then he can not only 
 crow, farmyard-wise, but he has the heartfelt satis- 
 faction of being an ill-used man into the bargain. 
 If he cottons to someone else's ill-used wife, he has 
 nothing left to wish for. 
 
 ^Nothing of all this has any application in this 
 story, unless it attaches to the fact that Mr. Aiken 
 found some consolation in the company of his 
 friends, while his wife found none in that of her 
 acquaintances. As both parties were perfectly 
 blameless in the ordinary sense of the word geese 
 are most blameless birds none of the numerous 
 advantages of wickedness were secured by either. 
 Their interests in Belial never vested. Mrs. Adken 
 never meant not to go back in the end, as soon as 
 she had made her husband knuckle down, and con-
 
 168 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 fess up. And he was consciously keeping his home 
 unsullied by anything too Bohemian, in order that 
 when Euphemia came back as of course she would 
 no memory of the interregnum should clash with the 
 Restoration. 
 
 Euphemia had the worst of it; but then she was 
 the weaker party. If weaker parties take to ex- 
 pecting the emoluments of stronger parties, what shall 
 we come to next? This feeling of the unfairness 
 of things in general and Destiny in particular, tended 
 towards exasperation and intensification, and the 
 South Cone metaphors may be fetched from any 
 distance remained up in the districts of Coombe 
 and Maiden. Time passed and Mrs. Euphemia had 
 perforce to endure the commiseration of those dis- 
 tricts. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Athabasca Villa might be 
 classed as a congested district, and its population 
 as consisting, broadly speaking, of good souls and 
 busy bodies. Every resident was both, be it under- 
 stood. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " said Euphemia to her aunt, one break- 
 fast time. " Of course the Groobs are goodness 
 itself. But why can't they mind their own busi- 
 ness ? " For although it may appear incredible, a 
 family residing in the neighbourhood was actually 
 named Groob. 
 
 " My dear," said Miss Priscilla, " do not be un-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 169 
 
 reasonable and violent. Mr. Latimer Groob is, I 
 understand, a wine-importer in quite a large way of 
 business, with more than one retail establishment; 
 and his son, Mr. Adolphus Groob, has, I am told, 
 talent. He has had several pictures on the line, 
 somewhere, and comes down to see his family on 
 Saturdays, and to stop till Monday." 
 
 " Well, then ! " said Euphemia. " It wasn't the 
 Peter Dudburys this time. At least, it needn't have 
 been, for anything I can see." 
 
 " Why not ? . . . Do take care of the table- 
 cloth ! Anne has put one of the best out by mistake. 
 I must speak to her. . . . Why not the Peter Dud- 
 burys this time ? " 
 
 " I am not cutting the cloth. The knife is miles 
 off. Why not the Peter Dudburys? Why, be- 
 cause I know that odious little Dolly Groob. He's a 
 friend of Reginald's, and comes to the Studio. I 
 can see. I'm not a baby. Of course, Reginald has 
 been talking to him." Mrs. Euphemia bit her lips, 
 and was under the impression that her eyes flashed. 
 But they didn't really eyes never do; it's a facon 
 de parler. 
 
 Miss Priscilla ignored this petulance. " You had 
 better let me pour you out some fresh coffee," she 
 said. " Yours is getting cold. I cannot say, my 
 dear, that I think ' that odious little Dolly Groob ' 
 is at all the way to speak of an artist who has had
 
 170 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 pictures on the line. And his father, now I think of 
 it, is in Paris also. Besides, I see he is distinguish- 
 ing himself by his connection with something." 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 " It was in yesterday evening's paper. Perhaps 
 Anne hasn't burned it. Anyhow, I do not think the 
 expression ' odious little ' well chosen. . . . Oh 
 yes that's it! Give it to Miss Eupheinia." That 
 is to say, Anne the parlourmaid, not having burned 
 yesterday's evening paper, had produced it as by 
 necromancy, in response. The way Aunt Priscilla 
 spoke of her niece was an accident, not a suggestion 
 that Mr. Aiken was cancelled. It caused " Miss 
 Euphemia," however, a slight twinge of an inde- 
 scribable discomfort. Possibly, if this is ever read 
 by any lady who has ever been in exactly the same 
 position, she will understand why. 
 
 The story knows of it because, when Anne had 
 left the room, Mrs. Aiken looked up from the news- 
 paper, where she had found what she was looking 
 for, to say : " I think, Aunt Priscey, you might be 
 more careful before the servants." 
 
 Her aunt replied with dignity : " What you are 
 referring to, my dear Euphemia, I cannot profess 
 to understand." Of course she did, perfectly well. 
 What she meant was, " I know you cannot get a 
 conviction, so I can tell a fib." Mankind, securely 
 entrenched, fibs freely.
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 171 
 
 " Why ' Miss Euphemia,' of course ! " said the 
 niece, quoting incisively. " But I know it's no use 
 my asking you to pay the slightest attention." She 
 became absorbed in her paper. 
 
 " I think you are nonsensical, my dear," said the 
 aunt. She retired behind something morally equiv- 
 alent to the lines of Torres Vedras; but was still 
 audible outside, saying: "I think you might say 
 whether you have, or have not, found about Mr. 
 Adolphus Groob." 
 
 The niece made no response for a moment, but 
 continued reading; then said, as one who, coming 
 up from diving, speaks without quite locating his 
 audience : " Oh yes there's about Mr. Groob here. 
 I can't read it all, there's such a lot. Is there some 
 coffee left ? . . . Three-quarters of a cup, 
 please ! " 
 
 Please observe that, although this aunt and niece 
 always conversed more or less as if each was strain- 
 ing the patience of the other past endurance, no 
 sort of ill-will was thereby implied on either part. 
 It may be that it was only that they emphasized 
 the ordinary intercourse of British families. Per- 
 haps you know how much the average foreign family 
 nags, en famille. We do not. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken read the newspaper paragraph aloud, 
 skipping portions. What she read described the 
 formation of the Xew Modernism, the Artistic
 
 172 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Society about which so much was being said among 
 well-informed circles of the Art World, with the 
 reservation that nothing must be accepted as official. 
 The Editor was breaking confidence in telling so 
 much; but then he really was unable, with that 
 pitiful heart of his, to bear the yearning faces and 
 heartrending cries for information of his reading 
 public. The only course open to him was to put 
 aside all conscientious scruples, and divulge what 
 had reached him, as it were, under the seal of con- 
 fession. Such a thirst must be satiated, or worse 
 might come of it. The object of this Society was 
 to develop its promoters' ideas, and exhibit their 
 works in Bond Street. The underlying theory of 
 their new Gospel of Art appeared to be only the 
 writer did not express it so coarsely that success 
 in pictorial effort, in the future, must turn on the 
 artist never having learned to draw, and not know- 
 ing how to paint. What was wanted was clearly 
 his unimpaired Self, unsoiled by the instruction of 
 the Schools. The near future was entitled to 
 liberation from the stilted traditions of the remote 
 past, not only in painting, but in Sculpture, Music, 
 Poetry, the Drama what not. Here was an 
 opportunity to make a beginning, seized by a 
 brilliant coterie of talented young men, whom a rare 
 chance had brought together under one roof. If 
 the writer was not much mistaken, Pimlico Studios
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 173 
 
 stood a fair chance of becoming the Mecca of the 
 Art World. 
 
 " I can't read all this," said the niece. " I don't 
 see where Mr. Groob comes in. Oh yes it's here! 
 ' The Modern Zurbaran. . . . ' ' This gentleman 
 was, of course, the artist familiarly spoken of as 
 " Dolly " at the Pimlico Studios. Mrs. Aiken went 
 on reading to herself, and then said suddenly : " I 
 do hope Reginald won't be a fool, and make himself 
 responsible for anything." 
 
 " Mr. Adolphus Groob would be able to tell us all 
 about it," said Miss Priscilla. " His sister Arethusa 
 is almost sure to call this afternoon, and you can ask 
 her to find out." 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the sort, and I beg you 
 won't say anything to her. I particularly dislike 
 Mr. Groob, and just now nothing could be more un- 
 pleasant to me. Please no Mr. Groob on any 
 account ! " 
 
 " You need not be so testy, Euphemia. Nothing 
 is easier than for me to make no reference to Mr. 
 Groob, who has never so much as called. His sister 
 Arethusa is, of course, not the same thing as he is 
 himself, but no doubt she may know something about 
 this Society." 
 
 " I thought her an odious girl. Anyhow, I don't 
 want to know anything at all about the Society, and 
 it's no concern of mine. Reginald must go his own
 
 174 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 way now, and put his name down for subscriptions 
 just as he likes. . . . Oh yes, I shall answer his 
 last letter, but only to say that, if he wants me 
 to read his next one, the tone must be very dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 Her aunt said, as one with whom patience is 
 habitual, and tolerance a foregone conclusion : " It 
 is perfectly useless for me to repeat, Euphemia, 
 what I believe to be your duty as a Christian towards 
 your lawful husband, which Reginald is and con- 
 tinues to be, however disgracefully he may have 
 behaved; and you acted with your eyes open in the 
 face of warnings of his lawless Bohemian habits. 
 He is your HUSBAND, and your obvious duty 
 is . . ." 
 
 " Oh, do shut up with Corinthians ! " was the rude, 
 impatient, and indeed irreligious interruption. " If 
 you mean that a woman is bound to put up with any- 
 thing and everything, no matter what her husband 
 says or does . . . What ? " 
 
 " My dear Euphemia, if I have told you once, I 
 have told you fifty times, that it is not Corinthians, 
 but Colossians Colossians three-eighteen. Besides, 
 I'm sure there was a ring at the bell." 
 
 There was, and therefore the chronic guerilla 
 warfare for this sort of thing always went on until 
 visitors stopped it was suspended until the next 
 opportunity.
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 175 
 
 The ring at the gate-bell was or was caused by 
 Miss Jessie Bax, another niece, who was shy and 
 seventeen. She began everything she said with 
 " Oh ! " The first words she uttered were, " Oh, 
 I mustn't stop ! " But she had previously said to 
 Anne, at the gate, " Oh, I mustn't come in ! " and 
 when overcome on this point by Euphemia, who 
 came out and kissed her, not without satisfaction 
 because she was that sort she only just contrived 
 to say, " Oh, I only came to bring these from 
 Yolumnia. It's to-morrow night at the Suburbiton 
 Athenaeum, where the Psychomorphic meets till the 
 new rooms are ready, and she hopes you'll come." 
 
 Miss Jessie explained that she was, strictly speak- 
 ing, an emanation from her sister Volumnia. That 
 young lady was thirteen years her senior, and was a 
 powerful individuality. She entered into inquiries, 
 and advocated causes. Miss Jessica, on the con- 
 trary, flirted. 
 
 Was it, this time, advocating causes, or entering 
 into inquiries? Mrs. Aiken, fearing the former, 
 was consoled when she found it was the latter. She 
 would look at the Syllabus tendered, whatever it 
 was, and wouldn't detain Miss Jessie, whose anxiety 
 not to come in need not have been laid so much 
 stress on. It presently appeared that this wish to 
 stop out was not unconnected with Charley Some- 
 body, who was playing with a puppy on the other
 
 176 A LIKELY STOBY 
 
 side of the road. A suggestion that Charley Some- 
 body should come in too was met with so earnest a 
 disclaimer of intention to disturb any fellow-creature 
 anywhere, at any time, that it would have been 
 sheer downright cruelty to press the point. So the 
 young lady and Master Charley, whoever he was, 
 escaped, and were heard whistling for the puppy, 
 who was getting quite good, and learning to follow 
 beautifully. 
 
 " What is it ? " said Aunt Priscilla. 
 
 " Oh, some reading papers and nonsense," said 
 her niece. " I never have any patience with that 
 sort of twaddle. It only irritates me." 
 
 It suited Miss Priscilla to take up a tone of 
 superiority to such childish petulance, combined 
 with an enlightened attitude of open-mindedness, 
 and a suggestion of being better informed than most 
 people about what is doing. To this end she picked 
 up the prospectus her niece was ostentatiously 
 neglecting, and read it aloud in an atmosphere 
 above human prejudices, specially designed for her 
 own personal use. It related to a lecture " On the 
 Attitude of Investigation towards the Unknow- 
 able," with magic-lantern slides, and a discussion to 
 follow. " It does not say," said Aunt Priscilla, 
 " who is the Medium." It is possible that the good 
 lady had in her own mind confused something with 
 something else. One does sometimes.
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 177 
 
 " I'm not sure that I shan't go, if it isn't the 
 Suffrage," said Euphemia. She took the pro- 
 spectus, and seemed reassured on re-reading it. 
 Yes, she might go if there were pictures on a sheet. 
 But not if it was to be Women's Rights. 
 
 " With your peculiar, new, advanced views, my 
 dear," said her aunt, " it certainly seems to me 
 that you ought to sympathize with your cousin." 
 This, however, was because of Miss Priscilla's ex- 
 ceptional way of looking at Social and Political 
 subjects. She divided all the world the thought- 
 ful world, that is into two classes, the one that 
 went in for Movements and things, and the one that 
 consisted of Sensible Persons. The latter stayed at 
 home and minded their own business, sometimes 
 going for a drive when it held up, and, of course, to 
 Church on Sundays, and having hot cross buns 
 on Good Friday, and so on. She made no distinc- 
 tion between Agitators on the score of the diversity 
 of their respective objects. Could she be expected 
 to differentiate between shades of opinion that 
 would now be indicated by the terms then un- 
 invented of Suffragettes and Anti-Suffragettes? 
 Volumnia Bax would have belonged to the latter 
 denomination. Women, that young lady said, were 
 not intended by an All-wise Providence to mix in 
 public life. Their sphere was the Home. She be- 
 longed to a League whose chief object was to prevent
 
 178 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 women becoming unfeminine. If it was not 
 Woman's own duty to make a stand against these 
 new-fangled American notions, which could only end 
 in her being completely unsexed, whose was it? If 
 she did not exert herself to avert this calamity, who 
 would ? So this League consisted entirely of women, 
 pledged to resist, by violence if necessary, but in 
 any case by speaking out at meetings, and getting up 
 petitions, and so on, these insidious attempts to de- 
 stroy the delicacy of the female character, which 
 from time immemorial had been its principal charm. 
 This was the point on which Aunt Priscilla certainly 
 failed in discrimination, for she drew no distinction 
 between the various shades of political impulse. She 
 objected to anyone leaving the groove, even with the 
 motive of pushing others back into it. Her niece 
 Euphemia shared her views to a great extent, and 
 when she used the expression " Women's Rights," 
 it was probably in a sense much less circumscribed 
 than its usual one. " But," said she to Miss 
 Priscilla, justifying her determination to go on Satur- 
 day evening to this lecture, or whatever it was, " it 
 can't be minutes and resolutions and jaw, jaw, jaw, 
 if there's a magic-lantern. So do come, Aunty 
 dear!" 
 
 Miss Priscilla gave way, and consented to accom- 
 pany her niece, but not without a misgiving that 
 she might be compelled to come away in the middle
 
 A LIKELY STORY 179' 
 
 of the entertainment. A reperusal of the Syllabus 
 had engendered in her mind a doubt whether it 
 was quite. That is how she worded it. The story 
 only chronicles; it takes no responsibilities. 
 Euphemia assured her that it could not be other- 
 wise than quite, seeing that so respectable an 
 Athenaeum as the Suburbiton would be sure to be 
 most careful. Besides, it was Metaphysical. 
 
 So they had the fly from Dulgrove's as it 
 appears, and we think we know what is meant 
 and Dulgrove's representative touched one of 
 its hats, which was on his own head, and prom* 
 ised upon the honour of both to return at half- 
 past ten to reimpatriate the two ladies at Atha- 
 basca Villa, which is two miles from Coombe 
 proper. 
 
 Though Mr. Groob's sister Arethusa did not 
 happen to call, as Miss Priscilla anticipated, Mrs. 
 Reginald Aiken was destined to be brought in 
 contact with her odious brother, the Artist, who 
 was acquainted with her husband. It happened 
 that Miss Bax was desirous that another brother 
 of Arethusa's should come to the lecture. This 
 gentleman, Mr. Duodecimus Groob, had a clear 
 head, and a cool judgment, and belonged, more- 
 over, to a class which is frequently referred to, but 
 whose members cannot always be differentiated with 
 certainty, the class of persons who are not to be
 
 180 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 sneezed at. Others may be, without offence or in- 
 justice. 
 
 Now, it chanced that Miss Jessica Bax had been 
 employed by her sister as a species of bait to induce 
 this gentleman to accompany his sister Arethusa 
 who, of course, was coming to the lecture by 
 sending her to be driven over in the Groob brougham, 
 she herself accepting a lift from the Peter Tutburys, 
 who had no room for more than one. Miss Volumnia, 
 you see, intended to speak at the discussion, and 
 was naturally anxious that Mr. Groob should bring 
 his clear head and cool judgment to hear and appre- 
 ciate the powerful analysis she intended to make of 
 the lecturer's first exposition of the subject. 
 
 It is impossible in this story to enter at length 
 into the intricate and difficult questions touched 
 upon; but it may be noted that Miss Volumnia, 
 who had read the typed manuscript of this lecture, 
 was prepared to combat its main argument, to take 
 exception to its author's fundamental standpoint, 
 to scrutinize fearlessly his pretensions to Scientific 
 accuracy, and to lay bare its fallacies with a merci- 
 less scalpel. She was naturally anxious that a 
 B.Sc., London for Mr. Duodecimus Groob was so 
 designate should hear her do it, being so close at 
 hand ; and when she said to Jessica, " Tell Arethusa 
 I expect her to bring a brother," she did so with a 
 shrewd insight into the souls of brothers whose
 
 A LIKELY STORY 181 
 
 sisters very pretty girls accompany to even the 
 humblest entertainments penny readings and what 
 not. This Mr. Groob came, and what was more, 
 Mr. Adolphus, whom we saw en passant at Pimlico 
 Studios, accompanied him. Both had come to 
 stay till Monday at their father's residence where 
 there were bronzes and Dresden china in the 
 drawing-room, and ruins by Panini all round the 
 dining-room, and a Wolf Hunt, Snyders, in the 
 entrance-hall. We repeat that both came, although 
 there was hardly room in the small brougham, and 
 Mr. Adolphus had to go on the box and wrap up. 
 And our belief is that if it had been an omnibus, 
 and there had been young men enough to fill it r 
 they would all have gone to that lecture. 
 
 Insignificant as this visit to the Suburbiton 
 Athenaeum may seem, it has its place in this story, 
 and that place is given to it by its most unimportant 
 details. As you can scarcely be expected to turn 
 back to it, please note now what it was that really 
 happened. 
 
 In the lobby, when Mrs. Aiken and her aunt 
 arrived, Miss ^ r olumnia Bax was, as it were, 
 marshalling Europe. She was a leading mind, over- 
 looking gregariousness through a pince-nez. Gre- 
 gariousness was shedding its fleeces and taking little 
 cardboard tickets in exchange. 
 
 " You know Mr. Adolphus Groob," said Miss
 
 182 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Volumnia to her cousin, sternly, almost reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Yes you know my brother," said Miss Arethusa 
 Groob, confirmatorily. And Miss Priscilla oh 
 dear ! one's unmanageable Aunts ! must needs, as it 
 were, go over to the enemy, saying in honied tones, 
 with a little powdered sugar over them : 
 
 " You know Mr. Adolphus Groob, Euphemia." 
 
 It was quite the most dastardly desertion on rec- 
 ord. There was nothing for it before such an ac- 
 cumulation of testimony but to plead guilty. What 
 can you do with such treachery in the camp? 
 Euphemia admitted grudgingly that she knew Mr. 
 Adolphus, who had long hair and was like our idea 
 of a German Student. He, for his part, was horribly 
 frightened and got away. For, you see, he knew 
 all about the row between Aiken and his wife; and 
 although in the absence of that unearthly sex, the 
 female one, he was ready to lay claim to a deep and 
 subtle knowledge of its ways, he was an arrant 
 coward in the presence of a sample. 
 
 " I say, Bob," said he aside to his brother Duo- 
 decimus, using a convenient, if arbitrary, abbrevia- 
 tion of that name. 
 
 " What's the fun, Dolly ? " said Bob, who was a 
 chap who always made game of everything. 
 
 "Why, look here! When a customer you know 
 quarrels with his wife, and she does a bunk ..."
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 183 
 
 "Sfaewfcrftf" 
 
 " Hooks it, don't you know ! Well, when she runs 
 away, and you come across her, and you know all 
 the story about the shindy, being in the beggar's con- 
 fidence, don't you see ? and she knows you know it, 
 only, mind you, there's nothing exactly to swear by, 
 and you know she knows you know it, and she knows 
 you know she knows up and down and in and out 
 intersectitiously, don't you see . . . ? " But the 
 heroic effort to express a situation we have all had a 
 try at and failed over was too much for Mr. Adolphus, 
 and his sentence remained unfinished. Consider that 
 he had supplied an entirely new word, and be 
 lenient ! 
 
 "Want'n'er for yourself, Dolly?" said that 
 frivolous, superficial beast, Bob. " Don't you, that's 
 my advice! She's a head and shoulders taller than 
 you. You'll look such an ass ! " Whereupon Mr. 
 Adolphus, not without dignity, checked his brother's 
 ill-timed humour, pointing out that he had done 
 nothing to deserve the imputation of personal motives, 
 and hinting that his well-known monastic bias should 
 have saved him from it. 
 
 " Very well, then ! let her alone ! " said Bob. 
 
 " But it's very embarrassing, you must admit," 
 said Dolly. 
 
 " H'm ! don't see why." 
 
 " The position is a delicate one."
 
 184 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Can't see where the delicacy comes in. You keep 
 out of her way. She won't tackle you." 
 
 This was just about the time when the disengage- 
 ment of their fleeces had enabled a congestion of 
 the flock to pass on towards the lecture-hall, leaving 
 access clear to Miss Priscilla, her niece, and others. 
 Euphemia's fleece was one that gave trouble; she 
 said it always got hooked. It certainly did so this 
 time, and Mr. Adolphus, passing on after his colloquy 
 with his brother, was able to render squire's service, 
 unhooking it as bold as brass. Whereupon the lady 
 and her aunt gushed gratefully, as in return for 
 life saved. Their rescuer passed on, feeling in- 
 ternally gratified, and that he had shown presence 
 of mind at a crisis was, in short, a Man of the 
 World. But he did not know that from thencefor- 
 ward he was entangled in a certain perverse enchant- 
 ment a sort of spell that constantly impelled him to 
 dally with the delicate position he was so conscious 
 about. He must needs go and stick himself four 
 seats off Mrs. Aiken, in the two-shilling places, the 
 intervening three seats being vacant. 
 
 Now, if only lean men, operating edgewise, had 
 attempted to pass into these seats, things might 
 have gone otherwise. Fate sent a lady over three 
 feet thick all the way down, and apparently quite 
 solid, to wedge her way into one or more of these 
 seats. Mr. Adolphus shrank, for all he was worth,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 185 
 
 but it was a trying moment. The lady was just 
 that sort the Inquisition once employed so success- 
 fully; one with spikes, that drew blood from any- 
 one that got agglutinated with her costume. She 
 might, however, have got through without accident 
 you never can tell ! if the trial had been carried 
 out. It was suspended by a suggestion from Mrs. 
 Aiken that Mr. Adolphus Groob should come a little 
 farther along and make room; and when he com- 
 plied, to the extent of going one seat nearer to her, 
 a second suggestion that he should come nearer still, 
 to which he assented with trepidation. Resistance 
 was useless. A galaxy of daughters had already 
 filled in the whole row behind the stout lady, and 
 were forcing her on like the air-tight piece of potato 
 in a quill popgun, only larger. So in the end Mr. 
 Adolphus Groob found himself wedged securely be- 
 tween the stout lady and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, quite 
 unable to speak to the former, for though they had 
 certainly met with a vengeance they had never 
 been introduced This really was a very delicate 
 position. Mrs. Aiken might at least have said, 
 " You know Mrs. Godfrey Pybus, I think ? " That 
 was the stout lady's name. Then he could have 
 avoided talking with Mrs. Aiken, by becoming 
 absorbed in Mrs. Pybus, and shouting round her 
 to her nearest daughters beyond. As it was, he 
 was fairly forced to make careful remarks to his
 
 186 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 other neighbour, scrupulously avoiding allusion to 
 husbands, wives, quarrels, studios, Chelsea, London, 
 servant-girls, picture-cleaning . . . this is only a 
 handful at random of the things it would never do 
 to mention in such delicate circumstances. He held 
 his tongue discreetly about every one of these in 
 turn, and talked of little but the weather. 
 
 Do not run away with the idea that anything 
 interesting or exciting grew out of this chance 
 meeting, in the story. The introduction of it, at 
 such length, is only warranted by the fact that, 
 without its details, it would have absolutely no 
 relevance at all. Whatever it has will, we hope, be 
 made clear later. 
 
 A little conversation passed between the two, but 
 it was of no more importance than the sample which 
 follows. 
 
 " Do you know what the lecture is about ? " said 
 Mrs. Aiken. 
 
 " Couldn't say," was the reply. " Never know 
 what lectures are about! I'm an Artist, don't you 
 know! My brother Bob could tell you. He's a 
 scientific chap knows about Telephones and things 
 that go round and burst." 
 
 " Is there anything that goes round and bursts 
 in the lecture, I wonder ? ' J 
 
 " Shouldn't be much surprised. Here's the Sylla- 
 bub I mean Syllabus." Mr. Adolphus handed his
 
 A LIKELY STORY 187 
 
 information to his neighbour. Caution made him un- 
 communicative. Naturally, he was of a more talka- 
 tive disposition. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken studied the heads of the lecture. 
 " What is meant, I wonder, by the Radio- Activity 
 of Space ? " said she. Now in asking this question 
 she was deferring to the widespread idea that Man 
 understands Science, and can tell Woman all about 
 it. He doesn't, and can't. 
 
 Observe, please, that Mr. Groob was under a 
 mixed influence. He happened to have been rather 
 disgusted because Miss Jessica Bax, instead of 
 appreciating his self-sacrifice in riding outside and 
 wrapping up, had shown a marked preference for 
 a flirtation with his brother. Slightly miffed by this, 
 he had become the victim of a mysterious spell or 
 fascination connected with that hook-and-eye acci- 
 dent, which had caused him not to sit down beside 
 its victim; he never would have presumed to do 
 that but to hover near her, and in doing this to be 
 remorselessly forced into her pocket by the v dead 
 weight of Mrs. Godfrey Pybus. Things being so, 
 what could he do but rejoice at the Radio-Activity 
 of Space, as a topic surely removed from any wives 
 that had bolted from any husbands ? What could be 
 safer ? as a resource against embarrassing reference to 
 the painful status quo ? 
 
 He accepted the position of instructor his- sex
 
 188 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 conferred on him. " It's got somethin' to do with 
 Four Dimensions/' he said. " Can't say I've gone 
 much into the subject myself, but I've talked to a 
 very intelligent feller about it. Did you ever see 
 any Radium ? " 
 
 " Me ? No. My husband saw some, though. He 
 looked through a hole." 
 
 " That's it. It destroys your eyesight, I believe, 
 and loses decimal point something of its volume in 
 a hundred thousand years. There is no doubt we 
 are on the brink of great discoveries." 
 
 " How very interesting ! I wish the lecturer 
 would begin. Oh here he is ! " 
 
 " Very bald feller ! He ought to use petrol. You 
 have to rub it in and keep out of the way of artificial 
 light. This chap's first cousin lost the use of both 
 legs through investigatin'. It was X rays, I believe. 
 You may depend on it we've got a deal to learn." 
 And so on. 
 
 Upon the honour of the narrative this sample is 
 a fair one of what passed between this lady and 
 gentleman on this occasion. There was more, but 
 it was exactly the same sort. 
 
 In due course the lecture was begun and ended; 
 then the discussion followed, and Mrs. Godfrey 
 Pybus and her six daughters didn't stop to hear 
 Miss Volumnia Bax's analysis and refutation, but 
 went away in the middle and made a noise on
 
 A LIKELY STORY 189 
 
 purpose. It was just like them and they were per- 
 fectly odious people. 
 
 It is most extraordinary how Time will slip away 
 when the catching hold of his forelock depends on 
 ourselves. Each morning may bring that forelock 
 again within reach, and each morning the same 
 apathy that made us yesterday too languid to stretch 
 out a hand and grip the old scamp and employ him 
 for our own advantage keeps us in the same stupid 
 abeyance, and we lose the chance for another 
 twenty-four hours. Every postponement makes 
 a new precedent, and every new precedent stiffens 
 the back of inaction. 
 
 It was so with Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Aiken. 
 ISTot a morning passed without an unfulfilled im- 
 pulse on either part to cross the gulf between them, 
 and terminate their idiotic separation, bridged by 
 correspondence which really did more harm than 
 good. There is one precept which it is quite im- 
 possible for the human race to observe too closely 
 Never write letters! If only those words could 
 replace Little Liver Pills and so forth on those 
 atrocities that flank the railways and hide the 
 planet, its inhabitants would be the gainers. Mr. 
 Reginald had an extraordinary faculty for undoing 
 in a postscript any little concession he had made at 
 the outset, and Mrs. Euphemia, for her part, was
 
 190 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 becoming quite a proficient in sarcasm three-line 
 whips of scorpions describes her style, or the style 
 she aimed at. For a superficial literary education 
 did not help her up to its perfection. 
 
 "Very good, Mrs. Hay! " thus, on receipt of a 
 letter, would run her husband's commentary, 
 embodying transposed quotation in its text, " ' Pray 
 go my own way ' : that's it, is it ? ' On no account 
 give the slightest consideration underlined to the 
 wishes of your underlined wife.' Oh, very well 
 I won't. ' If my Conscience with a big C didn't 
 turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of my Better Self 
 with a big B and a big S ' what's all this ? can't 
 read it oh ! I see yes, at least I see what it comes 
 to ! I should come to my sences spelt wrong 
 and overcome the ridiculous false pride that stands 
 between me and something or other underlined 
 h'm ! h'm ! ( consult my own dignity ' h'm, 
 h'm something's something else I can't make out 
 in the truest sence of the word, underlined. I 
 dare say. I know what all this rot comes to in the 
 end. I'm to go and ask forgiveness and show con- 
 trition, and I shouldn't wonder if I was expected to 
 beg Aunt Priscilla's pardon. And be taken to 
 Church as like as not. I say, Stumpy, that would 
 be rather jolly, wouldn't it? Fancy the Wicked 
 Man turnething away from his Wickedness and 
 Aunt Priscilla taking care visibly not to look at
 
 A LIKELY STORY 191 
 
 your humble servant, so as not to hurt his feelings ! " 
 
 " I tell you what, Crocky," thus Mr. Hughes, 
 on the occasion the above is chosen from, some time 
 in ISTovember " I tell you what : if I was you, I 
 shouldn't be an Ass. Just you mozey off to Atha- 
 basca Villa and make it up. I believe Mrs. Gapp's 
 right." 
 
 " That old sot been talking ? Parples was the 
 best of the two. I'll have Parples back." For 
 Mrs. Gapp had taken Mrs. Parples' place, under 
 pretence of greater accomplishments and better 
 training. 
 
 " At my invitation, Mr. Aiken," said Mr. Hughes 
 with some show of dignity " at my invita- 
 tion, observe ! Mrs. Gapp, who has buried three 
 husbands and really ought to know a good deal 
 about connubiosity conjugosity what the dooce is 
 the word? ..." 
 
 " Well married life, anyhow ! "What did old 
 boozey say ? " 
 
 " She had great faith in a spirit of mutual con- 
 ciliation. That is not precisely the way she put it. 
 Her exact expression was ' A good 'ug's the thing, 
 Mr. Stumpy'. . . . Yes that is what Mrs. Gapp 
 calls me, misled by your example. ... I must 
 say I think the course she indicated has much to rec- 
 ommend it." 
 
 Mr. Aiken looked moody, and did not reply at
 
 192 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 once. Then he said : " That's all very fine, Stump, 
 my boy. But Sairah ! Sairah's the point. Now, 
 mind you, I'm not suggestin' anythin'. But just 
 you look at it this way. There was a rather nice 
 lookin' gyairl, with a bird's wing in her hat, came for 
 the place, and Euphemia wouldn't hear of her, don't 
 you know ! Suppose it had been her ! puts the mat- 
 ter on a more human footin', shouldn't you say ? " 
 
 Mr. Hughes reflected, and spoke as one whose 
 reflections had borne fruit. " Not being a married 
 beggar myself, I can't say. Speaking as single cuss, 
 my recommendation to you would be speaking 
 broadly not to make an Ass of yourself. See what 
 I'm driving at ? " 
 
 " That means," said Mr. Aiken, " that you con- 
 sider I ought to go and beg Euphemia's gracious 
 pardon, and take the blame of the whole how-do- 
 you-do on my own shoulders, and as like as not 
 have to go to Church with Aunt Priscilla. Well 
 I wont, and there's an end of it ! " 
 
 And Mr. Aiken didn't, and prolonged his uncom- 
 fortable circumstances quite to the end of the year. 
 But it is only right to say that his wife contributed 
 all her share to their extension and consolidation. 
 In fact, if this story has achieved the wish of its 
 compiler, ourself, it should be clear to its reader that 
 Mr. Reginald and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken were pre- 
 cisely six of the one and half a dozen of the other.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE UPWELL FAMILY IN LONDON. HOW MADELINE PBOMISED 
 NOT TO GET MIXED UP. A NICE SUBUBBAN BOY, WITH A 
 TWO-POWER STANDARD. NO JACK NOW ! THE SILVER TEA- 
 POT. MISS PBISCILLA'S EXTRACTION. IMPERIALISM. HOR- 
 ACE WALPOLE AND JOHN BUNYAN. THE TAPLEYS. HOW AN 
 ITEM IN THE " TELEGRAPH " UPSET MADELINE. HOW SHE 
 FAILED IN HER MISSION, BUT LEFT A PHOTOGRAPH BEHIND 
 HER. THE LATE LADY BETTY DUSTERS'S CHIN. HOW MRS. 
 AIKEN STAYED DOWNSTAIRS AND WENT TO SLEEP IN AN 
 ARM-CHAIR, AND OF A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE SHE HAD. HOW 
 SHE BELATED THE SAME TO HER COUSIN VOLUMNIA. OF 
 ICILIA CIARANFI AND DONNINA MAGLIABECCHI, AND OF THE 
 DUST. THE PSYCHOMORPHIC REPORT. HOW MISS VOLUMNIA 
 DID NOT LOSE HER TRAIN 
 
 " Why do you want the carriage, darling ? " 
 
 " To call on a lady somewhere near Richmond, or 
 Combe, I think it is." 
 
 " Won't it do to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Not so well as to-day." 
 
 " Then I suppose you must have it, darling." 
 
 " Not if you want it, Mumsey ! " The speaker 
 got the head of the person she addressed in Chancery, 
 to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as a 
 fulcrum. 
 
 Lady Upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said, 
 " Take care, Mad dear ; you'll spoil my ruche and 
 put your eyes out." So her daughter released her, 
 
 193
 
 194 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 and sat at her feet. She had on her tussore in saxe- 
 1)1 ue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as pretty 
 as ever, and as sad. 
 
 " Who is it you want to go and see, darling ? " 
 said her ladyship. 
 
 " That Mrs. Aiken," said Madeline. 
 
 " Oh," said her mother, " but isn't she rather ? " 
 But Madeline shook her head, with her eyes very 
 wide open, and kept on shaking it all the while as 
 she replied, " Oh no, she's not rather at all. It was 
 all her husband." Whereupon her mother said, 
 " Oh it was her husband, was it ? " and put back 
 a loose forehead-lock of hair that was getting in 
 her daughter's eyes. 
 
 This wasn't at Surley Stakes. The family had 
 come up to Eaton Place for a week or ten days. 
 And these ladies were sitting in a small jury drawing- 
 room that did duty on flying visits. The real 
 drawing-room was all packed up, and must have 
 been rather savage when the family came to town, 
 yet left it in statu quo. And very savage indeed 
 with Madeline, who was begging to be allowed to 
 stop in the country and not come to town this 
 season at all. Indeed, she would have had her way, 
 had not her father said that come she must, to see 
 the new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking of 
 purchasing, whose owner was willing to lend them 
 for a few days on trial, but only on condition that
 
 A LIKELY STORY 195 
 
 they should not be taken away from London. So 
 the family coachman had accompanied the family, 
 in a certain sense clandestinely. It is needless to 
 tell anyone who knows that of course these ladies 
 were themselves only theoretically in town, with those 
 shutters all up. 
 
 Madeline helped to get the lock of hair hack, re- 
 marking, " It always does," without an antecedent. 
 It was a pity there was no one there mothers 
 don't count to see how pretty her wrist looked, 
 with the blue veins in it, as she did so. She con- 
 tinued talking about that Mrs. Aiken, but semi- 
 apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wanting 
 to see that Mrs. Aiken. 
 
 Her mother attempted to rationalize and formu- 
 late her daughter's position. " I can't understand, 
 dear child," she said. " You only saw this lady that 
 one time, and only for a few minutes then. What 
 mpkes you want to see her again ? She doesn't 
 seem to have produced a a favourable impression 
 exactly." 
 
 " N-n-not very ! " is the reply ; the prolonged initial 
 conveying the speaker's hesitation to condemn. 
 " But it isn't that." 
 
 "What isn't it, child?" 
 
 " What she's like. It's because I went there with 
 Jack." 
 
 " I see, dear." But it isn't so very clear that her
 
 196 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 ladyship does see. For she adds : " I quite under- 
 stand. Of course. Yes ! " in a tone which seems 
 to invite further explanation. 
 
 Her daughter at least puts this interpretation on 
 it. " Don't you see, Mumsey dear ? " she says. 
 " It's because I recollect me and Jack, and her 
 and her husband, all talking together in that muddle 
 of a Studio, and the lay-figure with its head on 
 backwards. They seem to come into it somehow." 
 The further particulars are slight, one would say, 
 but they carry conviction, for her mother says, " I 
 understand that, but can you do any good ? " as if 
 the substratum of a debatable point might be con- 
 sidered settled. Madeline goes on, encouraged to 
 confidence, " I think perhaps. Because those Baxes 
 we met ..." 
 
 " Those whats? " her ladyship interrupts; adding, 
 however, " Oh, I see it's a name ! Go on." 
 
 " A grim big one and a little rather jolly one. 
 That evening at Lady Presteign's. The grim big 
 one talked about it to me in a corner, because her 
 sister's too young to know about such things only 
 she's nearly my age, and I don't see why and told 
 me she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrel 
 about a horrible maidservant, who was quite out 
 of the question. And of course this Miss Bax doesn't 
 know what we know." 
 
 " My darling Madeline ! " A large amused ma-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 197 
 
 ternal smile irradiates the speaker. "Know! What 
 a funny child you are ! " 
 
 " Well, Mumsey, don't we know, or as good as 
 know ? Do you really think Uncle Christopher made 
 that all up ? / don't." 
 
 " It was the action of his brain, my dear, not his 
 own doing at all! Let me see what's it called? 
 something ending in ism." 
 
 " Hypnotism ? " 
 
 " No ! Oh dear, I shall remember directly. ..." 
 
 " Mesmerism ? " 
 
 " No, no ! do be quiet and let me think. ..." 
 
 " Vegetarianism ? " 
 
 " You silly girl ! I had just got it, and you put 
 it out of my head . . . There! . . . Stop! 
 . . . No! . . . Yes I've got it. Unconscious 
 Cerebration! How on earth did I manage to forget 
 that ? Unconscious Cerebration, of course ! " 
 
 " But it doesn't end in ism. It ends in ation." 
 
 " Never mind, child ! Anyhow, I have recollected 
 it, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say. 
 Don't let's forget it again." To Lady Upwell this 
 world was a theatre, and the name of the piece was 
 Society. She was always on the sweetest terms 
 with the Management, and her benevolence to the 
 worn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt. 
 Still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it. " Un- 
 conscious Cerebration " was useful gag. " But,"
 
 198 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 said she, returning to the main point, " I don't see 
 what you can do, child." 
 
 " No more do I, Mumsey dear. But I may be 
 able to do something for all that. I should like to 
 try, anyhow. I'm sure the picture was right. 
 Besides, see what that Miss Bax said. You may 
 say what you like, but she is Mrs. Aiken's first 
 cousin, after all! " 
 
 " No doubt she's right, dear ! And no doubt the 
 picture's right." Her ladyship retires with the 
 dignity of one withdrawing herself from mundane 
 matters, Olympuswards. But one can never touch 
 pitch and not be defiled. Some has clung to her, 
 for she adds, absently, " I wonder where Thyrza 
 Presteign picks up all these odd people." In the 
 end she forsakes speculation to say, " Of course 
 have the carriage, darling; I don't see that any 
 harm can come of it. Only don't get mixed 
 up." 
 
 " I won't get mixed up," said Miss Upwell con- 
 fidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, for 
 granting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest. 
 She for the tenth of a second associates the two 
 kisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it. 
 She loves horses very much, and gives them too 
 much sugar. If any tongue's tip is ready with a 
 denial of the possibility of such an impression as 
 this, it only shows that the tongue's owner has not
 
 A LIKELY STORY 199 
 
 tad a similar experience. The kisses were cash down 
 for each horse does that make it clearer \ 
 
 Anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly next 
 day on a frosty road, going south-westwards, as 
 soon as they left the traffic that road-spoiler far 
 enough behind. The sun had taken a mean ad- 
 vantage of its being such a glorious day, to get at 
 nice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess. 
 But there were many havens of security still where 
 what was blown snow-dust in the early morning might 
 still have a little peace and quiet, and wait with resig- 
 nation for inevitable thaw. 
 
 Such a one was or had been on a low window^ 
 sill of the Cheshire Cheese, behind the horse-trough 
 which the steaming greys suggested they should 
 empty, but were only allowed to sample. Had 
 been, because of a boy. A boy is a reason for so 
 many things in this world. This one, a very nice 
 specimen, coming, well-informed, from a Gothic 
 school near by, was showing how indifferent chubbi- 
 ness can be to chill February, by using up the snow 
 on this window-sill in the manufacture of two snow- 
 balls, of which one was complete. His was a Two 
 Power Standard, evidently. 
 
 " Ask that little boy where this place is," says 
 Miss Upwell, from inside furs ; because the carriage- 
 lid is set back by request, and the rider is convinced
 
 200 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 of cold, but won't give in on principle. " He's a 
 native, and ought to know. Ask him, James." 
 
 " Where's Athabasca Villa, young un ? . . . 
 Don't believe he knows, Miss." 
 
 " Where's Athabasca Villa, little man ? . . . 
 Don't you know? Well where does Miss Priscilla 
 Bax live ? " 
 
 " Oh -I know she! Over yarnder." A vigorous 
 illumination speaks to the force of Miss Priscilla 
 Bax's identity. " Over yonder " is, however, vague : 
 and you may have eyes like sloes, and crisp curly 
 brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet have very 
 small powers of indicating complex routes past 
 Daddy's not otherwise described and round to the 
 left, and along to the right, and by Farmer Phipps's 
 barn, and so on. But this is a young gentleman 
 of resource, and he has a suggestion ready : " You let 
 I royd up behind, and I'll poyunt out where to drive." 
 The lady accedes to this proposal, though James is 
 evidently uneasy lest a precedent should be estab- 
 lished. " Let him ride behind he won't do any 
 
 harm " says Madeline, between whom and this 
 
 youth a bond of sympathy forges itself unexpectedly. 
 It might have been more judicious to deprive him of 
 ammunition. 
 
 For the Two Power Standard, in his case, seemed 
 to involve a Policy of Aggression. His first snow- 
 ball was aimed too low; and though it struck its
 
 A LIKELY STORY 201 
 
 object, the Incumbent of the Parish, that gentleman 
 only laughed. The second landed neatly under the 
 back-hair of a stout lady, and probably went down 
 her neck behind, as her indignation found voice pro- 
 portionate to such a result. Miss Upwell to her 
 shame be it spoken pretended not to see or hear; 
 refusing, Gallio-like, to listen but in this case to 
 Gentiles and saying to James, " Please don't stop, 
 James go on quick." 
 
 The infant was, however, as good as his under- 
 taking, conducting the carriage intelligently to 
 Athabasca Villa, and taking an unfair advantage 
 of permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact, de- 
 tached from it with some difficulty. He seemed sur- 
 prised and pleased at the receipt of a douceur, and 
 danced. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said poor Madeline to herself, as she 
 heard him die away, with some friends he met, in 
 the distance. " How Jack would have liked that 
 boy ! " There was to be no Jack, it seemed, now ! 
 
 Mrs. Aiken, at one of the bays that flanked the 
 doorway of Athabasca Villa, looked out upon the 
 top and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in a 
 chill purple mist, and waited for tea. Tea waited 
 to be made, like Eve when she was a rib. But with 
 a confidence based on precedent; for Tea was made 
 every day at the same time, which Eve wasn't.
 
 202 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Besides, Miss Priscilla Bax made tea, and wouldn^t 
 let anyone else make it. Not that there appears to 
 be any suggestion in the story of Eve that there was 
 ever any talk of underletting the job. 
 
 Miss Priscilla Bax had a cap out of last century, 
 about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which had 
 to be kept entirely out of the tea. These ribbons 
 had no function or practical object, though an 
 imaginative mind might have ascribed to them that, 
 being alike on both sides, they helped the sense of 
 equilibrium necessary to safe conduct of the un- 
 made tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whose 
 lid wouldn't keep up, to a black Rockingham teapot, 
 which did for when there was no one. 
 
 Only, this time there was someone some car- 
 riage one and his, her, or its approach caused Mrs. 
 Aiken to exclaim, " Good gracious, Aunty, I'm 
 afraid it's people ! " 
 
 Miss Priscilla was watching the tap of the urn run 
 her phrase, not ours. " How many ? " said she. 
 Then dialogue worked out as follows : 
 
 " I think I see who it is." 
 
 " How many ? " 
 
 " Only one. I fancy it's that Miss What's-her- 
 name. I wish it wasn't. It's too late to say not 
 at home. She's seen me at the window. But you'll 
 have to put in another heaped-up spoonful. When- 
 ever will they stop ringing that bell ? "
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 203 
 
 At this point presumably the mercenary was 
 strangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added, 
 " Yes, it's her. She's talking to a boy. What on 
 earth has brought her here? I shall go." 
 
 " You can't. You've been seen. Don't be a fool. 
 Who do you mean by l her ' ? " 
 
 " Oh you know ! Miss Upsley Pupsley of Curly 
 something. That place in Worcestershire the pic- 
 ture was to go to. You know ! They've a house in 
 Eaton Square." 
 
 " Then we must have the silver teapot, and I 
 shall have to make fresh tea." The house in Eaton 
 Square settled that. A hurried aside caused the 
 appearance of the silver teapot in all its glory and 
 a new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle of 
 water at par. 
 
 Thereupon Miss Upwell found herself within 
 reach academically speaking of talking with this 
 Mrs. Aiken of that lady's private domestic dis- 
 sensions. But, oh, the impossibility of it ! Madeline 
 felt it now, too late. Even getting to speak of the 
 subject at all seemed hopeless. And in another 
 moment she became horribly aware that she was 
 inexplicable couldn't account for her visit at all. 
 Still, she had too much grit in her to dream of giving 
 in. And then, look at the motive ! Besides, she 
 had in her heart a strong suspicion that she was a 
 beauty, and that that was why people always gave
 
 204 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 way to her. Her beauty was of no use, now that 
 Jack was gone. Nothing being of any use to her, 
 now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to a 
 fellow- woman in tribulation. If this picture-ghost 
 so she said to herself had told this Mrs. Aiken 
 where Jack was, would she not come and tell, on 
 the chance ? Of course she would ! Courage ! 
 
 The most terrifying obstacle in her path was 
 Aunt Priscilla. If this lady had been the in- 
 offensive tabby Madeline's wish had been father to 
 her thought of, she could have been treated as a 
 negligible factor. But what is to be done when 
 your Aunt, living under an impression that in early 
 life she mixed in circles, recognizes your distin- 
 guished young friend as having emerged from a circle. 
 This way of putting the case transfers the embarrass- 
 ment from Miss TJpwell to Mrs. Aiken. Probably 
 that lady felt it, and wished Aunt Priscilla wouldn't 
 go on so. The fact is she was getting curious to know 
 the reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance. 
 There must be some reason. 
 
 It lost its opportunity of being divulged at the 
 outset. The visitor's parade of the utter indefensi- 
 bility of her intrusion, and her fib for a fib it was 
 in the spirit, however true in the letter that she 
 " was in the neighbourhood " worked on the 
 imagination, and made the position plausible. Mrs. 
 Aiken dropped all attempts to look amiably sur-
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 205 
 
 prised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation, 
 and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollec- 
 tion of Miss Upwell's visit to the Studio. Of course 
 she was delighted to see her, on any terms. But 
 the reason of her coming could get no chance of a 
 hearing, when the first flush of conversation had once 
 failed to give it an opening. Miss Priscilla's extrac- 
 tion had to be reckoned with. 
 
 If only that appalling old lady had not been there, 
 or would even have been content to play second 
 fiddle! But as soon as she heard the name of the 
 village of Grewceham in Worcestershire mentioned 
 as the nearest township to Surley Stakes, she 
 identified that county as the cradle of her race, 
 saying, " WE came from Sampford Plantagenet, I 
 believe," in a tone suggestive- of remote epochs, and 
 considerable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishing into 
 the mists of antiquity. " But my mother's family," 
 she added, " were all Brocks, of Sampford Pag- 
 nell." 
 
 Madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could go 
 no farther than to believe, as an abstract truth, 
 that there were still Brocks in Sampford Pagnell, 
 speaking of them rather as if they ran away when 
 seen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns. 
 She could not do any Baxes at Sampford Plan- 
 tagenet. However, her father would know the name 
 Bax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirred
 
 206 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 by it like the war-horse in Job at the sound of 
 battle. This anticipation was founded solely on his 
 daughter's desire to fill out the order for Baxes. 
 
 Miss Priscilla always preferred to pour the tea 
 herself, not without a certain Imperial suggestion 
 in the preference. Vespasian would have insisted 
 on pouring out the tea, under like circumstances. 
 
 But the tea, when poured, brought with it no clue 
 to the cause of Miss TJpwell's visit. It had furnished 
 a certain amount of relief, during its negotiation, 
 by postponing discussion of the point, and by the 
 claim it made for a chapter to itself. For a short 
 chapter of your life-story begins when you get your 
 tea, and ends when you've done your tea. When 
 Madeline had ceased to be able to pretend that this 
 chapter had not ended, her suspended sense of in- 
 comprehensibility cropped up again, and she grew 
 painfully aware that her hostesses would soon begin 
 waiting visibly for enlightenment, which she was no 
 nearer being able to give than at first. How could 
 she have guessed it would be so difficult? She was 
 even conscious of gratitude to Miss Priscilla for her 
 persistency in Atavism, and at heart hoped that the 
 good lady would not stop just yet. 
 
 No fear of that ! The Brocks were not nearly 
 over, and they had to be disposed of before the 
 Baxes could be taken in hand. Their exponent 
 picked them up where she had dropped them. " My
 
 A LIKELY STORY 207 
 
 Mother's family," she resumed, " were well known 
 during the Middle Ages. There were Brocks in 
 Sampford Pagnell as early as fourteen hundred and 
 four. They are even said to have been connected 
 with John of Gaunt. Unhappily all the family 
 documents, including an autograph letter of Alice 
 Piers to Edward the Black Prince, were destroyed 
 in the Great Fire of London." On lines like these, 
 as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a very 
 long time without the pursuer's hobby breaking down. 
 It went on long enough in this case for Madeline 
 to wish she could get a chance of utilizing some 
 courage she had been slowly mustering during the 
 chase. This being hardly mature yet, she took an- 
 other cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplying 
 little notes of exclamation and pleased surprise when- 
 ever the manner of the narrator seemed to call for 
 them. 
 
 " It seems only the other day," Aunt Priscilla 
 continued, with her eyes half-closed to express 
 memory at work upon the past, " that I was taken 
 as a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother, 
 then in her hundredth year. She was a friend of 
 Horace Walpole. Her mother could remember John 
 Bunyan." 
 
 " Is it possible ! " said Madeline, very shaky about 
 dates, but ready with any amount of wonderment. 
 She added idiotically, " Of course my father must
 
 208 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 have known all your people, quite well." Which 
 did not follow from the apparent premisses. 
 
 Mrs. Aiken muttered in a warning voice, for her 
 visitor's ear only, " When Aunt gets on her grand- 
 mother she never gets off. You'll see ! " She took 
 advantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up a 
 running comment. 
 
 Miss Priscilla then approached a subject which 
 required to be handled with the extremest delicacy. 
 " I think, Euphemia," she said, " that after so long a 
 time there can be no objection . . . You know 
 what I am referring to ? " 
 
 " Objection ? why should there be ? Oh yes, / 
 know. Horace Walpole and your great-grand- 
 mother. No none ! " To Madeline Mrs. Aiken 
 said in an undertone, " I told you how it would be." 
 That young lady affected a lively interest in scandal 
 against Queen Elizabeth, which was what she an- 
 ticipated. 
 
 " I myself," said Aunt Priscilla, in the leisurely 
 way of a lecturer who has secured an audience, 
 "have always held to the opinion that there was a 
 marriage, but what the motives may have been for 
 concealing it can only be conjectured. ..." 
 
 This was too leisurely for her niece's patience. 
 It provoked a species of sotto voce abstract of her 
 aunt's coming statement thus, " Oh yes do get 
 on! You cannot otherwise understand how so
 
 A LIKELY STORY 209 
 
 rigid an observer of moral law as your great-grand- 
 father, however lamentable his religious tenets may 
 have been, could have brought himself to marry 
 the widow. Do get on! " Which proved to be the 
 substance of the original, as soon as the latter was 
 published. But it certainly got over the ground 
 quicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post, ar- 
 riving almost before the other horse started. 
 
 " This," resumed Aunt Priscilla, after a small 
 blank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if so 
 disposed, "was some considerable time before his 
 accession to the Earldom. The only clue that has 
 been suggested as a motive for concealment of the 
 marriage was his unaccountable aversion to the 
 title, which he could scarcely have indulged if ... 
 There's a knock. Do see if it's the Tapleys, and 
 don't let them go." Mrs. Aiken rose and went out, 
 reciting rapidly another forecast, " He-never-took- 
 his - seat - in - the - House - of - Lords - and - signed- 
 his - letters - ' the - Uncle - of - the - late - Earl * of- 
 Orford.' She'll have done that by the time I'm 
 back," as she left the room. Miss Upwell felt a little 
 resentment at this lady's treatment of her aunt. 
 After all, is not man an Atavistic animal? Is not 
 ancestor-worship the oldest of religions ? 
 
 It was the Tapleys, if Madeline had not heard 
 the name wrong; who had already had tea with the 
 Outstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation.
 
 210 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 But she may easily have got both names wrong. 
 She thought she saw a chance of speaking with the 
 niece by herself, and at any rate appointing a 
 counter-visit before she went back to the Stakes, if 
 she cut her own short before she became involved 
 with the Tapleys, as might happen; and that would 
 be fatal, she felt. So she suddenly perceived that 
 she must not keep the greys standing in the cold, 
 and got past the incoming Tapleys, who seemed to 
 be in mourning for the human race, as far as clothes 
 went; but not sorry at all, if you came to that. 
 She had failed, and must give up the object of her 
 visit, and acknowledge defeat. And, oh dear, how 
 late it was ! 
 
 She could, however, get a word or two with the 
 niece before departing, unless that young woman 
 consigned her to a servant and fled back to her 
 Tapleys, who were shouting about how late they 
 were, as if they had distinguished themselves. How- 
 ever, Mrs. Aiken had evidently no such intention, 
 but, for some reason, very much the contrary. 
 
 The reason came out as soon as the door shut the 
 shouters in, leaving her and her visitor in the passage, 
 with a cap and a white apron hanging on their out- 
 skirts, ready for prompt action. 
 
 First Mrs. Aiken said, " I am afraid Aunt must 
 have bored you dreadfully, Miss Upwell. She and 
 her family ! Oh dear ! "
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 211 
 
 Madeline answered rather stiffly : " It was very 
 interesting. I enjoyed listening." For she would 
 have been better pleased with this young person if 
 she had taken her aunt's part. Her own mother 
 prosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herself 
 never tried to silence her. 
 
 However, her displeasure melted when Mrs. Aiken 
 having told the cap it needn't wait; she would 
 call coloured and hesitated, and wanted to say 
 something. 
 
 " Yes," said Madeline. 
 
 " I was was so grieved to see about your friend. 
 . . . Oh dear! perhaps I oughtn't to talk about 
 it. . . ." 
 
 Miss Upwell felt she had to be dignified. After 
 all she and Jack were not engaged. " You mean 
 Captain Calverley, Mrs. Aiken," said she. " We 
 are hoping now I mean his family are hoping to 
 hear from him every day. But, of course, they are 
 we all are very anxious." 
 
 Mrs. Aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face, 
 seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting a 
 good-bye shake. Then she said, very hesitatingly, 
 " I I didn't know is there a hope ? I only see 
 the Telegraph/' Then, an instant after, she saw her 
 mistake. She might at least have had the sense 
 to say nothing about the Telegraph. 
 
 Madeline felt her colour come and go, and her
 
 212 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 heart getting restless. " A hope ? Oh dear, yes ! " 
 How bravely she said it ! " You know there is no 
 proof whatever of his ..." But she could not say 
 " death." 
 
 " Oh no no proof, of course ! . . . I should be 
 so glad ... I suppose they only meant ..." 
 
 All Madeline's courage was in the voice that suc- 
 ceeded in saying, " Dear Mrs. Aiken, do tell me 
 what was said. I daresay it was all nonsense. The 
 newspapers get all sorts of stories." 
 
 Mrs. Aiken would have given something to be 
 allowed to say no more about it. She stumbled a 
 good deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder. 
 She really couldn't be positive. Quite as likely as 
 not the paragraph might have referred to someone 
 else. She was far from sure, after all, that the 
 name wasn't Silverton. Yes, it certainly was, Major 
 Silverton that was it! 
 
 " You are only saying that," said Madeline, gently 
 but firmly, " to make my mind easy. It is kind 
 but but you had better tell me now. Haven't you 
 got the Telegraph ? I can buy one, of course, on my 
 way home. But I would much rather know now." 
 
 Mrs. Aiken saw no way of keeping it back. " It's 
 in here the Telegraph" said she. That is, it was 
 in the parlour opposite to the one they had left. 
 There it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print, 
 was the statement of its correspondent at Something-
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 213 
 
 fontein or other, that all hopes were now given up 
 of the reappearance of Captain Calverley, who had 
 been missing since the action at Burghersdrift, as 
 some of his accoutrements had been found in the 
 river below Kroondorp, and it was now looked upon 
 as certain that he was drowned shortly after the 
 action. 
 
 Madeline knew quite well that she had in herself 
 an ample store of fortitude if only she could get a 
 fair chance to exercise it. But a horrible sort of 
 ague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teeth 
 and spoiled her speech. It would go off directly, 
 and she would be able to know practically, as she 
 now did theoretically, that it was no use paying 
 attention to any newspaper correspondence. She 
 would soon get right in the air. If this Mrs. Aiken. 
 would only have the sense to see that what she 
 wanted was to get away and have herself to herself 
 until at least her teeth stopped chattering! But 
 instead of that the tiresome young woman must needs 
 say, " Oh dear, you look so ill ! Shan't I get you 
 something ? " Which was silly, because what on 
 earth could she have got, except brandy, or some such 
 horror ? 
 
 Madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing to 
 say that she would be all right directly, but really 
 saying, " I shall be reckly." Collapse into a prof- 
 fered chair enabled her to add, " Leave me alone
 
 214 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 it's nothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut. 
 Nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off ; and by the 
 time Mrs. Aiken who felt that some remedy must 
 be exhibited, for the honour of the house had got 
 at one through an emissary, she was able to meet it 
 half-way. " Oh yes eau-de-Cologne, please ! It's 
 always delightful ! " , Whereat Mrs. Aiken felt proud 
 and successful, and Madeline mopped her forehead, 
 feeling better. 
 
 But she must get away now as quick as possible. 
 Her card-castle had collapsed. And, indeed, she 
 felt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning. 
 So far from being able to produce her ghost, or 
 whatever it could be called, in extenuation of this 
 young lady's reprobate husband, she had not seen 
 her way to mentioning him at all, even under a 
 pretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as a 
 last resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrel 
 with his wife and their separation. It might have 
 brought him on the tapis, with a successful result. 
 There was no chance now, even if she had felt at her 
 best. And here she was, morally crippled by a severe 
 shock! For though, of course, she was not going 
 to pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severe 
 shock all the same. 
 
 So she gathered herself up to say good-bye, and 
 with profusest gratitude for the eau-de-Cologne de- 
 parted. And Mrs. Aiken, after watching the brisk
 
 A LIKELY STORY 215 
 
 start of the greys, and thinking how bored they 
 must have been, went slowly back into the house, 
 to wonder what on earth could have brought an up- 
 to-date young lady out of the Smart Set to such an un- 
 pretending mansion as Athabasca Villa. 
 
 She wondered also whether those interminable 
 Tapleys were going to talk like that till seven 
 o'clock, and would Aunt P. go and ask them to stay 
 to supper ? Very likely ! And she would have to be 
 civil to them all the evening, she, supposed. 
 
 Reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner of 
 the mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end; 
 to prevent very short people falling over sideways, 
 presumably. What she saw made her say, " What's 
 this, Anne ? " 
 
 "Which, Ma'am?" said Anne. "Perhaps the 
 Missis knows." 
 
 This thing was inside brown paper, and rect- 
 angular. The corners were hard, but the middle 
 clicketted. Probably a passe-partout. At least, it 
 could be nothing else. So if it wasn't a passe-par- 
 tout, it was non-suited, quoad existence. Mrs. Aiken 
 opened the drawing-room door, meeting a gust of 
 the Tapleys, both speaking at once. It didn't matter. 
 Aunt Priscilla heard all the plainer for a noise. There 
 certainly was one. 
 
 Her niece said, through it, " Have you ordered a 
 photograph, Aunty ? " No, no photograph had been
 
 216 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 ordered. " Then I shall have to look at it, to see 
 what it is," said Mrs. Aiken. The Tapleys sanc- 
 tioned and encouraged this course, with loud shouts. 
 And it really is a capital step to take when you want 
 to find out what a thing is, to look at it and see. 
 
 It was a photograph, and was recognized at once 
 by Mrs. Aiken as a copy from the Surley Stakes 
 picture. It was a print of the photograph that 
 Madeline had sent a copy of to Mr. Aiken at the 
 Studio, a long time before. You remember how it 
 stood on the table while he talked with Mr. Hughes ? 
 " I see," said Euphemia ; " Miss Upwell must have 
 left it behind. We must get it back to her." And 
 she was proceeding to wrap it up again; not, how- 
 ever, without seeing enough of it to be sure of its 
 identity. 
 
 But she was reckoning without her guests, who 
 pounced simultaneously on the back of the photo- 
 graph, crying out, " Stop ! it's written on. Read 
 behind." Whereupon it was read behind that this 
 photograph was for Mrs. Reginald Aiken, Athabasca 
 Villa, Coombe. " I suppose she brought it for me," 
 said that lady, rather sulkily. 
 
 " Whatever she came for I can't make out," said 
 the niece to the aunt after supper, and indeed after 
 the departure of the Tapleys. For Mrs. Aiken's 
 worst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they had
 
 A LIKELY STORY 217 
 
 been invited to stay to supper and had done so 
 remorselessly. 
 
 The aunt could throw no light on this sudden 
 appearance of Miss Upwell. " She has great charm 
 of manner," she said. " She reminds me a little of 
 the late Lady Betty Dusters. It is in the turn of 
 the chin." But Miss Bax's chin, cited in action to 
 confirm this turn, was unconvincing. 
 
 Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. " I 
 think the girl was going lengths in coming at all," 
 she said. " After all, what did it amount to ? Just 
 that she and this young soldier of hers came to 
 the Studio to see a picture. And supposing it did 
 happen on the day when Reginald behaved so de- 
 testably with that horrible girl ! Doesn't that make 
 it all the other way round ? " She wished to express 
 that if Miss Upwell had come to know about her 
 quarrel with her husband, she should have kept her 
 distance the more on that account. But she was not 
 equal to the ejffort, and perhaps acknowledged it 
 when she said, " You know what I mean, so it's no 
 use drum-drum-drumming it all through, like a cart- 
 horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, Miss Upsley 
 Pupsley would have shown better taste to keep away, 
 to my thinking! " 
 
 " I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia," 
 said the aunt, meekly. 
 
 " I didn't say I didn't," said the niece.
 
 218 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 " Then I won't speak." Which resolve of Miss 
 Priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is 
 made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns 
 quite as much on the way it omits, as the way it 
 uses words. The younger lady's manner was that of 
 one in whom exasperation, produced by unrighteous 
 conspiracy, was being kept in check by rare powers 
 of self-control. That of the elder indicated constitu- 
 tional toleration of the waywardness of near relations ; 
 who are, as we know, a crotchetty class. When one 
 of these, in addition to tapping with her foot and look- 
 ing flushed and ready to cry on small provocation, 
 bites articles of virtu, surely a certain amount of for- 
 bearance an irritating practice is permissible. 
 
 " You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla. 
 " And it was a present from your great-uncle John 
 Bulstrode, when he came from India." 
 
 Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably, 
 because she knew, as you and I do, that when those 
 little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying 
 to stick them in again. But she said, " Bother the 
 paper-knife ! " And for a few moments her soul was 
 content to find expression in foot-tapping and lip- 
 biting; while her aunt forbore, and took up her 
 knitting. 
 
 Then she got up and paced about the room, rest- 
 lessly. The lamp was going out, or wanted seeing 
 to. She turned it up; but if lamps are going out
 
 A LIKELY STORY 219 
 
 for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and 
 only burns the wick away. They have to be prop- 
 erly seen to. It was too late to be worth putting 
 fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do, or for 
 that matter, why not do without ? The firelight was 
 much nicer. 
 
 Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the room while 
 Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire and knitted. 
 It was getting on for bedtime. 
 
 Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter. 
 " Aunty ! " said she, but in a voice that almost 
 seemed to add, " Do talk to me and be sympathetic. 
 I'm quite reasonable now." 
 
 Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skip- 
 ping ratifications. " Certainly, my dear Euphemia," 
 she said, with dignity. 
 
 " Do you know how long I've been here ? " 
 
 Those who know how inconsequent daily famili- 
 arity makes blood relations who live together, will 
 see nothing odd in Miss Priscilla's reply : " My dear 
 niece, listen to me, and do not interrupt. What was 
 the expression I used when you first announced your 
 engagement to Eeginald ? . . . No I did not say 
 it was a come-down. ..." 
 
 " Yes, you did." 
 
 " Afterwards perhaps, but at first, Euphemia ? Be 
 candid. Did I, or did I not, use the expression, 
 'Artists are all alike?' . . . I did? Very well!
 
 220 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 And I said too and you cannot deny it that any 
 woman who married them did it with her eyes open, 
 and had only herself to thank for it. They are all 
 alike, and Reginald is no exception to the rule." 
 At this point Miss Priscilla may have had misgiv- 
 ings about sustaining the performance, for she ended 
 abruptly on the dominant, " And then you ask me if 
 I know how long you have been here ! " 
 
 " Because it's six months, Aunty over six 
 months! Is it any wonder that I should ask? 
 Besides, when I first came I never meant to stay. 
 I was going back when Reginald wrote that letter. 
 Fancy his daring to say there was no what was 
 that he called it ? you know l casus belli ! ' 
 An odious girl like that ! And then to say if I really 
 believed it I ought to go into Court and swear to 
 things ! How could I, with that Sairah ? Oh dear 
 if it had only been a lady! or even a decent 
 woman! Anything one could produce! But 
 Sairah!" 
 
 This young lady mind you! was only trying 
 to express a very common feeling, which, if you 
 happen to be a young married woman you will 
 probably recognize and sympathize with. Suppose 
 you were obliged to seek legal ratification of your 
 case against a faithless spouse, think how much 
 more cheerfully you would appear in court if the op- 
 position charmer was a Countess ! Think how grate-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 221 
 
 ful you would be if the culprits had made them- 
 selves indictable in terms you could use, and still 
 know which way to look; if, for instance, they had 
 had the decency to reside at fashionable hotels and 
 pass themselves off as the Spenser Smyths, or the 
 Poole Browns. These are only suggestions, to help 
 your imagination. The present writer knows no such 
 persons. In fact, he made these names, out of his 
 own head. 
 
 But Sairah! Just fancy reading in the Tele- 
 graph that the petitioner complained of her husband's 
 misconduct with . . . Oh it would be too dis- 
 gusting for words ! After all, she, the petitioner, had 
 a right to be considered a she detested the ex- 
 pression, but what on earth were you to say ? LADY ! 
 What had she done that she should be dragged down 
 and degraded like that ? 
 
 It had been Miss Priscilla's misfortune as has 
 been hinted already to contribute to the pro- 
 longation of her niece's residence with her by the 
 lines on which she herself seemed to be seeking to 
 bring it to an end. Nothing irritated this injured 
 wife more than to be reminded of feminine subor- 
 dination to man as seen from an hierarchical stand- 
 point. So when her aunt quoted St. Paul under 
 the impression that extraordinary man's corre- 
 spondence so frequently produces, that she was quot- 
 ing His Master her natural irritation at his oriental
 
 222 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 views of the woman question only confirmed her in 
 her obduracy, and left her more determined than ever 
 in her resentment against a husband who had read 
 St. Paul very carelessly if at all, and who took no 
 interest in churches apart from their Music and 
 Architecture. 
 
 Therefore, when Aunt Priscilla responded to her 
 niece's exclamation, which has been waiting so long 
 for an answer, with her usual homily, it produced 
 its usual result. " I can only urge you, my dear 
 Euphemia, to turn your thoughts to the Words of 
 One who is Wiser than ourselves. It is no use 
 your saying it's only Colossians. Besides, it's 
 Ephesians too. The place where it occurs is ab- 
 solutely unimportant. ' Wives, submit yourselves 
 to your husbands, as it is fit in the Lord.' Those are 
 The Words." Miss Priscilla handled her capitals 
 impressively. The music stopped on a majestic 
 chord, and her rebellious niece was cowed for the mo- 
 ment. JSTot to disturb the effect, the old lady, having 
 lighted her own bedroom candle, kissed her benedic- 
 tionally, with a sense of doing it in Jacobean Eng- 
 lish or should we say Jacobean silence? corre- 
 sponding thereto, and left her, accepting as valid a 
 promise to follow shortly. 
 
 But there was a comfortable armchair still making, 
 before a substantial amount of fire, its mute appeal, 
 " Sit down in me." The fire added, " Do, and I'll
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 223 
 
 roast you for twenty minutes more at least." It 
 said nothing about chilblains, but it must have known. 
 Mrs. Aiken acted on its advice, and sat looking at 
 it, and listening to an intermittent volcano in one of 
 its corners. 
 
 The volcano was flagging, subject to recrudescence 
 for a certain latitude has to be given to Derby 
 Brights and Wombwell Main before Mrs. Aiken 
 released her underlip, bitten as a counter-irritant to 
 Scripture precepts. Aunt Priscey was trying! But, 
 then, how good she was! Where on earth would 
 she, Euphernia Aikeu, have gone to look for an 
 anchorage, if it hadn't been for Aunt Priscey ? She 
 calmed down slowly, and Colossians died away in 
 the soothing ripple of the volcano. 
 
 But the fire was hot still, and she wanted a screen. 
 She took the first thing her hand lighted on. It 
 was the photograph. It would do. But she hated 
 the sight of it when the volcano made a spurt, and 
 set the shadows dancing over the whole room. She 
 turned it away from her towards the fire, to see the 
 blank back only, and calm down in the stillness, un- 
 exasperated. 
 
 Presently, for some reason, it became irksome to 
 hold it up. But it must be kept between <her face 
 and the fire. She let it fall forward on her face, still 
 half holding it, and listened to the volcano. She 
 could sit and think about things, and not go to sleep.
 
 224 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 Of course she could. It would never do to spoil her 
 night's rest. 
 
 Was it really six whole months since she quarrelled 
 with Reginald? She recited the months to make 
 herself believe them actual, and failed. It did not 
 really matter, though, how long it was. If Reginald 
 had been ill, she could have gone back any time, 
 and without any sacrifice of pride. Aunt Priscey 
 would have found out a text, proving it a Christian 
 duty more than ever. A little seductive drama 
 crept through her mind, in which Reginald, smitten 
 with some disorder of a good practicable sort for the 
 piece not a dangerous or nasty one, you know! 
 had put all his pride in his pocket, and written a 
 letter humbly begging her forgiveness; acknowledg- 
 ing his weakness, his evil behaviour, and acquitting 
 her of the smallest trace of unreasonable punctilio. 
 It was signed, " Your lonely husband, Reginald 
 Hay," that being a form domestic pleasantry in the 
 past had sanctioned. Something choked in her throat 
 over this touching episode of her own creation. 
 
 But it dispersed obsequiously when at a moment's 
 notice in her dream, you understand ; dreamt as in 
 the middle of dinner, to establish self-sacrifice as her 
 portion she started and arrived in time to save 
 Reginald from a sinister nurse, whose elimination 
 made an important passage in the drama. She got 
 as far as the commencement of a letter to her aunt,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 225 
 
 describing this achievement. At this point drowsi- 
 ness got the better of her, presumably. For her 
 imaginary pen became tangible, and her paper was 
 beautiful, only it was stamped " At Aunt's," which 
 seemed absurd. And she could only write the words 
 " My pride," which seemed more so. 
 
 Then she woke, or seemed to wake, with a start, 
 saying aloud, to no one, " This will never do ; I 
 shall spoil my night's rest." But on the very edge 
 of her waking someone had said, in her dream, in 
 a sort of sharp whisper, " Perhaps it is." And it 
 was this voice that had waked her. She found it 
 hard to believe that an outside voice had not spoken 
 into her dream. But no one was there, and had the 
 room been full of folk, none of them could have read 
 the words on her dream-paper. And to her half- 
 awake mind it seemed that " Perhaps it is " could 
 only apply to what she had succeeded in writing. 
 However, there can be no doubt that, at this moment, 
 she believed herself fully awake. 
 
 Later she had reason to doubt it. Or rather, she 
 became convinced of the contrary by the subsequent 
 course of events, which need not be anticipated now. 
 During what followed, one would say that she must 
 have had misgivings that she was dreaming. But 
 she seems not to have had many or strong ones; 
 although she may have made use of the expression, 
 " I could hardly believe I was awake," as a mere
 
 226 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 phrase of wonderment just as you or I have used 
 it before now. For when next day she described 
 this experience to her cousin Volumnia, who had 
 been much in her confidence during these last 
 months, who said to her, " Of course, you were asleep, 
 because that is the only way of accounting for it 
 reasonably," her reply was, " Then we shall have 
 to account for it unreasonably, because I was 
 awake." 
 
 " Well go on, and tell," was the reply. This 
 cousin Volumnia, the elder sister of that little 
 monkey Jessie, was of course the grim big Miss Bas 
 Miss Upwell had met at Lady Presteign's, and, as 
 we have seen, she was a very determined person, 
 one who would stand no nonsense. " Start from 
 where the voice woke you, Cousin Euphemia," said 
 she. She shut her eyes, and frowned, so as to listen 
 judicially. 
 
 " I laid the photograph on the table," said Mrs. 
 Aiken, with circumflex accents over every other 
 syllable, which is how to tell things clearly. But 
 Miss Volumnia said, " You needn't pounce. I can 
 hear." So she became normal. " I was absolutely 
 certain there was no one else in the room. And 
 everything seemed as usual; not the least like a 
 dream. But for all that . . . you won't believe 
 me, Volumnia. ..." 
 
 "Very likely. Goon!"
 
 A LIKELY STORY 227 
 
 " For all that I heard a voice the same voice 
 that waked me up. ..." 
 
 " Of course ! You were still asleep. I know. 
 Go on ! What did the voice say ? " 
 
 " No, I won't go on at all, Volumnia, if you're 
 going to be nasty." 
 
 " Oh yes, do go on. I'm greatly interested. But 
 you must remember that we hear thousands of these 
 things every week at the Psychomorphic. We had 
 a very interesting case only the other day. A man 
 heard a dog barking. . . . However, go on." 
 
 " Very well, only you mustn't interrupt. What 
 was I saying ? . . . Oh yes the voice ! I heard 
 it quite distinctly, only very small. . . . Non- 
 sense! you know quite well what I mean. . . . 
 What did it say ? What I heard was, ' Hold me up, 
 and let me look at you.' Now I know, my dear 
 Volumnia, you will say I am making it improbable 
 on purpose. ..." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear Euphemia ! The case is 
 commoner than you suppose, even when the subject 
 is wide awake. Please tell it exactly as you recollect 
 it. Soften nothing." The implication was that 
 Psychomorphism would know how much to take, 
 and how much to reject. 
 
 " I am telling it exactly as it happened. It 
 said ..." 
 
 "What said?"
 
 228 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " The picture said." 
 
 " The picture! Oh, we hadn't come to that. Now 
 what does that mean ? The picture said ! " 
 
 " Volumnia ! IF you interrupt I can't tell it at 
 all. Do let me go on my own way." 
 
 " Yes perhaps that will be better. I can analyze 
 afterwards." 
 
 " Well the voice seemed to come from the 
 picture the photo, I mean. It said quite unmis- 
 takably, but in a tiny voice, ' Pick me up, and let 
 me look at you.' ..." 
 
 " You said < hold ' before. Now it's < pick.' " 
 
 " Eeally, Cousin Volumnia, I declare I won't go 
 on unless. ..." 
 
 "All right all right! I'll be good." A little 
 pause came here owing to Mrs. Aiken stipulating for 
 guarantees. A modus vivendi was found, and she 
 continued. 
 
 " I did as the voice said, and held the picture up, 
 looking at it. I can't imagine how I came to take 
 it so coolly. But you know, Volumnia, how it is 
 when a perfect stranger speaks to you in an omnibus, 
 and evidently takes you for somebody else, how 
 civil you are? . . . Well of course, I mean a 
 lady ! How can you be so absurd ? I said to it that 
 I had never heard a photograph speak before. The 
 voice replied, ' That is because you never listen. 
 If r. Perry hears me because he listens.' I asked who
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 this was, and the voice replied, ' The little old gen- 
 tleman who comes here.' I said, l No little old gen- 
 tleman comes here. Do you know where you are ? ' 
 And do you know, Volumnia, the voice said, i In the 
 Library at Surley Stakes, over the stoofer.' What 
 could that mean ? " 
 
 " Can't imagine. But I'm not to speak, you know. 
 That's the bargain. Go on." 
 
 " Well I told the woman in the photograph where 
 she was, and the voice said, ' I suppose you know,' 
 and then asked if this was the place where she saw 
 me before. I said no that was my husband's 
 Studio. * But,' I said, ' you were not made.' She 
 seemed not to understand, and persisted that she re- 
 membered seeing me there." 
 
 " Do excuse my interrupting just this once," said 
 Miss Volumnia. " I won't do it again. I only wish 
 to point out how clearly this shows the dream- 
 character of the phenomenon. Is it credible that, 
 admitting for the sake of hypothesis an independent 
 intelligence, that intelligence would recollect occur- 
 rences before it came into existence? It seems to 
 me that the picture-woman's claim to identity carries 
 its own condemnation. How could ideas existing 
 in the mind of the original picture reappear 
 in the mind of a photograph, however carefully 
 made?" 
 
 " It was the same woman, Volumnia," said Mrs.
 
 230 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Aiken, beginning to stand on the rights of her 
 Phenomenon, as people do. " I do think, dear, you 
 are only cavilling and making difficulties." 
 
 " I think my objection holds good. When we 
 consider the nature of photography ..." 
 
 " Why is it more impossible than the original 
 picture seeing me and recollecting ? " 
 
 " The demand on my power of belief is greater in 
 the case of a copy, however accurate. And it would 
 become greater still in the case of a copy of a copy. 
 And so on." This was not original. A paper read 
 at her Society was responsible for most of it. " How- 
 ever," she added, " we needn't discuss this now. 
 Go on." 
 
 " Then don't prose. You really are straining at 
 gnats and swallowing camels, Volumnia. Well 
 where was I? ... Oh yes, the Studio! The 
 voice went on and now this does show that it didn't 
 come out of my own head ' I remember the Studio, 
 and I remember a misunderstanding between your- 
 self and your husband that might easily have led to 
 serious consequences.' Now you know, Volumnia, 
 that could not have come out of my own my own 
 inner consciousness. ... Is that right? Now 
 could it ? " 
 
 Miss Volumnia shook an unbiassed head, on its 
 guard against rash conclusions. " The same is 
 true," she said, " of so many dream-impressions.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 231 
 
 Did you make the photograph acquainted with the 
 actual position of things ? " 
 
 Mrs. Aiken seemed to hesitate a moment. " Was 
 I bound to take it into my confidence ? " she said. 
 " Anyhow it seemed to me at the time most uncalled 
 for." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " I said because as it was only a photograph I 
 thought it didn't matter I said that fortunately 
 no such result had come about. I then pressed it 
 to say more explicitly what it referred to. ... 
 What?" 
 
 " Nothing go on. . . . Well, I was only going 
 to say that in my opinion you were playing with edged 
 tools. The slightest departure from the principle of 
 speaking the Truth is fraught with danger to the 
 speaker. . . . Yes and then ? " 
 
 " Well did it matter ? Anyhow, let me get on. 
 I asked what it meant what misunderstanding it 
 referred to. And do you know, \ r olumnia, the voice 
 began and gave a most accurate account of Miss 
 What's-her-name Pupsley Wupsley's visit to the 
 Studio, and described that poor young Captain 
 Thingumbob most accurately. All I can say is that 
 it did not make a single mistake ..." 
 
 " Of course not ! " 
 
 " Why < of course not ' ? " 
 
 " Because it was merely your own Memory un-
 
 232 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 consciously at work; doing the job on its own, as 
 my young nephew would say. It may have been 
 wrong, but would seem to you right." 
 
 " Then why doesn't what followed after I left the 
 Studio seem to me right too ? " 
 
 Miss Volumnia said, as from the seat of Judg- 
 ment, " Let's hear it." Thereupon her friend gave, 
 with conscientious effort to report truly, the photo- 
 graph's version of what passed in the Studio between 
 her husband and the odious Sairah. It corresponded 
 closely with that already given in this story. 
 
 As Miss Volumnia's interruptions became frequent 
 towards the close of this narrative, it may be best to 
 summarize it, as near as may be, in the words of the 
 photograph, which had said, or seemed to say : " I 
 did indeed tremble to think what misconstruction 
 might be put on half-heard words of this interview 
 of this young English maiden with your husband. 
 For I could remember well how at the little Castello 
 in the Apennines Icilia Ciaranfi, a girl of great spirit, 
 finding her new-made husband enacting some such 
 pleasantry as this but quite blamelessly with 
 Donnina Magliabecchi, stabbed both to death there 
 and then ; and her great grief when Donnina's lover 
 Beppe made it clear to her that this was but a foolish 
 jest to which he himself was privy. And thinking 
 of this painful matter I rejoiced that you, Signora, 
 yourself should have been guided by counsels of
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 233 
 
 moderation, at most withdrawing for a term so I 
 understood to the house of a relation as to a haven, 
 when no doubt all asperity of feeling would soon 
 give place to forgiveness. I could see that in your 
 case, had you yielded to the mistaken impulse of 
 Icilia, no such consolation as she found could have 
 been yours. For I understood this though I was 
 young at the time that so deeply was Beppe 
 touched by Icilia's remorse for her rash action, and 
 she so ready to give her love in compensation for 
 what he had lost, that each flew as it were to the 
 embrace of the other, and the two of them fled 
 then and there, and thence Icilia escaped the 
 officers of Justice. Now this surely would have 
 been an impossible resource to yourself and the 
 lover of la Sera, w r ho, unless I am mistaken in think- 
 ing that those who ' keep company ' are lovers in 
 your land, was the person I heard spoken of as ' The 
 Dust.' Which is in our tongue ' La Mondezza.' But 
 I understood that while he was a man, and in that 
 sense competent for Love, although called by a name 
 fitter for a woman, yet was he socially on a level 
 with those whom we others in Italy call spazzini, and 
 no fit mate for a Signora of gentle birth and breeding. 
 " So that although I heard afar that the Signore 
 and yourself came to high words on this subject, 
 and gathered that you had departed in wrath to seek 
 shelter with an aunt, I thought of this dissension
 
 234 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 as one that would soon be forgotten, and a matter 
 of the past. The more so that your Signore's own 
 words to his friends reassured me; to whom he said 
 more than once that you would be the best woman 
 in the world but for a defect I did not understand 
 from his description, that when you flew into a 
 blooming rage you could not keep your hair on, but 
 that it wouldn't last and you would be back in a 
 week, because you knew he couldn't do without 
 you. He set my mind at rest by treating the idea 
 of any lasting breach between you as something 
 too absurd for speech. But I tell you this for 
 certain, that I saw all that passed between him and 
 la Sera, and that if you are keeping your resentment 
 alive with the thought that he was guilty of anything 
 but an ill-judged joke, you are doing grievous 
 injustice to him as well as yourself. Return to him, 
 Signora, forthwith; and beware henceforward of 
 foolish jealousy and needless quarrels ! " 
 
 The foregoing is a much more complete version 
 of what the photograph seemed to say than Mrs. 
 Aiken's fragmentary report to her cousin. She had 
 not Mr. Felly's extraordinary memory, and, more- 
 over, she had to omit phrases and even sentences 
 that were given in Italian. Miss Volumnia Bax, 
 when not interrupting, checked off the narrative 
 with nods at intervals, each nod seeming to be 
 fraught with confirmed foresight of the preceding
 
 A LIKELY STOKY 235 
 
 instalment. "When it ended, she launched at once, 
 without a moment's pause, into a well-considered 
 judgment, or rather abstract of a Report of the 
 Case, which her mind was already scheming to read 
 at the next meeting of the Psychomorphic. This Re- 
 port, printed recently by the Society, containing all 
 that Miss Volumnia said to her cousin on first hear- 
 ing the tale, as well as many valuable remarks, com- 
 mences as follows : 
 
 " Case 54103A. Dream or Pseudodream, reported 
 by Miss Volumnia Bax. The subject of this ex- 
 perience, whom we will call Mrs. A., is reluctant to 
 admit that she was not awake when it happened, 
 however frequently the absurdity of this view is 
 pointed out to her. So strong is this impression that 
 if other members of her family had been subject to 
 hallucination or insanity, or even victims of alcohol- 
 ism, we should incline to place this case in some 
 corresponding class. As it is, we have nothing but 
 the word of the narrator to warrant our assigning it 
 a place outside ordinary Somnistic Phenomena." 
 
 This story is not answerable for the technical 
 phrases of what is, after all, merely a suburban 
 Research Society. The Report goes on to give, 
 very fairly, the incident as already narrated, and 
 concludes thus: 
 
 " It will be observed that nothing that the dreamer 
 put into the mouth of the photographic speaker was
 
 236 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 beyond her imaginative powers, subconscious or 
 superconscious. It may be urged that the absurdly 
 romantic Italian story implies a knowledge of Italian 
 matters which the dreamer did not possess, or at least 
 emphatically disclaims. But nothing but the veri- 
 fication of the story can prove that the names, for 
 instance, were not due to subconscious activity of the 
 dreamer's brain. On the other hand and this 
 shows how closely the investigator of Psychic 
 Phenomena has to follow their intricacies inquiry 
 has elicited the fact that Mrs. A.'s husband once 
 spent a week in Florence at a Pension in the Piazza. 
 Indipendenza and no doubt became familiar with 
 the habits of Italians. What is more likely than that 
 she should unconsciously remember passages of her 
 husband's Italian experience, as narrated by him- 
 self? We are certainly warranted in assuming this 
 as a working hypothesis, while admitting our obliga- 
 tion to sift Italian History for some confirmation of 
 the dramatic (but not necessarily improbable) inci- 
 dent of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi > 
 both, by the way, suspiciously Florentine names! 
 We repeat that, failing further evidence, we are 
 justified in placing this story in section M 103, as a 
 Pseudo-real Hypermnemonism." 
 
 The Report, of course, said nothing of the advice 
 its writer had felt warranted in giving Mrs. A., as 
 a corollary to her summary of the views she after-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 237 
 
 wards embodied in it. " If you want my opinion, 
 Cousin Euphemia," she said, " it is that the sooner 
 you make it up with your husband the better ! It's 
 quite clear from the dream that you want to do so." 
 
 " How do you make that out ? " asked Mrs. 
 Aiken. 
 
 " Clearly ! Your subconscious self constituted this 
 nonsensical photograph the exponent of its auto- 
 matically cryptic Idea, while you were in a state of 
 Self -Induced Hypnosis. ..." 
 
 " Does that mean while I was asleep ? " 
 
 " By no means. It is a condition brought about 
 by fixing the attention. You had, by your own ad- 
 mission, been looking at the fire." 
 
 " ~No I held up the photograph." 
 
 " Then you had been looking at the photograph." 
 
 " Only the back." 
 
 " It's the same thing. I am distinctly of opinion 
 that it was Self-Induced Hypnosis. In this condi- 
 tion the subconscious self may as it were take the 
 bit in its teeth, and energize whatever bias towards 
 common sense the subject may happen to possess. In 
 your case the photograph's speech and its grotesque 
 fictions were merely pegs, so to speak, on which to 
 hang an exposition of your own subconscious cryptic 
 Idea. Does not the fact that you are at this moment 
 prepared to deny the existence of this Idea prove 
 the truth of what I say ? "
 
 238 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " I daresay it's very clever and very wise. But I 
 can't understand a word of it, and you can't expect 
 me to. All I know is, that if it's to be submission 
 and Colossians and Ephesians and stuff, back to 
 Reginald I don't go. And as far as I can see, Science 
 only makes it ten times worse. ... So there ! " 
 
 " Your attitude of mind, my dear Euphemia," said 
 Miss Volumnia, " furnishes the strongest confirma- 
 tion possible of the truth of my interpretation of the 
 Phenomenon. But I must go or I shall lose my 
 train." 
 
 " How I do hate patronizing people ! " said Mrs. 
 Aiken, going back into the drawing-room after see- 
 ing her cousin off.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOW MRS. EUPHEMIA AIKEN FOUND MADELINE AT HOME, WHO 
 CONSEQUENTLY DID NOT GO TO A BUN-WOBBY. BUT SHE HAD 
 MET MISS BAX. HOW THESE LADIES EACH CONFESSED TO 
 BOGYISM, OF A SOBT, AND MADELINE SAID MAKE IT UP. 
 HOW MB. AIKEN TOOK MB. TICK'S ADVICE ABOUT DIANA, BUT 
 COULD NOT FIND HIS TBANSPABENT OXIDE OF CHBOMIUM. 
 MAN AT HIS LONELIEST. NO TEA. AND WHAT A JUGGINS 
 HE HAD BEEN! OF MBS. GAPP'S DIPSOMANIA. THE BOYS. 
 HOW MR. AIKEN LIT THE GAS, AND HEARD A CAB. HOW HE 
 NEARLY KISSED MADELINE, WHO HAD BROUGHT HIS WIFE 
 HOME, BUT IT WAS ONLY A MISTAKE, GLOBY BE! WAS THERE 
 SOAP IN THE HOUSE? 
 
 MKS. AIKEN tortured her speculating powers for 
 awhile with endeavours to put this curious event on 
 an intelligible footing, and was before long in a 
 position to " dismiss it from her mind " ; or, if not 
 quite that, to give it a month's notice. It certainly 
 seemed much less true on the second day after it 
 happened than on the first; and, at that rate, in a 
 twelvemonth it would never have happened at all. 
 But her passive acceptance of a thing intrinsically 
 impossible and ridiculous because, of course, we 
 know, etc., etc. was destined to undergo a rude 
 shock. After taking her aunt's advice about the 
 duration of the usual pause not to seem to have too 
 violent a " Sehnsucht " for your card-leavers the 
 
 239
 
 240 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 lady paid her visit to Miss Upwell at her parents' 
 stuck-up, pretentious abode in Eaton Square. We 
 do not give the number, as to do so would be to 
 bring down a storm of inquiries from investigators 
 of phenomena. 
 
 She gave her card to the overfed menial, who 
 read it and it was no business of his ! He then 
 put it upside down his upside down on a salver, 
 for easy perusal by bloated oligarchs. The voice of 
 an oligarch rang out from the room he disappeared 
 into, quite deliciously, and filled the empty house. 
 Madeline was delighted to see Mrs. Aiken had been 
 going to a Bun-Worry. Now she should do nothing 
 of the sort; she would much rather have tea at 
 home, and a long talk with Mrs. Aiken. She con- 
 firmed this by cancelling her out-of-door costume, 
 possibly to set the visitor at her ease. Anyhow, it 
 had that effect. In fact, if either showed a trace 
 of uneasiness, it was Madeline. She more than 
 once began to say something she did not finish, and 
 once said, " Never mind," to excuse her deficit. Of 
 course Mrs. Aiken had not the slightest idea of what 
 was passing in her mind ; or rather, imputed it to a 
 hesitation on the threshold of sympathetic speech 
 about her own domestic unhappiness. 
 
 Now the portion of this conversation that the 
 story is concerned with came somewhere near the 
 middle of it, and was as follows:
 
 A LIKELY STORY 241 
 
 " I think you said you had met my cousin, 
 Volumnia Bax ? " 
 
 " At Lady Presteign's yes, of course I did t 
 With a splendid head of auburn hair, and a strongly 
 characteristic manner. We had a most amusing 
 talk." 
 
 " She has a red head and freckles, and is interested 
 in Psychoeopathy." An analogue of homoeopathy, 
 which would have stuck in the gizzard of the Claren- 
 don Press, and even the Daily This and the Evening 
 That would have looked at a dictionary about. 
 
 " Oh," said Miss TJpwell dubiously. " I thought 
 her a fine-looking woman a a Lifeguardswornan, 
 don't you know! And her nose carries her pince- 
 nez without her having to pincer her nez, which 
 makes all the difference. She talked about you." 
 
 " Oh, did she ? I was going to ask if she did. 
 What did she say about me ? " 
 
 " You mustn't be angry with her, you know ! It 
 was all very nice." 
 
 " Oh yes, of course ! It always is very nice. 
 But a what was it? You will tell me, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " Certainly every word ! But I may have mis- 
 taken what she said, because there was music 
 Katchakoffsky, I think ; and the cello only found he'd 
 got the wrong Op., half-way through." 
 
 " I suppose she was telling you all about me and
 
 242 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Reginald. I wish she would mind her own . . . 
 well, I wish she would Psychceopathize and leave me 
 alone." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Aiken ! you said you wouldn't be 
 angry. And it was only because / mentioned you 
 and talked of that delightful visit of of ours to 
 the Studio. ... Oh no, no! there's no more 
 news. Not a word ! " This came in answer to a 
 look. Madeline went on quickly, glad to say no more 
 of her own grief. " It was not till I myself men- 
 tioned you that she said, ' I suppose you know they've 
 split?'" 
 
 " That was a nice way to put it. Split ! " 
 
 " Yes it looked as if it was sea-anemones, and 
 each of you had split, making four." Miss Upwell 
 then gave a very truthful report of what Miss Bax 
 had told her, neither confounding the persons, nor 
 dividing the substance of her narrative. 
 
 When she had finished, Mrs. Aiken began to say, 
 
 " I suppose " and underwent a restless pause. 
 
 Then, as her hostess waited wistfully for more, she 
 went on, " I suppose she said I ought to go back 
 and be a dutiful wife. I'm quite sick and tired of 
 the way people talk." 
 
 " She said " thus Madeline, a little timidly 
 " that she thought you had acted under a grievous 
 misapprehension. That was what she said ' A 
 grievous misapprehension.' '
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 243 
 
 " Oh yes ! and I'm to go back and beg pardon. 
 / know. . . . But that reminds me. ..." She 
 reined up. 
 
 " Eeminds you. . . . ? " Madeline paused, for 
 her to start again. 
 
 " Eeminds me that I've never thanked you for the 
 photograph." 
 
 " I thought you might like it. I can't tell you 
 how fond I am of the picture, myself. I wanted to 
 get you to be more lenient to the poor girl. It is the 
 loveliest face ! " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say. But anyhow it was most kind 
 of you to give it me. Let me see ! what was it 
 reminded me of the photograph? Oh, of course, 
 Volumnia Bax." 
 
 " I was wondering why you said ' reminded.' ' 
 
 Now Mrs. Aiken had two or three or four or five 
 faults, but secretiveness was not among them. In 
 fact she said of herself that she " always outed with 
 everything." This time, she outed with, or ex- 
 ternalized but we much prefer the lady's own ex- 
 pression what proved of some importance in the 
 evolution of events. " Oh, of course, it was because 
 of the . . . but it was such nonsense ! " So she 
 spoke, and was silent. The cat was still in the bag, 
 but one paw was out, at least. 
 
 Miss Upwell had her own share of inquisitiveness, 
 and a little of someone else's. " Never mind ! Do
 
 244 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 tell me/' she said, open-eyed and receptive. The 
 slight accent on " me " was irresistible. 
 
 " It was silliness sheer silliness ! " said Mrs. 
 Aiken. " An absurd dream I had, which made 
 Volumnia say it was evident I was only being ob- 
 stinate about Reginald, because of Science and stuff. 
 And so going back and begging pardon reminded me. 
 That was all." 
 
 " But what had the picture to do with the dream ? 
 That's what / want to know/' said Madeline. 
 
 " The picture was in the dream," said Mrs. Aiken. 
 " But it was such frightful nonsense." 
 
 " Oh, never mind what nonsense it was! Do 
 do tell me all about it. I can't tell you what an 
 intense interest I take in dreams. I do indeed ! " 
 
 " If I do, you won't repeat it to anybody. Now 
 will you ? Promise ! " 
 
 " Upon my word I won't. Honour bright ! " 
 Thereon, as Mrs. Aiken really wanted to tell, but 
 was dreadfully afraid of being thought credulous, 
 she told the whole story of the dream, with every 
 particular, just as she had told it to Miss Volumnia 
 Bax. 
 
 Her hearer contrived to hold in, with a great 
 effort, until the story reached " Well that's all ! 
 At least, all I can tell you. Wasn't it absurd ? " 
 Then her pent-up impatience found vent. "Now 
 listen to my story ! " she cried, so loud that her
 
 A LIKELY STORY 245 
 
 hearer gave a big start, exclaiming, "What have 
 you got a story ? Oh, do tell it! I've told you mine, 
 you know ! " 
 
 Then Madeline made no more ado, but told the 
 whole story of Mr. Felly's dream, omitting all but 
 a bare sketch of the Italian narrative just enough 
 to give local truth. 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Aiken, when she had finished, 
 " I suppose you mean that I ought to go back and 
 beg Reginald's pardon, too." 
 
 " I do," said Madeline, with overwhelming em- 
 phasis. " Now, directly ! " 
 
 " But you'U promise not to tell anyone about the 
 dream my dream," said Mrs. Aiken. 
 
 That same afternoon Mr. Reginald Aiken had been 
 giving careful consideration to Diana and Actaeon, 
 unfinished; because, you see, he had a few days 
 before him of peace and quiet, and rest from beastly 
 restoration and picture-cleaning. One himself, 
 for instance couldn't be expected to slave at that 
 rot for ever. It was too sickening. But of course 
 you had to consider the dibs. There was no getting 
 over that. 
 
 However, apart from cash-needs, there were 
 advantages about these interruptions. You came 
 with a fresh eye. Mr. Aiken had got Diana and 
 Actseon back from its retirement into the Studio's
 
 246 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 picked light, to do justice to his fresh eye. Two 
 friende, one of whom we have not before seen in his 
 company, were with him, to confirm or contradict 
 its impressions. 
 
 This friend, a sound judge you could always 
 rely upon, but mind you! a much better Critic 
 than an Artist, was seated before the picture with 
 a short briar-root in his mouth, and his thumbs in 
 the armholes of a waistcoat with two buttons off. 
 The other, with a calabash straining his facial 
 muscles, and his hands thumbs and all in his 
 trouser-pockets, was a bit of a duffer and a stoopid 
 feller, but not half a bad chap if you came to that. 
 Mr. Aiken called them respectively Tick and Dobbles. 
 And they called him Crocky. 
 
 So there were five fresh eyes fixed upon the picture, 
 two in the heads of each of these gentlemen, and the 
 one Mr. Aiken himself had come with. 
 
 Mr. Tick's verdict was being awaited, in consid- 
 erate silence. His sense of responsibility for its 
 soundness was gripping his visage to a scowl; and 
 a steadfast glare at the picture, helped by glasses, 
 spoke volumes about the thoroughness of its source's 
 qualifications as a Critic. 
 
 Mr. Aiken became a little impatient. " Wonder 
 if you think the same as me, Tick ? " said he. 
 
 " Wonder if you think the same as 'im ! " said 
 Dobbles.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 247 
 
 But Criticism of pictorial Art at least isn't a 
 thing to hurry over, and Mr. Tick ignored these 
 attempts at stimulus. However, he spoke with de- 
 cision when the time seemed ripe. Only, he first 
 threw an outstretched palm towards the principal 
 figure, and turned his glare round to his companions, 
 fixing them. And they found time, before judgment 
 came, to murmur, respectively, " Wonder if he'll 
 say my idea ! " and " Wonder if he'll say your 
 idear?" 
 
 " Wants puttin' down ! " shouted Mr. Tick, leaving 
 his outstretched fingers between himself and Diana. 
 And thereupon the Artist turned to Mr. Dobbles 
 and murmured, " What did I tell you ? " And Mr. 
 Dobbles murmured back, " Ah ! what did you 
 tell me ? " not as a question, but as a confirma- 
 tion. 
 
 " What I've been thinking all along ! " said Mr. 
 Aiken. Then all three gave confirmatory nods, and 
 said that was it, you might rely on it. Diana was 
 too forward. Had Action been able to talk, he 
 might have protested against this. For see what a 
 difference the absence of the opposite characteristic 
 would have made to ActaBon ! 
 
 Conversation then turned on the steps to be taken 
 to get this forward Goddess into her place again. 
 Mr. Tick, who appeared to be an authority, dwelt 
 almost passionately on the minuteness of the change
 
 248 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 required. " When I talk of puttin' down," said he, 
 "you mustn't imagine I'm referrin' to any per- 
 ceptible alteration. You change the tone of that 
 flesh, and you'll ruin the picture ! " 
 
 His hearers chorused their approbation, in such 
 terms as " Eight you are, Tick, my boy ! " " That's 
 the way to put it!" "Bully for you, old cocky- 
 wax ! " and so on. 
 
 Mr. Tick seemed pleased, and elaborated his posi- 
 tion. " Strictly speakin'," said he, " what is needed 
 is an absolutely imperceptible lowerin' of the tone. 
 Don't you run away with the idea that you can paint 
 on a bit of work like that, to do it any good. You 
 try it on, and you'll come a cropper." This was 
 agreed to with acclamations, and a running com- 
 mentary of " Caution's the thing ! " " You stick to 
 Caution ! " and so on. The orator proceeded, 
 " Now, I never give advice, on principle. But if I 
 was to do so in this case, and you were to do as I 
 told you, you would just take the smallest possible 
 quantity the least, least, LEAST touch no more! 
 of ..." But Mr. Tick had all but curled up 
 over the intensity of his superlatives, and he had to 
 come uncurled. 
 
 "What of?" said Mr. Aiken. And said Mr. 
 Dobbles, not to be quite out of it, " Ah ! what of ? " 
 Because a good deal turned on that. 
 
 Mr. Tick had a paroxysm of decision. He seized
 
 A LIKELY STORY 249 
 
 Mr. Aiken's velveteen sleeve, and held him at arm's 
 length. " Look here, Crocky ! " said he. " Got any 
 Transparent Oxide of Chromium ? " 
 
 " Yes somewhere ! " 
 
 " Well, now just you do as I tell you. Got a 
 clean number twelve sable? . . . No? well, 
 number eleven, then . . . That'll do! dip it in 
 Eenzine Collas and give it a rinse out. See ? Then 
 you give it a rub in your Transparent Oxide, and 
 wipe it clean with a rag. What's left will go all 
 over Diana, and a little to spare. ..." 
 
 " Won't she look green ? " Mr. Aiken seemed re- 
 luctant. 
 
 " Rather ! But you do as I say, young feller, and 
 ask no questions. . . . l What are you to do 
 next ? ' why, take an absoli-yootly white bit of old 
 rag and wipe her quite clean from head to foot." 
 His audience suggesting here that no change would 
 be visible, he added, " That's the idear. Don't you 
 change the colour on any account. But you'll see! 
 Diana she'll have gone back ! " 
 
 " There's somethin' in what old Tick says," said 
 Mr. Dobbles, trying to come out of the cold. He 
 nodded mysteriously. Mr. Aiken said he'd think 
 about it. 
 
 Mr. Tick said, " I ain't advisin'. I never advise. 
 But if I was to there's the advice I should give ! " 
 Then he and Mr. Dobbles went their ways, leaving
 
 250 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Mr. Aiken searching for his tube of Transparent 
 Oxide of Chromium. 
 
 Now, Mr. Reginald Aiken always knew where 
 everything was in his Studio, and could lay his hand 
 on it at once. Provided always that you hadn't 
 meddled and shifted the things about ! And he knew 
 this tube of colour was in his old japanned tin box, 
 with the folding palette with the hinge broke. It 
 might be difficult to get out by now, because he knew 
 a bottle of Siccatif had broken all over it. But he 
 was keen to make Diana go back, and if he went out 
 to get another tube he would lose all the daylight. 
 
 So he sat down to think where the dooce that box 
 had got put. He lit a cigarette to think with. One 
 has to do things methodically, or one soon gets into 
 confusion. 
 
 He passed before his mind the epoch-making 
 bouleversements of the past few years; notably the 
 regular good clean-up when he married Euphemia 
 four years since, and took the second floor as well 
 as the Studio floor he had occupied as a bachelor. 
 
 He finished that cigarette gloomily. Presently he 
 decided that what had happened on that occasion 
 had probably occurred again. History repeats 
 itself. That box had got shoved back into the 
 recess behind the cassettone. He would have up 
 Mrs. Gapp, who came in by the day, in the place of 
 Mrs. Parples, who had outstayed her welcome, to help
 
 A LIKELY STORY 251 
 
 him to shift that great beastly useless piece of lum- 
 ber. Mrs. Gapp was, however, easier to call over the 
 stairs to than to have up. The number of times y_ou 
 called for Mrs. Gapp was according; it varied with 
 your own tenacity of purpose and your readiness 
 to believe that she wasn't there. Mr. Aiken seemed 
 easily convinced that she was at the William the 
 Fourth, up the street. That was the substance of 
 his reason for not shouting himself hoarse; that 
 is to say, it worked out thus as soliloquy. He went 
 back and tried for the japanned tin colour-box, 
 single-handed. 
 
 He had much better have gone out to buy a new 
 tube of this useful colour, as in five minutes he was 
 one mass of filth. Only getting the things off the 
 top of that box was enough! why, you never see 
 anything to come near the state they was in. And 
 if he had only rang again, sharp, Mrs. Gapp would 
 have heard the wire; only, of course, no one could 
 say the bell wasn't broke, and maintain a reputation 
 for truthfulness. We are incorporating in our text 
 some verbal testimony of Mrs. Gapp's, given later. 
 
 But Mrs. Gapp could not have testified for she 
 was but a recent char, at the best to the desolation 
 of her unhappy employer's inner soul when, too 
 late for the waning light of a London day, he opened 
 with leverage of a screwdriver the lid of that japanned 
 tin-box, and excavated from a bed of thickened resin
 
 252 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 which he knew could never be detached from the 
 human hand, or anything else it touched, an abject 
 half-tube of colour which he had to treat with a 
 lucifer-match before he could get its cap off. And 
 then only to find that it had gone leathery, and 
 wouldn't squeeze out. 
 
 If we had to answer an Examination question, 
 " When is Man at his loneliest ? Give instances," 
 we should reply unless we had been otherwise 
 coached " When he is striving, companionless, to 
 get some sort of order into things; working on a 
 basis of Chaos, feeling that he is the first that ever 
 burst into a dusty sea, choked with its metaphorical 
 equivalent of foam. Instance Mr. Reginald Aiken, 
 at the end of last century, in his Studio at Chelsea." 
 Anyhow, if this question had been then asked of 
 anyone and received this answer, and the Examiners 
 had referred back to Mr. Aiken, before giving a 
 decision, he would certainly have sanctioned full 
 marks. 
 
 But he gave himself unnecessary trouble. One 
 always does, in contact with disinterred lumber, in 
 which a special brood of spooks lies hid, tempting 
 him to the belief that this flower-stand only wants 
 a leg to be of some use, and that that fashionable 
 armchair only wants a serpentine segment of an 
 arm and new straps under the seat to be quite a 
 handsome piece of furniture. Yes, and new
 
 A LIKELY STORY 253 
 
 'American leather, of course! Mr. Aiken had not 
 to deal with these particular articles, but the 
 principle was the same. He foolishly tampered 
 with a sketching umbrella, to see if it would open: 
 it certainly did, under pressure, but it wouldn't keep 
 up nor come down, and could only be set right at 
 the shop, and a new one would be cheaper in the 
 end. Pending decision, a large blackbeetle, who 
 had hoped to end his days undisturbed, fell off the 
 underside as its owner opened it, and very nearly 
 succeeded in getting down his back. 
 
 The things that came out of that cavern behind 
 the cassettone! you never would have thought it! 
 A large can of genuine Amber Varnish that had had 
 its cork left out, and wouldn't pour; the Skeleton's 
 missing right scapula, only it wouldn't hold now; 
 and, besides, one never wanted the Skeleton; a 
 great lump of modelling-wax and apparently in- 
 finite tools no use to Mr. Aiken now, because he 
 never did any modelling, but they might be a 
 godsend to some art-student; folio volumes of 
 anatomical steel-plates, that the engravers had 
 hoped would last for ever a hope the mice may 
 have shared, but they had done pretty well already; 
 Mr. Aiken's old ivory foot-rule, which was the only 
 accurate one in the British Empire, and what the 
 dooce had become of it he never could tell; plaster 
 heads without noses, and fingers without hands,
 
 254 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 and discarded fig-foliage, like a pawnshop in Eden; 
 things, too, for which no assignable purpose appeared 
 on the closest examination things that must have 
 been the lifework of insane artisans, skilful and 
 thorough outside the powers of language to express, 
 but stark mad beyond a doubt. And a Dutch clock 
 that must have been saying it was a quarter-past 
 twelve, unrebuked, for four years or so past. 
 
 Mr. Aiken need not have tried to pour out the 
 Amber Varnish; where was the sense of standing 
 waiting, hoping against hope for liquidation? He 
 need not have hunted up a pair of pliers to raise 
 vain hopes in the scapula's breast or its equiva- 
 lent of a new lease of life. He need not have 
 tried to soften the heart of that wax. Nor have 
 turned over the plates to see if any were left perfect. 
 Nor need he have reconsidered the Inexplicables, to 
 find some plausible raison d'etre for them, nor tried 
 to wind up the Dutch clock with sporadic keys, 
 found among marine stores in a nail-box. But he 
 was excusable for sitting and gloating over his ivory 
 foot-rule, his sole prize from a wrestling-match with 
 intolerable filth or only tolerable by a Londoner. 
 He was weary, and the daylight had vanished. And 
 even if he had got a squeeze out of that tube, he 
 couldn't have used it. It was much too ticklish a 
 job to do in the dark. 
 
 He sat and brooded over his loneliness in the
 
 A LIKELY STORY 255 
 
 twilight. How in Heaven's name had this odious 
 quarrel come about ? Nonsense about Sairah ! 
 That absurd business began it, of course. Serious 
 quarrels grow out of the most contemptible nonsense, 
 sometimes. Oh no there was something behind; 
 some underlying cause. But he sought in vain to 
 imagine one. They had always been such capital 
 friends, he and Euphemia! It was true they 
 wrangled a great deal, often enough. But come, I 
 say! If a man wasn't to be at liberty to wrangle 
 with his own wife, what were we coming to ? 
 
 He believed it was all the doing of that blessed 
 old aunt of hers. If she hadn't had Athabasca Villa 
 to run away to, why, she wouldn't have run away 
 at all! She would have snapped and grizzled at 
 him for a time, and then made it up. And then 
 they would have had an outing, to Folkestone or 
 Littlehampton, and it would all have been jolly. 
 
 Instead of which, here they were, living apart 
 and writing each other letters at intervals for they 
 kept to correspondence and, so far as he could see, 
 letters only made matters worse. He knew that the 
 moment he took up his pen to write a regular sit- 
 down letter he put his foot in it. He had always 
 done that from a boy. 
 
 Probably, throughout all the long summer that 
 had passed since his quarrel with his wife, he had 
 not once missed saying, as a morning resolution to
 
 256 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 begin the day with, that he wouldn't stand this any 
 longer. He would go straight away, after break- 
 fast, to Athabasca Villa, and beard Aunt Priscilla 
 in her den, his mind seeming satisfied with the 
 resolution in this form. But every day he put it 
 off, his real underlying objection to going being that 
 he would have to confess to having made himself 
 such an unmitigated and unconscionable Juggins. 
 His Jugginshood clung to him like that Siccatif to 
 his fingers. It was too late to mitigate himself now. 
 And six months of discomfort had contrived to slip 
 away, of which every day was to be the last. And 
 here he was still ! 
 
 If he had understood self-examination people 
 don't, mostly he might have detected in himself 
 a corner of thought of a Juggins-mitigating char- 
 acter. However angry he felt with his wife, he 
 could not, would not, admit the possibility that she 
 believed real ill of him. His loyalty to her went 
 further than Geraint's to Enid, for he imputed to 
 her acquittal of himself, from sheer ignorance of the 
 sort of thing anybody else's wife might impute to 
 anybody else's husband. Because, you see, he had 
 at heart such a very exalted view of her character. 
 Perhaps she would not have thanked him for fixing 
 such a standard for her to act up to. 
 
 He sat on on in the falling darkness; the 
 little cheerfulness of his friends' visit had quite van-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 257 
 
 ished. The lumber he had wallowed iii had grimed 
 his heart as well as his garments. He would have 
 liked Tea a great stand-by when pain and anguish 
 wring the brow. But when you are too proud to 
 admit that your brow is being wrung, and you know 
 it is no use ringing the bell, because Mrs. Gapp, 
 or her equivalent, is at the William the Fourth, why, 
 then you probably collapse and submit to Fate, as 
 Mr. Reginald Aiken did. It didn't much matter 
 now if he had no Tea. No ministering Angel was 
 there to make it. 
 
 He sat, collapsed, dirty and defeated, in the 
 Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair. What was that 
 irruption of evening newsboys shouting? Repulse 
 of some General, English or Dutch, at some berg or 
 drift ; surrender of some other, Dutch or English, at 
 some drift or berg. He was even too collapsed to 
 go out and buy a halfpenny paper. He didn't care 
 about anything. Besides, it was the same every 
 evening. Damn the Boers ! Damn Cecil Rhodes ! 
 
 The shouters had passed a prestissimo movement 
 in the Street Symphony selling rapidly, before he 
 had changed his mind, and wished he had bought a 
 Star. Never mind ! there would be another edition 
 out by the time he went to dinner at Machiavelli's. 
 He sat on meditating in the gloom, and wondering 
 how long it would be before it was all jolly again. 
 Of course it would be but when?
 
 258 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 A sound like a nervous burglar making an attempt 
 on a Chubb lock caught his ear and interested him. 
 He appeared to identify it as Mrs. Gapp trying 
 to use a latchkey, but unsuccessfully. He seemed 
 maliciously amused, but not to have any intention 
 of helping. Presently the sound abdicated, in 
 favour of a subterranean bell of a furtive and 
 irresolute character. Said Mr. Aiken, then, to 
 Space, " Mrs. Verity won't hear that, you may bet 
 your Sunday garters," and then went by easy 
 stages to the front-door, to see so further soliloquy 
 declared how sober his housekeeper was after so 
 long an absence. A glance at the good woman con- 
 vinced him that her register of sobriety would stand 
 at zero on any maker's sobriometer. 
 
 She said that a vaguely defined community, called 
 The Boys, had been tampering with the lock. Mr. 
 Aiken, from long experience of her class at this stage, 
 was able to infer this from what sounded like 
 " Boysh been 'tlocksh keylocksh inchfearunsh." 
 This pronounced exactly phonetically will be clear 
 to the student of Alcoholism; be so good as to read 
 it absolutely literally. 
 
 " Lock's all right enough ! " said Mr. Aiken, 
 after turning it freely both ways. " Nobody's 
 been interfering with it. You're drunk, Mrs. 
 Gapp." 
 
 Mrs. Gapp stood steady, visibly. Now, you can't
 
 A LIKELY STORY 259 
 
 stand steady, visibly, without a suspicion of a lurch 
 to show how splendidly you are maintaining your 
 balance. Without it your immobility might be 
 mere passionless inertia. Mrs. Gapp's eye seemed 
 as little under her control as her voice, and each 
 had a strange, inherent power of convincing the 
 observer that the other Avas looking the wrong way. 
 
 "Me?" said Mrs. Gapp. 
 
 " Yes you ! " said Mr. Aiken. 
 
 Mrs. Gapp collected herself, which if we include 
 in it her burden, consisting of some bundles of fire- 
 wood and one pound four ounces of beefsteak 
 wrapped in a serial seemed in some danger of re- 
 distributing itself when collected. She then spoke, 
 with a mien as indignant as if she were Boadicea 
 seeking counsel of her country's gods, and said, 
 " M e r-r-runk! Sliober!" the last word express- 
 ing heartfelt conviction. Some remarks that fol- 
 lowed, scarcely articulate enough to warrant 
 transcribing, were interpreted by Mr. Aiken to the 
 effect that he was doing a cruel injustice to a widow- 
 woman who had had fourteen, and had lived a pure 
 and blameless life, and had buried three husbands. 
 Much stress was laid on her own habitual abstention 
 from stimulants, and the example she had striven 
 to set in her own humble circle. Her third had 
 never touched anything but water a curlew's life, 
 as it were owing to the force of this example.
 
 260 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Let persons who accused her of drunkenness look 
 at home, and first be sure of their own sobriety. 
 Her conscience acquitted her. For her part she 
 thought intoxication a beastly, degrading habit 
 that is to say, if Mr. Aiken interpreted rightly some- 
 thing that sounded, phonetically, like " Bishley grey 
 rabbit." At this point one of the wood-bundles 
 became undone, owing to the disgraceful quality of 
 the string now in use. Mrs. Gapp was dissuaded 
 with difficulty from returning to the shop to ex- 
 change it, but in the end descended the kitchen- 
 stairs, lamenting commercial dishonesty, and shed- 
 ding sticks. 
 
 The Artist seemed to regard this as normal char- 
 ing, nothing uncommon. He returned to the 
 Austrian bent-wood chair, and sat down to think 
 whether he should light the gas. He began to 
 suspect himself of going imbecile with dishearten- 
 ment and depression. He was at his lowest ebb. 
 " I tell you what," said he it was Space he was 
 addressing " I shall just go straight away to-mor- 
 row after breakfast to Coombe, and tell Mrs. Hay 
 that if she doesn't come back I shall let the Studio 
 and go to Japan." 
 
 But Space didn't seem interested. It' had three 
 dimensions, and was content. 
 
 He might as well light the gas as not ; so he did it, 
 and it sang, and burned blue. Then it stopped
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 261 
 
 singing, and became transigeant, and you could 
 turn it down or up. Mr. Aiken turned it down, but 
 not too much, and listened to a cab coming down 
 the street. " That's not for here," said he. He 
 had no earthly reason for saying this. He was only 
 making conversation ; or rather, soliloquy. But 
 he was wrong; at least so far as that the cab was 
 really stopping, here or next door. And in the 
 quadrupedations, door-slammings, backings, re- 
 proofs to the horse, interchange of ideas between 
 the Captain and the passengers of a hansom cab of 
 spirit, a sound reached Mr. Aiken's ear which ar- 
 rested him as he stood, with his finger on the gas- 
 tap. " Hullo ! " said he, and listened as a musical 
 Critic listens to a new performance. 
 
 When towards the end of such a symphony, the 
 fare seeks the exact sum he is named after, and 
 weighs nice differences, some bars may elapse 
 before the conductor or rather the driver, else we 
 get mixed with omnibuses sanctions a start. But 
 a reckless spendthrift has generally discharged his 
 liability, and is knocking at the door or using his 
 latchkey, before his late driver has done pretending 
 to consider the justice of his award. It happened 
 so in this case, for before Mr. Aiken saw anything 
 to confirm or contradict the need for his close 
 attention, eight demisemiquavers, a pause, and a 
 concussion, made a good wind-up to the symphony
 
 262 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 aforesaid, and the cab was free to begin the next 
 movement on its own account. 
 
 He discarded the gas-tap abruptly, and pounced 
 upon his velveteen, nearly pulling over the screen 
 he had hung it on. " That drunken jade must not 
 go to the door," he gasped, as he bolted from the 
 room and down the stairs. He need not have been 
 uneasy. The jade was singing in the kitchen 
 either the Grandfather's Clock or the Lost Chord 
 and was keeping her accompanyist waiting, with an 
 intense feeling of pathos. Mr. Aiken swung down 
 the stairs, got his collar right in the passage, and 
 nearly embraced the wrong lady on the doorstep, so 
 great was his hurry to get at the right one. 
 
 " Never mind ! " said Madeline ; and her laugh was 
 like nightingales by the Arno in May. " Don't 
 apologize, Mr. Aiken. Look here ! I've brought you 
 your wife home. Now kiss her! " 
 
 " You're not fit to kiss anybody, Reginald ; but 
 I suppose there's soap in the house." So said Mrs. 
 Aiken. And then, after qualifying for a liberal use 
 of soap, she added, " What is that hideous noise in 
 the kitchen ? " 
 
 "Oh, that?" said her husband. "That's Mrs. 
 Gapp."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MADELINE'S REPOET, NEXT MORNING. CHARLES MATHEWS AND 
 MADAME VESTBIS. HOW WELL MADELINE HELD HER TONGUE 
 TO KEEP HER PROMISE. AN ANTICIPATION OF POST-STORY 
 TIME. HOW A DEPUTATION WAITED ON MRS. AIKEN FROM 
 THE PSYCHOMORPHIC. MR. MACANIMUS AND MR. VACAW. 
 6EVARTIUS MUCH MORE CORRECT FOR MISS JESSIE TO LISTEN 
 TO THAN THE LAUGHING CAVALIER. OF SELF-HYPNOSIS AND 
 GHOSTS, THEIR RESPECTIVE CATEGORIES. THE MAD CAT'S 
 NOSE OUTSIDE THE BLANKET. SINGULAR AUTOPHRENETIG 
 EXPERIENCE OF MR. AIKEN. STENOGRAPHY. A CASE IN 
 POINT. NOT A PHENOMENON AT ALL. HOW MISS VOLUMNIA'S 
 PENETRATION PENETRATED, AND GOT AT SOMETHING. SUG- 
 GESTION TRACED HOME. ENOUGH TO EXPLAIN ANY PHE- 
 NOMENON 
 
 " FM afraid you did get mixed up, darling, this 
 time. But I dare say they're all right." This was 
 Lady Upwell's comment at breakfast next morning, 
 when her daughter had completed a narrative of 
 her previous evening's adventure, which had as- 
 sumed, between the close of last chapter and the en- 
 suing midnight, all the character of a reckless 
 escapade. Indeed, it had long been past that hour 
 when the young lady, who had wired early in the 
 evening that she was " dining with Aikens shall be 
 late," returned home in better spirits than she had 
 shown for months so her mother said to sympa- 
 thetic friends afterwards to find her Pupsey getting 
 
 263
 
 264 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 uneasy about her, and fidgetting. Because that was 
 Pupsey's way. 
 
 Madeline's parents at this time would probably 
 have welcomed any diversion or excitement for the 
 girl; anything to take her mind away from her 
 troubles. They were not at all sure about these 
 Aiken people; but there! they would have wel- 
 comed worse, to see this little daughter of theirs 
 in such spirits as hers last night. Touching the 
 cause of which they were a little puzzled, as she had 
 stuck loyally to her promise to tell nothing of Mrs. 
 Aiken's dream and the share the Italian picture 
 had in her reconciliation with her husband. All she 
 said was that she had persuaded Euphemia to go back 
 to Reginald; she having, as it were, borrowed from 
 each the name each called the other in a certain 
 sense, quoting it. 
 
 " Euphemia, I suppose, is Mrs. Aiken ? " said her 
 ladyship temperately with a touch of graciousness, 
 like Queens on the stage to their handmaidens Cicely 
 or Elspeth. 
 
 " Euphemia's Mrs. Aiken, but he calls her Mrs. 
 Hay as often as not." Perplexity of both parents 
 here required a short explanation of middle-class 
 jocularity turning on neglect or excess of aspirates. 
 After which Madeline said, " That's all ! " and they 
 said, " We see," but with hesitation. Then she con- 
 tinued her story. " It was such fun. 7 knocked
 
 A LIKELY STORY 265 
 
 at the door, and Reginald came rushing out because 
 he heard Euphemia outside, and clasped me in his 
 arms. . . . Oh, well it's quite true! You see, 
 he was in such a hurry he didn't stop to look, and he 
 took me for Euphemia." For the Baronet had laid 
 down his knife and fork and remained transfixed. 
 But a telegraphic lip-movement of her ladyship re- 
 assured him. " This," it said, " is exaggeration. 
 Expect more of the same sort." However, his 
 daughter softened the statement. " It wasn't ex- 
 actly negotiated, you know. And I don't think it 
 would have been any satisfaction either, because he 
 was so horribly dirty, Reginald was." 
 
 The Baronet completed a contract he had on hand 
 with some kippered salmon, and said, before 
 accepting a new one, " Well you're a nice young 
 woman ! " But he added, forgivingly, " Go on 
 gee-up ! " 
 
 The nice young woman went on. " And do you 
 know, I don't believe that a more filthy condition 
 than that house was in why, Mrs. Aiken had been 
 away ten months! And there was a drunken cook 
 singing in the kitchen all the while." 
 
 " You are an inconsecutive puss," said the 
 Baronet, very happy about the puss nevertheless. 
 " You didn't finish your sentence. ' Filthy condi- 
 tion that house was in ' go on ! " 
 
 " Bother my sentence ! Finish it yourself, Pup-
 
 266 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 sey. Well Reginald and Euphemia made it up like 
 a shot. Couple of idiots ! Then the question was 
 dinner. I said come home here, but they said 
 clothes. There was some truth in what they had 
 on, so I said hadn't we better all go and dine where 
 Mr. Aiken had been going. Because I didn't call 
 him Reginald to his face, you know ! " 
 
 " And you went, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I should think so. We dined at Mezzofanti's 
 in Great Compton Street, Soho no, it wasn't; it 
 was Magliabecchi's no! Machivaelli's. And I 
 talked such good Italian to the waiter. It was fun. 
 And what do you think we did next ? . . . Give it 
 up ? " Her father nodded. " Why we went to the 
 Gaiety Theatre there ! And we saw ' Charley's 
 Aunt,' and we parted intimate bosom friends. Only 
 Euphemia is rather fussy and distant, compared to 
 Us, and I had to stick out to make her kiss me." 
 A slight illustration served to show how the speaker 
 had driven a coach-and-six through the bosom- 
 friend's shyness. 
 
 " Well," said the Baronet. " All I can say is 
 I wish I had been there with you. If I go to the 
 play now there I am, dressed in toggery and sittin' 
 in the stalls! Lord, I remember when I was a 
 young fellow, there was Charles Mathews and 
 Madame Vestris . . . you can't remember 
 them ,
 
 A LIKELY STORY 267 
 
 " Of course I can't. I was only born nineteen 
 years ago." The Baronet, however, added more re- 
 cent theatrical experiences, but only brought on him- 
 self corrections from his liege lady. " My dear, 
 you're quite at sea. Fancy the child recollecting 
 Lord Dundreary and Buckstone! Why, she wasn't 
 born or thought of ! " 
 
 But when this Baronet got on the subject of his 
 early plays and operas, he developed reminiscence 
 in its most aggravated form. He easily outclassed 
 Aunt Priscey on the subject of her ancestors. Her 
 ladyship abandoned him as incorrigible, without an 
 apology, but his daughter indulged him and sat and 
 listened. 
 
 All things come to an end sooner or later, and 
 reminiscence did, later. Then poor Madeline ran 
 down in her spirits, and sat brooding over the war 
 news. It was only a temporary sprint. Reginald 
 and Euphemia vanished, and Jack came back. 
 
 Madeline kept all this story of the talking photo- 
 graph to herself. To talk of it she would have had 
 to tell her friend's dream, and that she had promised 
 not to do. 
 
 She was so loyal that when a day or two later she 
 met the formidable Miss Volumnia Bax, she kept a 
 strict lock on her tongue, even when that lady 
 plunged into a resume of the dream-story as she had
 
 268 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 received it, and an abstract of her commentary on 
 it, still waiting delivery at the Psychomorphic. 
 
 " I hoped we should meet at Mrs. Ludersdorff 
 Pirbright's," said she, " because I wanted to talk 
 about it. Their teas are so stupid. Ethel Luders- 
 dorff Pirtright said you were coining." 
 
 " Oh yes that was the Unfulfilled Bun- Worry. 
 Mrs. Aiken came in to see me, and I stayed." Then, 
 as an afterthought, " I suppose you know they've 
 made it up ? " 
 
 Admission that there was something unknown to 
 her did not form part of Miss Volumnia's scheme 
 of life. She left the question open, saying merely, 
 " In consequence of the advice I gave my cousin, no 
 doubt ! " Madeline said nothing to contradict this 
 all the more readily perhaps that she was not pre- 
 pared to supply the real reason. She, however, 
 could and did supply rough particulars of the recon- 
 ciliation, giving Miss Volumnia more than her due of 
 credit as its vera causa. 
 
 That lady then proceeded to give details of her 
 scientific conclusions about the phenomenon. A 
 portion of this may be repeated, as it had a good 
 deal of effect in confirming her hearer's growing 
 faith in its genuineness. " What I rest my argu- 
 ment on," said Miss Volumnia, touching one fore- 
 finger with the other, like Sir Macklin in the Bab 
 Ballads, " is the isolated character of this phenom-
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 269 
 
 enon. Let the smallest confirmation of it be 
 produced by proof of the existence of analogous 
 phenomena elsewhere, and then, although that 
 argument may not fall to the ground, it may be 
 necessary to place it on an entirely new footing. I 
 would suggest that, in order to sift the matter to 
 the bottom, a sub-committee should be appointed, 
 charged with the duty of listening to authentic por- 
 traits to determine, if possible, whether any other 
 picture possesses this really almost incredible faculty 
 of speech. The slightest whisper from another pic- 
 ture, well authenticated by a scientific authority, 
 would change the whole venue of the discussion. 
 Pending such a confirmation, we are forced to the 
 conclusion that the subjectivity of the phenomenon is 
 indisputable." 
 
 At this point, Miss TJpwell, who was really getting 
 anxious about secondly which she was certain the 
 speaker would forget, while it was impossible for her, 
 without loss of dignity, to draw one forefinger from 
 the other was greatly relieved when the with- 
 drawal was made compulsory by the offer of a sally- 
 lunn, and the resumption of it became unnecessary, 
 and even difficult. For this entertainment was not 
 merely a bun-worry, but choosing a name at ran- 
 dom a sally-lunn sedative, or a tea-cake lullaby. 
 
 It only enters for a moment into this story to show 
 how powerfully Miss UpwelFs belief in the picture's
 
 270 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 personality had been reinforced before the time came 
 for Mr. Pelly to read Professor Schrudengesser's 
 Florentine manuscript. 
 
 Perhaps if Miss Volumnia had then been in a posi- 
 tion to lay before her friend the results of a subse- 
 quent interview with her cousin, in which she elicited 
 some most important facts, this belief might at least 
 have been suspended, and Miss Upwell's attitude 
 towards the pardonable scepticisms of her father and 
 Mr. Pelly might have been less disrespectful. But 
 as a matter of fact Miss Volumnia only came to the 
 knowledge of these facts months later, when she 
 called upon Mrs. Reginald Aiken with the Secretary, 
 Mr. MacAnimus, and Mr. Vacaw, the Chairman of 
 the Psychomorphic ; the three constituting a Deputa- 
 tion from the Society, which was anxious for repeti- 
 tion and confirmation of the story before appointing a 
 sub-committee to listen to well-painted pictures. This 
 interview may be given here, for the sake of those 
 curious in Psychological study, but its place in the 
 succession of events should be borne in mind. It is 
 really a piece of inartistic anticipation. 
 
 " We shouldn't come pestering you like this, 
 Cousin Euphemia," said Miss Volumnia, after intro- 
 ducing the Deputation, " if it had not been that we 
 have so much trouble in getting volunteers to 
 guarantee the amount of listening which we consider
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 271 
 
 has to be gone through before the negative con- 
 clusion, that pictures cannot talk, is accepted as 
 practically established. My sister Jessie has under- 
 taken to listen to any picture at the National 
 Gallery the sub-committee may select, provided 
 that either Mr. Duodecimus Groob or Charley Gals- 
 worthy accompanies her, and listens too. I can 
 see no objection to this, but I prefer that they 
 should listen to Gevartius. I think it perhaps 
 better that so young a girl should not hear what 
 the Laughing Cavalier, Franz Hals, is likely to say. 
 Or Charley Galsworthy either, for that matter. Mr. 
 Duodecimus Groob is a graduate of the University of 
 London. ..." 
 
 Mr. Reginald Aiken, who was present at this 
 interview, looked up from his easel, at which he was 
 re-touching a sketch of no importance, to say that 
 he knew this Mr. Groob, who was an awful ass; but 
 his brother Dolly was quite another pair of shoes, 
 of whom the World would soon hear more. The 
 interruption was rude and discourteous, and Mrs. 
 Aiken was obliged to explain to the Deputation that 
 it was quite unnecessary to pay any attention to it. 
 Her husband was always like that. His manners 
 were atrocious, but his heart was good. As for Mr. 
 Adolphus Groob, he was insufferable. 
 
 " Shall we proceed to business ? " said Mr. 
 MacAnimus, a piercing man, who let nobody off.
 
 272 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " I will, with your permission, run through Mrs. 
 Reginald Aiken's deposition. ..." 
 
 " I never made any deposition," said that lady. 
 
 " My dear Euphemia," said her cousin. " If you 
 wish to withdraw from the statement you made to 
 me. . . ." 
 
 " Rubbish, Volumnia ! I certainly don't with- 
 draw from anything whatever. Still less have I any 
 intention of making any depositions. If we are to 
 be beset with depositions in everyday life, I think we 
 ought at least to be consulted in the matter. Deposi- 
 tions, indeed ! " 
 
 Mr. Vacaw interposed to make peace. " We need 
 not," he said, " quarrel about terms." He for his 
 part would be perfectly content that the particulars so 
 kindly furnished by Mrs. Aiken should be referred 
 to in whatever way was most satisfactory to that 
 lady herself. He appeared to address Mr. Mac- 
 Animus with diffidence, almost amounting to humil- 
 ity, approaching him with somewhat of the caution 
 which might be shown by a person who had under- 
 taken to encumber a mad cat with a blanket so as to 
 neutralize its powers of tooth and claw. Mr. Mac- 
 Animus conceded the point under protest; and Mrs. 
 Aiken then, who was not disobliging, consented to re- 
 peat her dream experience, each point being checked 
 off against the formulated report of her first state- 
 ment, transmitted to the Society by Miss Volumnia.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 273 
 
 It is creditable to that lady's accuracy that very few 
 corrections were necessary, especially as the first nar- 
 rator seemed in a certain sense handicapped by doubts 
 as to what the exact words used were, though always 
 sure of their meaning. Had Mrs. Aiken understood 
 any Italian, mixed speech on the picture's part might 
 have accounted for this. As it was, an undeniable 
 vagueness helped Miss Volumnia's classification of 
 the incident as a case of Self-hypnosis. That the 
 Deputation was unanimous on this point was soon 
 evident. 
 
 It was then that an incident came to light that, 
 at least in the opinion of Miss Volumnia, went far 
 to establish this classification beyond a shadow of 
 doubt. 
 
 Mr. Reginald, who had been at no pains to con- 
 ceal his derision of the whole proceeding, allowed 
 this spirit of ridicule, so hostile to the prosecution of 
 Scientific Investigation, to master him so com- 
 pletely that he quite forgot the respect he owed to 
 his visitors, and indeed to his wife, for she at least 
 deserved the credit which is due to sincerity, even 
 if mistaken. He shouted with laughter, saying 
 did anyone ever hear such glorious Rot? A talk- 
 ing picture only fancy! Why, you might as well 
 put down anything you heard in your ears to any 
 picture on the walls. One the same as another. 
 Of course everyone knew that Euphemia was as
 
 274 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 full of fancies as an egg is full of meat. Just you 
 leave her alone for a few minutes in a dark room, 
 or a burying-ground, and see if she didn't see a 
 ghost ! 
 
 " That's quite another thing," said Miss Volumnia 
 and Mr. MacAnimus, simultaneously. And Mr. 
 Vacaw added, as pacific confirmation, " Surely 
 surely! Ghosts belong to an entirely different 
 category." A feeling that Ghosts could not be 
 coped with so near lunch may have caused an 
 impulse towards peroration. It was not, however, 
 to fructify yet, for Mr. MacAnimus appealed for a 
 moment's hearing. 
 
 " With your leave, sir," said he, addressing Mr. 
 Vacaw as if he was The Speaker, " I should like to 
 put a question to this gentleman," meaning Mr. 
 Aiken. Mr. Vacaw may be considered to have 
 allowed the mad cat's nose outside the blanket, on 
 sufferance. 
 
 Then Mr. MacAnimus, producing a memorandum- 
 book to take down the witness's words, asked this 
 question : " What did Mr. Aiken mean by the ex- 
 pression, l anything heard in your ears ' ? " 
 
 But the witness was one of those people who be- 
 come diffuse the moment they are expected to an- 
 swer a question. His testimony ran as follows, 
 tumbling down and picking itself up again as it 
 did so. " Oh, don't you know the sort of thing I
 
 A LIKELY STORY 275 
 
 mean; a sort of tickle nothing you can exactly 
 lay hold of not what you think you hear 
 when it's there comes out after p'r'aps your 
 sort don't it goes with the party there's parties 
 and parties if you don't make it out without a de- 
 scription, it's not in your line you're not in the 
 swim." 
 
 The members of the Deputation looked at each 
 other inquiringly, and each shook a negative head r 
 as disclaiming knowledge of this peculiar phenom- 
 enon. They were not in the swim, but could all 
 say, and did, that this was very interesting. 
 
 Mr. MacAnimus struck in with perspicuity and 
 decision : " Allow me. Will Mr. Aiken favour us 
 with a case in point? Such a case would enable 
 the Society to ascertain whether this phenomenon 
 is known to any of its members." He concen- 
 trated his faculties to shorthand point, holding a 
 fountain-pen in readiness to pounce on a clean 
 
 V/l *" V *. ^ x 
 
 memorandum page, virgin but for li J^ s - / " K ^| , or 
 
 something like it, which meant, " Singular auto- 
 phrenetic experience of Mr. Reginald Aiken com- 
 municated direct to Society at his residence." 
 Stenography is a wonderful science. 
 
 Mr. Aiken complied readily. " Any number of 
 cases in point ! Why, only the other day there was 
 Stumpy Hughes, sitting on that very chair you're in
 
 276 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 now, heard a voice say where was Mrs. Aiken? 
 What's more, I heard it too, and thought it was Mrs. 
 Gapp in liquor in more liquor than usual. I told 
 you all about that, Mrs. Hay." Mrs. Gapp was a 
 new general servant, not mentioned heretofore. 
 
 Mrs. Euphemia suddenly assumed an air of mys- 
 tery. " Oh yes," said she. " You told me all about 
 that. I understood." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you ? " said her husband, appealing 
 to the company. " Didn't I tell you females might 
 be relied on to cook up somethin' out of nothin' at 
 all ? " He had done nothing of the sort, and merely 
 chose this form of speech to fill out his share in the 
 conversation. 
 
 His wife was indignant. " I don't know," she 
 said, " what nonsensical imputations you may have 
 been casting on women, who, at any rate, are 
 usually every bit as clever as you and your friends. 
 But I do know this, because you told me, that when 
 that happened you were both close to the exact 
 duplicate of the very photograph you are now 
 accusing me of credulity with, and it's ridiculous 
 simply ridiculous. And it's off the selfsame nega- 
 tive. You know it is." 
 
 Mr. Vacaw deprecated impatience. A new avenue 
 of inquiry might be opened up as a consequence 
 of this experience of Mr. Aiken's, provided always 
 that we did not lose our heads, and allow ourselves
 
 A LIKELY STORY 277 
 
 to be misled by an ignis fatuus of controversy into 
 a wilderness of recrimination. Mr. \ r acaw's style 
 drew freely on the vast resources of metaphor in 
 which the English language abounds. 
 
 Mr. Aiken followed his example so far as to say 
 that he couldn't see any use in flaring up, and that 
 if hair and teeth were flying all over the shop, a 
 chap couldn't hear himself speak. As for the 
 identity of the photographs, he wouldn't have 
 mentioned Stumpy 's little joke about where the 
 voice came from if he had thought his wife was 
 going to turn it into a Spirit Manifestation and 
 Davenport Brothers. He saw no use in such rot. 
 This was only an idea, and had nothing super- 
 natural about it. 
 
 Mr. Hughes's little joke, whatever it was, did not 
 reach the ears of the story at the time of writing 
 you can turn back and see but Mr. Aiken heard 
 and remembered it, and had evidently repeated it 
 to his wife, who had beeti comparing notes upon it. 
 Her indignation increased, and she would certainly 
 have taken her husband severely to task for his 
 levity and unreason, if it had not been for the 
 sudden animation with which Miss Volumnia cried 
 out " Aha ! " as though illuminated by a new idea. 
 She also pointed an extended finger at Mr. Aiken, 
 as it were transfixing him. At the same moment 
 Mr. MacAnimus exclaimed resolutely:
 
 278 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " Yes stop it at that ! ' Identity of the photo- 
 graphs.' Now, Miss Bax, if you please ! " 
 
 Miss Volumnia accepted what may be called the 
 Office of Chief Catechist, and proceeded on the 
 assumption usual in Investigation, that she was 
 examining an unwilling witness with a strong in- 
 herent love of falsehood for its own sake. 
 
 " You admit then, Cousin Reginald, that on this 
 occasion a suggestion was made that the voice came 
 from this photograph ? " 
 
 Mr. MacAnimus nodded rapidly, and said, " Yes 
 keep him to that ! " and conferred a moment apart 
 with Mr. Yacaw, who murmured: 
 
 " Yes, yes I see your point. Quite correct ! " 
 
 "It was Stumpy's little joke!" said Mr. Aiken. 
 " Not a Phenomenon at all ! You'll make anythin' 
 out of anythin'. I shall tell Stumpy, and he'll split 
 his sides laughin' at you." 
 
 " Pray do, Cousin Reginald. Only let me ask you 
 this one question what was the exact date of this 
 occurrence ? " Miss Volumnia had abated the 
 pointed finger, but not quite suppressed it. Her 
 colleagues nodded knowingly to each other and each 
 said, " That's the point ! " 
 
 Mr. Aiken's answer was vague. " A tidy long 
 while ago," said he. " Couldn't say how long. After 
 Stumpy came back from Aunt Jopiska's, any- 
 how."
 
 A LIKELY STORY 279 
 
 " When was that ? " 
 
 " Three or four months ago. More ! No less ! 
 Stop a bit. I know what'll fix it. That receipt. 
 Where the dooce is it ? " Mr. Aiken had a paroxysm 
 of turning miscellanea over. 
 
 " What is it you are looking for, Reginald ? " said 
 his wife forbear ingly. " If you would tell me what 
 it is, I could find it for you, without throwing every- 
 thing into confusion. Why can you not be patient 
 and methodical ? What is it ? " 
 
 " Receipt for Rates and Taxes oh, here it is 
 seventh of November that fixes the time. It was 
 the day before that." And then Mr. Aiken, in the 
 pride of his heart at the subtlety of his identifica- 
 tion of this date, dwelt upon the subject more than 
 was absolutely necessary. It was because he had 
 talked didn't you see? to a feller who had 
 sketched a plan of the new rooms in Bond Street 
 on the back of this very identical receipt didn't 
 you know? telling him of Stumpy and the hear- 
 ing the voice, the day before didn't you see? so 
 that fixed the date to a nicety. And the feller was 
 a very sensible clever penetratin' sort of feller 
 didn't you see? and had made some very shrewd 
 remarks about starts of this sort. 
 
 " And who was this intelligent gentleman ? " asked 
 Mrs. Aiken, not entirely without superiority, but 
 still with forbearance.
 
 280 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Not a man you know much of. Remarkable sort 
 of chap, though ! " 
 
 " Yes but who was he ? That's what I want to 
 know." 
 
 "Don't see that it matters. . . . Well Dolly 
 Groob, then." 
 
 " Mis-ter Adolphus Groob ..." Mrs. Aiken 
 was beginning, and was going to follow up what her 
 intonation made a half-expression of contempt, by 
 a comment which would have expressed a whole one. 
 Was it Mr. Adolphus Groob all the fuss was 
 about ? 
 
 But she came short of her intention, being in- 
 terrupted by Miss Volumnia, whose " Aha ! " threw 
 her previous delivery of the same interjection into 
 the shade. "Now we are getting at something!" 
 cried that young lady triumphantly. 
 
 " Well, what does that mean ? " said Mrs. 
 Euphemia scornfully. " Getting at something ! 
 Getting at what ? " 
 
 " My dear Euphemia," said her cousin, with tem- 
 perate self-command she was always irritating, and 
 meant to be " I ask you, can you conscientiously 
 deny that Mr. Adolphus Groob sat next you at Mr. 
 Entwistle Parkins's lecture, at the Suburbiton 
 Athenaeum, on the Radio- Activity of Space ? " 
 
 " Well, and what if he did ? " 
 
 " We will come to that directly, when you have
 
 A LIKELY STORY 281 
 
 answered my questions. Can you deny that Mr. 
 Entwistle Parkins's lecture on the Radio-Activity 
 of Space was delivered at least a week after your 
 husband had communicated to Mr. Adolphus 
 Groob the very curious experience he has just 
 related ? " 
 
 " And what if he did. . . . ? " 
 
 " One moment excuse me. ... Or that your 
 own very singular I admit the singularity Pseudo- 
 dream or self-induced Hypnotism was subsequent to 
 this lecture ? " 
 
 " It was in January. What if it was ? " 
 
 Miss Volumnia turned with an air of subdued 
 triumph to the other members of the Deputation. 
 " I appeal to you, Mr. Vacaw to you, Mr. Mac- 
 Animus. Is, or is not, the conclusion warranted 
 that this Pseudo-dream, as I must call it, had its 
 origin by Suggestion from the analogous experience 
 of Mr. Aiken, who had by his own showing narrated 
 it to Mr. Adolphus Groob ? " 
 
 " But Mr. Adolphus Groob never said a single 
 word to me about it. So there ! " Thus Mrs. Aiken 
 with emphasis so distributed as to make her speech al- 
 most truculent. 
 
 Miss Volumnia's reply was cold and firm. " You 
 admit, Cousin Euphemia, that Mr. Adolphus Groob 
 sat next to you throughout that lecture ? " 
 
 " Certainly. What of that ? "
 
 282 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 " Are you prepared to make oath that no part 
 of your conversation turned on Psychic sub- 
 jects ? " 
 
 " He talked a great deal of nonsense, if that's 
 what you mean, and said we were on the brink of 
 great discoveries. But I won't talk to you if you 
 go on about being prepared to make oath, like a 
 witness-box." 
 
 Mr. Aiken, perhaps with a mistaken idea of 
 averting heated controversy, interposed, saying: 
 " Cert'nly Dolly Groob did say he'd met the missus 
 at a beastly place that stunk of gas out Coombe 
 way, and that she conversed very intelligibly no, 
 intelligently on subjects. ..." 
 
 Miss Yolumnia interrupted, although the speaker 
 had to all seeming scarcely finished his sentence. 
 " That is tantamount," she said, " to an admission 
 that they had been talking on subjects. What sub- 
 jects?" 
 
 " Sort of subjects they were talkin' on, I s'pose," 
 said he evasively. 
 
 " Very well, Reginald," said his wife indignantly. 
 " If you are going over to their side, I give up, and 
 I shan't talk at all." And she held to this resolu- 
 tion, which tended to put an end to the conversa- 
 tion, until the Deputation took its leave, shaking 
 its heads and making dubious sounds within its 
 closed lips. We were on very insecure ground, and
 
 A LIKELY STORY 283 
 
 things had very doubtful complexions, and all that 
 sort of thing. 
 
 " What a parcel of fools they were," said the 
 lady when they had departed, " not to ask about 
 what the old gentleman dreamed at Madeline's? 
 That was first hand from the original picture. I 
 really do think one cannot depend on photographs." 
 
 " Must make a difference, I should say. Don't 
 pretend to understand the subject." Thus the 
 Artist, absorbed again in retouching the sketch of 
 no importance. And do you know, he seemed 
 rather to make a parade of his indifference. In 
 which he was very like people one meets at Mani- 
 festations, only scarcely so bad. For a many of 
 them, face to face w T ith what they are pretending 
 to think their own post-mortem, remain unimpressed, 
 and cut jokes. Then of course we have to remember 
 that it is usually a paid Medium that may make 
 a difference. 
 
 We think, however, it is safe to say that had Miss 
 Volmnnia, when she conversed with Miss Upwell at 
 the second, or fulfilled, Bun-Worry, been in pos- 
 session of the facts elicited at this interview, she 
 might have detailed them so as to induce in that 
 young lady's mind a more lenient attitude towards 
 the incredulity of her father and Mr. Felly about 
 the picture. As it was and it is very necessary 
 to bear this in mind in reading what remains to be
 
 284 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 told this interview had not then taken place, and 
 did not in fact come about till nearly two months 
 later, when the compiling of the Society's Quarterly 
 Report made the adoption of a definite attitude 
 towards the Picture Story necessary.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HOW MR. FELLY, SUBJECT TO INTERRUPTION, READ ALOUD A 
 TRANSLATION FROM ITALIAN. WHO WAS THE OLD DEVIL? 
 WHO WAS THE DUCHESS A? OF THE NARRATOR'S INCARCERA- 
 TION. OF HIS INCREDIBLE ESCAPE. WHOSE HORSE WAS THAT 
 IN THE AVENUE? HOW MR. PELLY READ FASTER. WAS 
 UGUCCIO KILLED? SIR STOPLEIGH SCANDALIZED. BUT THEN 
 IT WAS THE MIDDLE AGES ONE OF THEM, ANYHOW! HOW 
 ONLY DUCHESSES KNOW IF DUKES ARE ASLEEP. OF THE 
 BONE MR. PELLY PICKED WITH MADELINE. BUT WHAT BE- 
 COMES OF UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION? AMBROISE PARE. 
 MARTA'S LITTLE KNIFE. LOVE WAS NOT UNKNOWN IN THE 
 MIDDLE AGES. THE END OF THE MANUSCRIPT. BUT SIR 
 STOPLEIGH WENT OUT TO SEE A VISITOR, IN THE MIDDLE. 
 HOW MADELINE TURNED WHITE, AND WENT SUDDENLY TO 
 BED. WHAT WAS IT ALL ABOUT? SEVENTY-SEVEN COULD 
 
 WAIT 
 
 OF course you recollect that Mr. Pelly, when he 
 came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at 
 Cowcester, was to read the manuscript Professor 
 Schrudengesser had sent him from Florence, which 
 had been the probable cause of all that fantastic 
 dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory? 
 Dear Uncle Christopher ! how lucky he should 
 recollect it all like that! Especially now that it had 
 all turned out real, because where was the use of 
 denying it after Mrs. Aiken had heard the photo- 
 graph speak, too? If a mere photograph could 
 
 285
 
 286 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 make itself audible, of course a picture could the 
 original ! 
 
 Mr. Felly's reading of Professor Schrudengesser's 
 translation of the Florentine manuscript was fixed 
 for the evening after Madeline's return to Surley 
 Stakes. Uncle Christopher dined alone with his 
 adopted niece and her parents, after which he was 
 to read the manuscript aloud in the library where 
 the picture was hanging. This was a sine qua non 
 to Madeline. The picture simply must hear that 
 story. But of course she said nothing of the reasons 
 of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone, 
 not even to Mr. Pelly himself. 
 
 Behold, therefore, the family and the old gentle- 
 man settling down to enjoy the manuscript before 
 the picture and the log-fire beneath it. The reader 
 preliminarizes, of course; wavering, to do justice to 
 his impending start. 
 
 " Now, Uncle Christopher dear, don't talk, but 
 begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." So 
 spoke Miss Madeline when she thought Mr. Pelly had 
 hesitated long enough. 
 
 But this did not accelerate matters, for the old 
 gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his dream- 
 narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion 
 that the picture and the manuscript must be con- 
 nected, felt bound to enter his protest against any 
 such rash assumption. " We must bear in mind," he
 
 A LIKELY STORY 287 
 
 said, " that there is absolutely nothing to connect this 
 manuscript with that picture over the chiinneypiece 
 except the name Raimondi. And although the pic- 
 ture was certainly purchased from a castle owned by 
 a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to 
 suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family. 
 And the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of 
 as we shall see directly in this manuscript, no 
 more connects the story with this picture than with 
 any other picture. My friend Professor Schruden- 
 gesser, although it w r ould be difficult to do justice 
 to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most 
 of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree, 
 and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue. 
 In this case, however, he admits that it is the merest 
 surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful 
 ground." 
 
 Mr. Pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory 
 peroration, and was going to dive straight into the 
 manuscript which he had really folded to his liking, 
 this time. But the Baronet, to claim a share in erudi- 
 tion for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty 
 with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say, 
 " Very doubtful very doubtful ve-ry doubtful ! " 
 And this, of course, provoked his daughter to a 
 renewed attitude of parti pris, merely from con- 
 tradiction, for really she knew no more about the 
 matter than this story has shown, so far.
 
 288 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Don't go on shaking your head backwards and 
 forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disre- 
 spectful girl. " You'll shake it off. Besides, as to 
 her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't 
 it logical to assume that everybody is a member of 
 any family till the contrary is proved? At least, 
 you'd say it on your side, you know, if you wanted 
 it, and I should be frightened to contradict you." 
 
 This provoked incredulity and even derision. 
 After which, a remark about the clock caused Mr. 
 Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of 
 apology about the probable imperfection of the 
 translation. Even then he stopped to say that he 
 hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's 
 opinion that the date of the manuscript would be 
 about 1559, as it speaks to the " Duchessa Isabella," 
 to whom it is written, of " your recent nuptials." 
 He added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei 
 Medici, daughter of Cosimo, the second of the name, 
 who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano. 
 
 " Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting, 
 " unless he poisoned her or there was something ex- 
 citing and mediaeval." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically, 
 " he certainly did poison her, strictly speaking. 
 That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona 
 is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to 
 poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 289 
 
 that your wife makes a point of kissing them every 
 night before she goes to bed. ..." 
 
 " That's the sort of thing / like. Go on ! " 
 
 " Why ... of course you place yourself in a 
 very equivocal position." 
 
 " Yes," said Madeline, " and what's more, it 
 shows what pictures can do if they try. Of course he 
 murdered her. What are you looking so sagacious 
 for, Pupsey ? " For the Bart.'s head was shaking 
 slowly. He showed some symptoms of a wish to cir- 
 cumscribe the Middle Ages to stint them of colour 
 and romance. 
 
 " It might be a case to go to a Jury," said he 
 grudgingly. Whereupon Mr. Pelly began to read in 
 earnest. 
 
 " ' To the most illustrious Duchessa Isabella, 
 most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of 
 her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless 
 among musicians, mistress of many languages, to 
 whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the 
 stars of heaven stop to listen. . . .' This goes on 
 for some time," said Mr. Pelly. 
 
 " Skip it, Uncle Christopher. I dare say she was 
 a stupid little dowdy." 
 
 "Very likely! H'm h'm h'm! Yes suppose 
 I go on here : ' In obedience to your highness's 
 august commands I have set down here the full 
 story of my marvellous escape from prison in the
 
 290 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Castello of Montestrapazzo, where I passed a 
 semestre sotterraneo ' six months underground 
 the Professor seems to have left some characteristic 
 phrases in Italian. I won't stop to translate them 
 unless you ask shouldn't like to appear patronizing ! 
 ' now nearly thirty years since, being then quite 
 a young man in truth, younger than my son 
 Gherardo, who is the bearer of this, whom you may 
 well recognize at once by his marvellous likeness to 
 his mother, whose affectionate greetings he will 
 convey to you more readily than I can write them. 
 For when I look upon his face it seems to me I 
 almost see again the face I painted thirty years ago, 
 the sognovegliante look ' the Professor fancies the 
 writer invented this word dream-waking, that sort 
 of thing ' the sognovegliante look of the eyes, the 
 happy laughter of the mouth. And, indeed, as you 
 know her now, she is not unlike the boy, and she 
 changes but little with the years. For even the 
 beautiful golden hair keeps its colour of those 
 days. . . . ' " 
 
 At this point Madeline interrupted : " But that's 
 the picture-girl down to the ground. How can 
 anybody doubt it ? Why, look at her ! " 
 
 Mr. Pelly was dubious. " I don't know. I couldn't 
 say. There's hardly enough to go upon." 
 
 " That's exactly like a scholarly old gentleman ! 
 But, Uncle Christopher dear, do just get up a
 
 A LIKELY STORY 291 
 
 minute and come here and look ! " Mr. Pelly com- 
 plied. 
 
 Generally speaking, we thought it might be rash 
 to allow ourselves to be influenced by a description ; 
 it was always safest to suspend judgment until 
 after something else, or something still later than 
 something else. We had very little to go upon, in- 
 dependently of the fact that the name Raimondi 
 connected itself with both the portrait and the 
 manuscript. 
 
 " Then go independently ! However, let's come 
 back and get on with the story." The speaker went 
 back to her place at her mother's feet, and Mr. Pelly 
 resumed. 
 
 " Where were we ? Oh e colour of those days ' 
 oh yes ! ' and the curvature of the line of his 
 nostril that is all his mother's. . . . ' ' 
 
 Madeline inserted a sotto voce : " Of course, it's 
 the picture-girl ! " The reader took no notice. 
 
 " ' . . . That he will prove himself of service to 
 his Excellency the Duke I cannot doubt, for the 
 boy is ready with his pen as with his sword, though, 
 indeed, as I myself was in old days, a thought too 
 quick with the latter, and hot-headed on occasion 
 shown. But him you will come to know. I, for 
 my part, will now comply as best I may with your 
 wish, and tell you the story of my imprisonment 
 and escape.
 
 292 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " ' I was then in my twenty-first year ; but, 
 young as I was, I already had some renown as a 
 painter. And I think, had God willed that I should 
 continue in the practice of the art that I loved, my 
 name might still be spoken with praise among the 
 best. Yet I will not repine at the fate that has 
 made of me little better than a poderista, a farmer, 
 for see now how great has been the happiness of my 
 lot! Figure it to yourself in contrast with that of 
 a man such a one have I seen, of whom I shall tell 
 you full of life and health, all energy and purpose, 
 cast into a prison for the crime of another, and 
 unable to die for the little poisonous hopes that 
 would come, day by day, of a release that never 
 was to come itself. His lot might have been mine 
 too, but for the courage and decision of the woman 
 who has been my good throughout who has been 
 the one great treasure and happiness of my life. 
 Yet one thing I do take ill in my heart that the 
 picture I painted of her, the last I ever touched, 
 should have been so cruelly destroyed.' ' Mr. Pelly 
 paused in his reading. 
 
 " The Herr Professor and myself," said he, " are 
 divided in opinion about some points in connection 
 with this but perhaps I had better read on, and 
 we can talk about it after. 
 
 " ' For it was surely the best work I had ever 
 painted. And none other can paint her now as I
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 293 
 
 did then. But I must not indulge this useless regret. 
 Let me get to my story. 
 
 " ' Know, then, that, being in my twenty-first year, 
 and in love with no woman, in part, as I think, 
 owing to a memory of my boyhood I treasured in 
 my heart a memory I did not know as Love, but 
 one that had a strange power of swaying my life 
 that I, being thus famous enough to be sought 
 out by those who loved the art, whether for its own 
 sake, or to add to their fame, was sent for to paint 
 the young bride of a great noble, the Duke Raimondi, 
 at his villa that stands out in the plain of the Arno, 
 nearer to Pistoia than to Firenze. Thither, then, I 
 go with all speed, for the Raimondi was a noble of 
 great weight, and not to be lightly gainsaid. But 
 of this young bride of his I knew nothing, neither of 
 her parentage, nor even of her nationality; indeed, 
 I had been told, by some mistake of my informant, 
 that she was by birth a Francese. You may well 
 believe, then, that I was utterly astounded when I 
 found she was . . . " 
 
 Here Mr. Pelly paused in his reading, and wiped 
 his spectacles. " I am sorry to say," said he, " that 
 we come to a gap in the manuscript here a hiatus 
 valde deftendus and we cannot tell how much is 
 missing. There is, of course, no numbering of the 
 pages to guide us. Italians, it seems, are in the 
 habit of remaining stupefied a phrase I have just
 
 294 A UKELY STORY 
 
 translated was ' ho rimasto stupefatto ' on the 
 smallest provocation, and the expression might only 
 mean that this bride of the Raimondi was an Inglese, 
 and plain." 
 
 " We are plain, sometimes," Madeline admitted. 
 " But what geese antiquarians are ! You should al- 
 ways have a girl at your elbow, to tell things. Why, 
 of course, this young person was the Memory he had 
 treasured in his heart ! " 
 
 " I should think it very likely," said Mr. Pelly, 
 " from what follows later. Only, nothing proves 
 it, so far. I should like the arrangement you 
 suggest, my dear Madeline; however, we must 
 get along now, if that clock's right." He nod- 
 ded at one on the chimneypiece, with Time, made 
 in gold, as a mower of hay; then continued 
 reading : 
 
 " i Oh, with what joy my fingers closed on that 
 accursed throat! One moment more, and I had 
 sent my old monster whither go the accursed, who 
 shall trouble us no further, yet shall bear for ever 
 the burden of their sins, a debt whereof the capital 
 shall never be repaid, even to the end of all eternity, 
 Amen! But alas! that one moment was not for 
 me, for the knave who bore the mace, though he 
 missed my head, struck me well and full, half-way 
 betwixt the shoulder and the ear; and though it 
 was a blow that might not easily kill a young man
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 295 
 
 such as I, yet was I stunned by the shock of it, and 
 knew no more till I found myself . . . ' ' 
 
 " What on earth is all this about ? " said Madeline. 
 " Surely the wrong page, Uncle Christopher." 
 
 " Very wrong indeed ! But it can't be helped. 
 We must lump it. It may be one folded page miss- 
 ing or it may be half-a-dozen; we have no clue. 
 We must accept the text as it is." And Mr. Pelly 
 went on reading: 
 
 " ; . . . Found myself on the back of a horse, go- 
 ing at an easy amble up a hilly road in mountains. I 
 was bound fast behind a strong rider, of whom I 
 could see nothing at first but his steel cap or morion 
 and I thought I knew him by it, the basnet 
 thereof being dinted, as the man whose sword my 
 beloved had shed her blood to stop, that else had 
 ended my days for me then and there. For in those 
 days, Eccellenza, I had such eyes to note all things 
 about me as even youth has rarely. On either side 
 of us rode another man-at-arms, one of whom I 
 could recognize as him who had struck at me with 
 his mace, also missing of slaying me, by the great 
 mercy of God. 
 
 " ' I had little heart to speak to either of them, 
 as you may think, and, indeed, was a mere wreck 
 of myself of two hours ago; for I judged of how 
 time had gone by the last smouldering red of the 
 sundown above the dark, flat, purple of the hills.
 
 296 A LJKELY STORY 
 
 My thirst was hard to bear, and the great pain of 
 my head and shoulder, shaken as both were by the 
 movement of the horse. But I knew I might ask 
 in vain, though I saw where a wine-flask swung on 
 the saddle-bow of him of the mace. It is wondrous, 
 Eccellenza, what youth, and great strength, and pride 
 can endure, rather than ask a gentilezza of an enemy ! 
 " ' Thus, then, we travelled on together, my guards 
 taking little heed of each other, and none of me 
 in my agony; seeming, indeed, to have no care 
 if I lived or died. They rode as fellows on a journey 
 so often do when they have said their most on 
 such matters as they have in common, and are 
 thinking rather of the good dinner and the bed that 
 awaits them at their journey's end than of what 
 they pass on the road, or of what they have left 
 behind. One of them, the knave that had struck 
 me down, who seemed the most light-hearted of the 
 three, would at such odd times as pleased him break 
 into a short length of song, which might for all I 
 know have been of his own making, so far as the 
 words went; while as for the tune, it was a cadence 
 such as the vine-setter sings at his work in Tuscany, 
 having neither end nor beginning, and suited to any 
 words the singer may choose to fit to it. Taking note 
 that he did this the more as the third man, whom I 
 had not recognized, rode on a short distance ahead, 
 as he did at intervals, I judged this last one to be
 
 A LIKELY STORY 297 
 
 his superior in command; and that, if I could find 
 voice for speech at all, my best chance of an answer 
 would be from himself and not from this superior, 
 who would most likely only bid me be silent at the 
 best, even if he gave no worse response. So I caught 
 at the moment when he had ended a rather longer 
 cadence than usual, judging therefrom that my speech 
 would reach at most him and the man behind whom I 
 myself was riding. Where was I being taken so 
 fast, I asked, and for what? And he answers me 
 thus: 
 
 " ' " To a good meal and a long rest, mio figlio. 
 To the Castello del bel Riposo. They sleep a long 
 night at that albergo those who ride there as you 
 ride. I have ridden more than once with a guest 
 of his Excellency. But there has always been a 
 good meal for each, pasta, and meat, and a flask of 
 vino buono puro, before he went to rest." Whereon 
 he laughed, but there was no joy for me in that 
 laugh of his. I speak again. 
 
 " ' " I see what you mean, accursed one ! That 
 flask of wine will be my last on this earth." 
 
 " i " You speak truly, caro mio figlio. It will be 
 your last flask of wine. You will enjoy it all the 
 more." 
 
 " ' " You are a good swordsman ? " 
 
 " ' " I am accounted so. But this good Taddeo, 
 .whom you are permitting to ride in front of you
 
 298 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 ho! ho! he also is a good swordsman. But we 
 may neither of us grant what I know well you were 
 going to ask. You will never hold a sword-hilt 
 again, my son, nor rejoice in face of an enemy. I 
 could have wished otherwise, for you are a brave 
 boy; and I w r ould gladly have been the butcher to 
 so fine a young calf." 
 
 n t Y OU are quick to grip my meaning. But I 
 could have outmatched you both on fair ground. 
 Now listen! You have a goodwill towards me so 
 I judge from your words. Tell me, then, this: 
 how will they kill me ? " 
 
 " ' " I have never said they would kill you, my 
 son. I have said only this that you will have a 
 rare good supper of pasta and meat, and a rare good 
 flask of red wine, before you go to rest. And let 
 me give you this word of advice. Before you go 
 to rest at the Castello del bel Riposo, take a good 
 look at the sunlight if it be day, at the stars of 
 heaven if it be night, for you will never see them 
 again, for all your eyes will remain in your head, 
 even as now." 
 
 " ' Sometimes, Illustrissima, when I wake in 
 the night, it comes back to me, that moment. And 
 there below me is the musical tramp of the horses' 
 feet on the bare road, and I hear the voice of my 
 friend sing again a little phrase of song die ognuno 
 tirasse I' acqua al suo mulino and I heed him very
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 299 
 
 little, though I can read in his words a wicked belief 
 about my most guiltless and beloved treasure. I 
 see the sweet light where the sun Avas, through the 
 leaves of the olive-trees that make a reticella (net- 
 work) against the sky; and the great still star they 
 never hide for long, rustle how they may! But I 
 can but half enjoy the light that is dying, and the 
 star that burns the more the more it dies; for the 
 pain is great in my shoulder where the blow struck, 
 and in my head and eyes, and my body is sore at 
 its bonds and stiff from being held in one position. 
 And yet I may never see that star again the star 
 we called our own, my Maddalena and I, and made 
 believe God made for us, saying " this star I make 
 for Giacinto e la sua sorellaccia " neither that star, 
 nor its bath of light, nor the sun that will make all 
 Heaven glad to-morrow, unseen by me. For I can 
 guess the meaning of what my friend has 
 said. . . .'" 
 
 Here a little was quite illegible. But no con- 
 versation ensued on that account, both reader and 
 listeners wanting to hear what followed. Mr. Felly 
 read on: 
 
 " l Now I call this man my friend, and, Eccellenza, 
 you will see, as I tell my tale, that this is no derisive 
 speech. I think that what showed me he was not 
 all hostility to me in his heart was that he would 
 I felt sure if left to himself, have granted the boon
 
 300 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 I would have asked of him, and fought fairly with 
 me to the death of one or other. So there was love 
 between us of a soldierly sort. And I, too, could 
 see how it had grown. For I had half suspected 
 him of not showing all the alacrity he might have 
 done with his mace when I had my grip on the Old 
 Devil's throat. . . .'" 
 
 Madeline interrupted : " It's perfectly madden- 
 ing! What wouldn't I give to know what it's all 
 about?" 
 
 " I'll tell you presently the Herr Professor's con- 
 jectural history," said Mr. Pelly. But this did not 
 satisfy the young lady. 
 
 " Tell us now ! I'm the sort that can't wait," 
 said she. 
 
 The benignity of Mr. Felly's face as he replied to 
 her was a sight to be seen. 
 
 " The Herr Professor thinks it is quite clear that 
 this young man, on his arrival at the Palace of the 
 great noble whose wife he was to paint, fell in love 
 with some girl of her retinue, possibly having recog- 
 nized some friend of early childhood; and that the 
 Duchess fell in love with him. Naturally because 
 we must bear in mind this was in the Middle Ages, 
 or nearly jealousy would prompt assassination of 
 one or both of the young lovers. ..." 
 
 "But who was the Old Devil? That's what I 
 want to know."
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 301 
 
 " Evidently the wicked Duchess herself." 
 
 " What did she want to have her portrait painted 
 for if she was old ? " 
 
 " The Herr Professor conjectures that the reason 
 our young painter remained stupefied when he first 
 saw the Duchess was that she turned out not to be 
 young at all, but old and repulsive." Madeline 
 looked doubtful. " Then the idea was that the 
 Duchess personally conducted the assassination of 
 the girl caught the two young people spooneying, 
 and had her murdered on the spot. And that the 
 young man thereon went straight for her throat. 
 After which she naturally felt that it would be dif- 
 ficult to get on a tender footing with him, as she 
 had wished to do, and had him consigned to a 
 dungeon for life." 
 
 Madeline disagreed. " ~No" said she, " I don't 
 think the Professor's at all a good theory. Mine's 
 better. Go on reading. I'll tell you mine pres- 
 ently." 
 
 Mr. Pelly refound his place and went on reading. 
 
 " * . . . Had my grip on the Old Devil's throat. 
 And also I had felt his approval in his hands as he 
 helped to bear me away from the Stanza delle 
 Quattro Corone, though my senses failed too fast 
 for me to understand what he said to his comrade. 
 Yet I thought, too, it sounded like "Un bel giovane, 
 per Bacco!" So when at last I was unbound, and
 
 302 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 stood in the forecourt of a great castle in the middle 
 of a group of men, some of whom had torches for 
 it was then well on into the night and dogs that I 
 had heard barking through the last short half-hour 
 of our approach up the steep and stony ascent to 
 the great gates that had now clanged to, as I judged 
 then, for my last passage through them either way 
 I, though stiff and in pain, and in a kind of dumb 
 stupor as I stood there, could still resolve a little in 
 my mind what might even now be done to help me 
 in my plight. 
 
 " ' I caught the words of the third horseman- 
 he who had ridden on in front to a huge bloated 
 man who seemed to be the seneschal or steward in 
 charge of the place, who went hobbling on a stick, 
 seeming dropsical and short of breath. 
 
 " l " We have brought another guest, Ser Ferretti, 
 for your hospitality. Sua Eccellenza hopes you have 
 room; good accommodation a clean straw bed or 
 some fresh-gathered heather. Sua Eccellenza would 
 not have needless discomfort for your guests at the 
 Castello. A long life to them is the brindisi of sua 
 Eccellenza sempre sempre/' That is to say, for 
 all time. 
 
 " ' And then the fat man answered wheezily, " It 
 shall be done, Ser Capitano. And he shall sup well 
 and choose his company ; it is an old usage and shall 
 be observed." He then turned to me and said, with
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 303 
 
 a mock reverence, " Whom does the Signore choose 
 to sup with before he retires to rest ? " 
 
 " 1 1 turned to the man I had spoken with as we 
 rode, and laid my hand on his shoulder. " Sicuro" 
 I said, " with none other than Messer Nanerottolo 
 here." This was my pleasantry, for he was a 
 monstrous big man, but not ill-favoured. I went 
 on, " I owe you a supper, my friend, for that piccolo 
 vezzeggiamento you have given me " 
 
 " What does that mean ? " Thus his hearers, in 
 concert. 
 
 " A little caress. I don't know why the Professor 
 has left some of the Italian words. Nanerottolo 
 means a very little dwarf indeed, and he could 
 hardly have translated. But he might have said 
 caress just as well." He resumed reading: 
 
 " i " I can feel it in my shoulder still." At this 
 he laughed, but said again I was a bel giovane, and 
 motto bravo. " And it is to you," I said, " that I 
 owe my supper here to-night." But his Capitano 
 gave a laugh, and said, " Piuttosto a quel piccolo 
 vezzeggiamento die tu desti alia Duchessa " 
 
 Here the reader paused to interpret the Italian 
 again, which was hardly needed ; then said, " There 
 is another gap in the manuscript here, and it is a pity. 
 The Professor thinks a few more words from what 
 followed would have made his theory a certainty." 
 
 "Why?" asked Madeline.
 
 304 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " Because ' the caress you gave the Duchess ' could 
 only mean that he owed his supper to having half 
 strangled the old Duchessa. They couldn't mean 
 anything else in the context." 
 
 " Couldn't they ? Never mind, Uncle Chris- 
 topher! Go on now. I'll tell you presently." 
 Uncle Christopher obeyed, recommencing as before 
 after the gap in the middle of a sentence : 
 
 " ' . . . Prison for life accords ill with life and 
 hope and youth and the blood that courses in its 
 veins. Whereas despair in an exhausted frame, 
 and pain and hunger, breed a longing for the worst, 
 and if it may be, for an early death. Hence, 
 Illustrissima, my good supper, which was given un- 
 grudgingly, while it made me another man, and better 
 able to endure the pain left from the blow of my 
 friend who sat at meat with me, gave me also strength 
 to revolt against the terrible doom that awaited me. 
 Also, hope and purpose revived in my heart, and I 
 knew my last word with the world of living men must 
 be spoken before midnight; for this was told me by 
 the dropsical Castellan, with an accursed smile. So I 
 watch for the moment when my friend, whose name 
 was Attilio, is at his topmost geniality with the good 
 wine, and then I speak, none being there to hear, 
 but only he. I speak as to a friend : 
 
 " ' " You love the good red wine, Messer Attilio, 
 and you love the good red gold. Is it not true?
 
 A LIKELY STORY 305 
 
 Which do yon love the most ? " And to this he 
 answered me, " Surely the good red gold, Ser Pittore. 
 For wine will not purchase all one asks. There is 
 nothing gold will not purchase enough of it ! " 
 
 " ' " Listen ! Where are they going to hide me 
 away ? Do you know the Castello ? " 
 
 " ' " I was born here. I can tell you all. There is 
 good accommodation in the sotterraneo. It is ex- 
 tended, but it is not lofty. You will have company, 
 but the living is poor, meagre. I have said that you 
 would not see the sun again, but you may! For 
 in one place is a slot, cut slantwise in the stone, that 
 the guests of the Duke who come to stay may not 
 want air. Through the slot, one day in the year 
 only, and then but for a very little space, comes a ray 
 from the sun in Heaven. In the old days of the 
 Warrior Duke, when there would be many prisoners 
 of war, they would count the days until the hour of 
 its coming, and then fight for a good place to see 
 the gleam when it came. But the few you will find 
 there will have little heart for that, or anything 
 else." 
 
 " ' " Is that the only outlet ? " 
 
 " l " No ! There is the door you go in by. One 
 stoops, as one stoops to enter the little prisons of 
 Venezia, under the Eialto. And there is the Buco 
 della Fame. ..." "That is to say," interjected 
 Mr. Pelly, " The Hunger Hole, or Hunger Pit."
 
 306 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " l " What is that? " I then asked. 
 
 " ' " What they were used to throw bones down, 
 when they had made merry and sucked them dry, 
 to the prisoners below. And there is a drain." 
 
 " ' " How large is it ? " 
 
 " ' " Large enough for the rats to pass up no 
 larger. I used to watch them run in at the outlet, 
 when I was a youngster. But the Buco that is 
 large enough for a man to pass up and down a 
 sort of well-hole. Not the Ser Ferretti there; he 
 would stick in it. I have seen it all, for my father 
 was the gaoler in old days." 
 
 " l " Listen now, Ser Attilio! You want the good 
 red gold, in plenty. And you shall have it if you 
 do my bidding. When you leave this are you 
 marking what I say? go straight to la Marta, she 
 who attends always on the Duchessa, and say to 
 her simply this that on the day I regain my lib- 
 erty, there will be five hundred crowns for her. Tell 
 her where I am. And for this service to me you 
 shall receive ..." 
 
 Mr. Pelly stopped reading again. There was an- 
 other gap; a portion of the manuscript was missing 
 as before. He remarked upon the loss to the reader, 
 apparently, of the whole account of the young man's 
 first introduction to the dungeon, in which he seemed 
 to have passed a considerable time the best part 
 of six months as far as could be made out before
 
 A LIKELY STORY 307 
 
 we are able to follow his narrative. He then read 
 on, without comment : 
 
 " ' . . . Day and night alike for their complete 
 monotony, though, indeed, we could distinguish be- 
 tween them by the light through the air-slot, the 
 only ventilation through all this extent of vaulted 
 crypt. But for incident and change, from day's 
 end to day's end, there was none beyond the daily 
 visit I have spoken of, of Uguccione the gaoler, car- 
 rying always his little lamp of brass and a basket 
 of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. Is it 
 not strange, Illustrissima, that a man should live, 
 should go on living, even when the stupefaction of 
 despair comes to his aid, without light or movement 
 or the breath of Heaven on his face ? ^one the less 
 these others that I told you of had done so, some 
 more, some less ; and the very old man who was but 
 as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and 
 his past, had been there already many years when 
 Uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge. 
 He was a merry, chatty fellow, this Uguccione, and 
 talked freely with me at first, and told me many 
 things. But he said I should not talk for long, for 
 none did. See now, he said, he would speak to the 
 old Alberico, and never an answer would he get. 
 And thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's 
 face, and asked him some ribald question about la, 
 Giustina. But the old man only shrank from the
 
 308 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 light, and answered nothing. Who was la Giustiria \ 
 I asked. Nay, he knew not a whit ! But he knew 
 that the former gaoler, old Attilio, from whom he 
 took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage 
 old Alberico, he had but to speak to him of la 
 Giustina. And thereon he flashed his light again 
 in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave 
 me black bread and water, and went his way. 
 
 " ' But this man told me many things, before 
 I, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of 
 unvarying captivity. He told me that, even now, 
 the great Duke, after banqueting in the hall above, 
 would sometimes for his mere diversion have the 
 trap opened at the top of the Buco della Fame, and 
 throw down what might be left on table, except it 
 were such as might serve for the cook again, or to 
 be eaten at the lower table. And he warned me to 
 be ready and at hand if I should hear any sound 
 from above, as then I might get for myself the best 
 pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come 
 down in a shower. And I laid this to heart. 
 
 " ' And now, as I must not weary your Ex- 
 cellency's illustrious eyes to read needless details 
 of my sufferings in my imprisonment, I will leave 
 its horrors to your imagination, saying only this, 
 that whatever you may picture to yourself, there 
 may easily have been something still worse. I will 
 pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 309 
 
 " ' Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but 
 which must have been midday, I hear a sound as 
 of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from 
 the Buco della Fame; and I can hear, too, but 
 dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in 
 the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on, 
 and move as best I may, for I am free to move about 
 only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to 
 my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, 
 towards the opening of the hole in the low arch 
 above me. I can touch its edge with my hand. I 
 look up through the long round tube, and can see 
 its length now by the size of the opening at the top. 
 It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty bracchie 
 from the ground I stand on. 
 
 " ' As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear 
 plainly the voices above me of those who are merry 
 with the banquet. And then a face looks down 
 and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is 
 only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by 
 the change from dark to light, so that I cannot 
 guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh 
 from above that I compare in my heart to the 
 laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks 
 down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices 
 in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I 
 myself am nowise better off than the sinners, 
 heretics, and Jews that are consumed in fires
 
 310 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down 
 comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen 
 stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for 
 myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he 
 shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. 
 Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar 
 off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so 
 <lark was his corner. But I had heard him moan 
 and mutter. Only, before he conies with the others 
 I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, 
 always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this 
 I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that 
 has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught 
 it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the 
 voices die above, and the darkness has come again, 
 and the silence. 
 
 " i Know, Illustrissima, that the eyesight that 
 lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that 
 not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he 
 holds before him may be seen by him, but even the 
 seams and lines thereon, by which may be known 
 the story of his life and the length of his days. 
 But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision, 
 and could read nought of the paper in my own place ; 
 for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, 
 it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot 
 at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the 
 face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 311 
 
 turkey and the capon. But he would none of either, 
 and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze. 
 So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to 
 read what I may. 
 
 " * It is all like a strange dream now. But, 
 lUustrissima, as I look back to that moment, what 
 I remember is a huge beating of a heart that will 
 not be still. It is there, and a gleam of light 
 through a narrow wall-slot in the masonry is there; 
 but should you ask me how I read, until I knew by 
 rote, what was written on that paper, I could not 
 tell you. Yet I can repeat every word now : 
 
 " ' " This is to be destroyed, should it reach yon, 
 before the next round of 1'Uguccione. 
 
 " l " I can get speech of you through the slot. 
 Watch there always in the early night. It must be 
 when the old wretch, my master, is in his deepest 
 sleep. 
 
 " ' " Your word came to me through la Marta, 
 months ago, from 1' Attilio. They are keen for their 
 reward. Take heart, oh my dearest one, and watch 
 for me. 
 
 " i " I have sat at the board of my tyrant, and each 
 day he has taunted me, and pointed down to the 
 cruel prison of my darling. Oh, if, after all, it is 
 a lie that you still live ! Pray God Attilio is right, 
 and that this may reach you ! 
 
 " ' " Oh, my beloved, if no better may be, at least
 
 312 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 I may compass that you shall receive a tiny flask 
 of poison; whereof I too may take a fatal draught, 
 and each may know of the other that trouble is at 
 an end." 
 
 " l She had signed no name, but none was needed. 
 Hope waked in my heart, for I knew that 
 Attilio . . .'" 
 
 Here Mr. Pelly stopped reading. Another hiatus ! 
 " The loss of this passage," said he, " is especially 
 irritating, as it might have supplied a clue to the 
 identity of the writer of this letter. The remainder 
 of the story, as I recollect it, leaves us quite in the 
 dark as to who she was, though I am inclined to 
 surmise, from the use of the expression i my master,' 
 that she was a young person attached to the house- 
 hold of the Duchess." But for all that, Mr. Felly's 
 dream about the picture disturbed his memory. 
 How could his inner consciousness have concocted 
 it, consistently with this interpretation of the 
 manuscript ? Still, he was bound to " dismiss it 
 from his mind," and give his support, provisionally, 
 to the theory of the Herr Professor. How could 
 he cite a mere dream in refutation of it? So lie 
 " dismissed it from his mind," and when Madeline 
 said, " Never mind that now, Uncle Christopher ! 
 Do go on and see if it doesn't all come right in the 
 end. We'll talk about who she was, after," he was 
 rather glad to resume, without further comment.
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 313 
 
 " l " . . . I am hanging in mid-air. Below me is 
 an awful precipice. If Attilio were to fail me, or the 
 rope break, what should I do? But I care not; I 
 care only to succour my darling love, in his dungeon 
 underground. Do not speak again, dear love, lest 
 you be overheard within. Attilio says that if I 
 whisper to you through the little opening no other 
 prisoner need hear. ... I will tell you all. At- 
 tilio knew from his boyhood that the sfiata- 
 toio . . ."'" 
 
 The reader stopped to explain that this appeared 
 to be a word equivalent to " blow-hole " in English, 
 used by founders for the opening left for escape of 
 air when the metal is poured in. 
 
 " ' ". . . The sfiatatoio opened under the South 
 Tower in the wall that is flush with the precipice, 
 that one may see the sun blaze on all day summer 
 and winter. None can approach it from below; but 
 Ser Attilio is strong oh, the strength of his arms! 
 and he can let me down from the great high tower 
 like a child, and then I hang some little space from 
 the window-ledge. But I swing a little, and then I 
 hold by the stonework, and I am safe and can speak. 
 It is bright in the moonlight and still, and I am 
 speaking to my darling. Stretch out your hand, 
 my love, without speech, and seek not, I charge 
 you, to hold my living hand, however great the joy 
 thereof, but take from it the file I have made shift
 
 314 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 to steal from the armourer's boy, who will be 
 beaten for its loss, but whom I will kiss once 
 and more for his reward. Pazienza, carissimo 
 mio. . . ."'" 
 
 Mr. Pelly put the manuscript on his knee, and 
 opened his hands out with a deprecating action. 
 
 " I'm very sorry, Madeline. I really am! But I 
 can't help it. It is, as you say, most aggravating. 
 Just as we were getting to the interesting bit ! But 
 you understand what happened ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! I see it all as plain as a pikestaff. 
 And, what's more, I saw the very place itself the 
 great precipice and the Castle wall that shoots 
 straight up from it. An awful place! But what 
 a plucky little Duchess ! " 
 
 " Duchess ? I don't quite follow " 
 
 " That's because you are so stupid, Uncle Chris- 
 topher." 
 
 "My dear Mad! Eeally !" This was the 
 
 Bart, and her Ladyship. Because Mr. Pelly wasn't 
 offended. 
 
 " Well, it's true I said I would tell Mr. Pelly all 
 about it, and then I didn't." She went across to 
 Mr. Pelly, and leant over him, which he liked, to 
 get at the manuscript. " Look here ! Where is it ? 
 Oh the Old Devil ! Yes that wasn't the Duchessa 
 at all! That was her horrible old husband, the 
 Duke. And she was the Memory of his boyhood,
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 315 
 
 don't you see? Oh, it's all quite plain. And my 
 picture-girl's her. And it's no use your talking about 
 evidence, because I know I'm right, and evidence is 
 nonsense." 
 
 " It certainly is true," Sir Stopleigh said, " that 
 the Castle wall is exactly as Madeline describes it, 
 for I have seen it myself, and can confirm, her state- 
 ment." He seemed to consider that almost any- 
 thing would be confirmed by so very old a Baronet 
 seeing such a very large wall. 
 
 " Suppose we accept Madeline's theory as a work- 
 ing hypothesis, and see how we get on. If we quite 
 understand the last bit, and I think we do, what 
 follows is not unintelligible." And Mr. Pelly con- 
 tinued reading: 
 
 " ' . . . Working thus patiently in long and 
 dreary hours, and keeping the link of my manacle 
 well in the straw "to drown the grating noise, I come 
 to know, on the third day of my labour, that but a 
 very little more is wanted and the ring will be cut 
 through ; and then I know the chance is it will spring 
 asunder and leave the two links free. But I do not 
 seek to complete the cut until near the day appointed, 
 for does not Uguccione now and again examine all 
 those fetters, sometimes striking them with a small 
 hammer to make sure they have not been tampered 
 with ? So I keep the ring hidden as best I may, and 
 the cut I have made I fill in with kneaded bread. And
 
 316 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 one time TJguccione does come and strike the irons, 
 and I tremble. But by great good luck he 
 strikes so that they ring, and I am at my ease 
 again. 
 
 " ' Then comes what was my hardest task : the 
 making of footholes in the shaft that I might climb 
 and reach the underside of the trap. But first I 
 must tell you why I need do this. For you will say, 
 Why could not Attilio let down a cord and pull 
 me up through the trap? So he could, in truth, 
 were it possible to open, the trap from overhead. 
 But it was closed with a key from above that came 
 through a great length to the lock below. Only I 
 could well understand from the description that this 
 lock would be no such great matter to prize back 
 from underneath could I once make shift to reach 
 it. Therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as I 
 was, although the links should be parted, to climb 
 up this long shaft and work at the opening of this 
 lock, standing on what poor foothold I could con- 
 trive in total darkness. 
 
 " ' Nevertheless, Illustrissima, be assured that I 
 go to my work with a good will, though with little 
 hope. And on the first night I succeed in loosing 
 three bricks from their place in the wall, at such 
 intervals that each gives a foothold I may reach to 
 from the one below it on the other side. And the 
 next night again three more. And so on for six
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 317 
 
 nights, working patiently. And now I can touch 
 the lock that is above me. But understand that I 
 did not remove these bricks, else had I been at a 
 great loss where to hide them from TJguccione. I 
 left them loose in their places, so that I could twist 
 them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step. 
 For you know how strong our Tuscan bricks are. 
 Yet I had much ado to hide away the loose mortar 
 that came from between the joints. And had it 
 not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served 
 to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear 
 from the ends, and loosened above and below, I had 
 been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were 
 they in their places. And all this work, Illustris- 
 sima, had to be done in black darkness, by guidance 
 of feeling only! 
 
 " ' And now, please you, image to yourself that I 
 have made my topmost step, and only await a word 
 of signal through the sfiatatoio. And this was, be- 
 lieve me, my worst time of all. For I knew that 
 the most precious thing to me in all this world, the 
 life of my Maddalena, must be risked again to give 
 me that signal ! Nay ! I did not know, could not 
 know, that she had not already tried to give it, and, 
 so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful rocks 
 below, where whoso fell might readily lie unheeded, 
 and not be found for years. 
 
 " ' But I hold to my purpose in a silent despair. I
 
 318 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 watch through hours of the still mornings. But 
 nothing moves again in front of the little stars that 
 come and go, for many days. I do not let myself 
 count the days nor the hours, and always strive to 
 think of them at their fewest. Then one night a 
 meteor shoots across the span of sky that I can see, 
 blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of 
 fire to die down as they may. And my heart lifts, 
 for I count it a harbinger of good. And so it 
 proves, for I next hear because, understand me, 
 this meteor shot across Heaven's vault with a strong 
 hissing sound, like fuochi artificiati the slack of 
 the rope that lets my darling down to me with her 
 message of . . . ' ' 
 
 Another hitch in the narrative. Mr. Pelly stopped 
 with a humble apologetic expression, having refer- 
 ence rather to the young lady than to her parents. 
 
 " Really, my dear," said he, " I feel quite guilty 
 as if I was to blame when these abominable 
 blanks come." 
 
 " Yes ! And you know I always think it's your 
 fault; and I do get so angry. Poor Uncle 
 Christopher! What a shame! What's that, 
 Mumsey ? " 
 
 " Nothing, dear. Only I thought I heard the step 
 of a horse in the Avenue." 
 
 " So did I. Only it can't be anything at this time 
 of night."
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 319 
 
 The knowledge that a guest was pending shortly 
 one of the sort that comes and goes at will 
 caused the Baronet to say : " It might be General 
 Fordyce only he said he wouldn't come till 
 Tuesday." To whom his wife and daughter replied 
 conjointly : 
 
 " Oh no ! The General ! not at midnight well ! 
 at half-past eleven ! Look at the clock. Anyhow, 
 his room's all ready," etc., etc. After which Made- 
 line spoke alone: 
 
 " Now, Mr. Pelly, go on again. I do so hope it's a 
 plummy bit." Then, illogically, " Besides, it wasn't 
 a carriage." She silenced a disposition of her par- 
 ents to interpose on Mr. Felly's behalf by saying: 
 " Oh no, we shan't tire Uncle Christopher to death. 
 Shall we, Uncle Christopher ? " 
 
 " God bless me, no ! The idea ! Besides, there's 
 really not so very much more to read. Unless I'm 
 keeping you up ? " 
 
 " Pupsey and Mumsey can go to bed, and leave 
 us to finish." 
 
 " Oh no ! We want to hear the end of it." Pup- 
 sey and Mumsey were unanimous. 
 
 " Very well, then ! I can fill up Uncle's glass 
 and Pupsey's, and we can go on and finish com- 
 fortably. Now, fire away ! " And Mr. Pelly read 
 on: 
 
 " ' . . .1 can hear them in the room above me.
 
 320 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 The voice of my darling herself. But oh this 
 black darkness! One little gleam of light, and I 
 know I can manage this accursed lock. But I can 
 see nothing; and who knows but by trying and 
 trying stupidly, in the dark, I may not make matters 
 worse ? But I will try, again and again, rather than 
 fail now. . . . Oh, she is so near me so near, I 
 can hear her voice. . . . 
 
 " l All suddenly, a gleam of light from below. A 
 miracle, but what care I? I can see the lock now, 
 plain ! Ah, the stupidity of me ! I was forcing it 
 the wrong way all the time. Now for a sharp, sharp 
 strain, with all the strength I have left ! And back 
 goes the lock with a snap ! I can hear its sound 
 welcomed above, and another strain on the trap, 
 and the first creak of its hinge. It will shriek ; and 
 they stop, as I think, to make it silent with a little 
 oil. 
 
 " ' Then my glance goes down the shaft to ask 
 what was my light, that came to save me in such 
 good time. It was surely the Holy Mary herself, 
 or a blessed Saint from Heaven, that took pity on 
 me. . . . 
 
 " ' No ! It is Uguccione the gaoler, with his little 
 lamp of brass. 
 
 " ' " Aha ha ha ! my friend. Come you down 
 come you down! Or shall I get a little fire and 
 smoke, to tickle you and make you come? It is
 
 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 useless, ca.ro mio! The wise player gives up the 
 lost game. Come you down! It is not thus folk 
 say farewell to the Castello del bel Biposo. Come 
 you down, my friend ! Or shall I wait a little ? I 
 can wait ! ]STo hurry, look you ! " 
 
 " 1 1 am sad at heart to have to do it, but there 
 is no other way. Whether he lived or died I know 
 not, but I should grieve to think he died. For I 
 had no hatred for Uguccio, who, after all, did 
 but his duty. But there is no other way. I am 
 standing on two bricks that I have placed over 
 against each other, for firmer foothold and better 
 purchase on the lock. One of them I loosen out, 
 standing only on the other and leaning shoulder- 
 wise against the wall. And then I send it down the 
 shaft, with a blessing for Uguccio. I can see his 
 face, turning up to me in the light of his little broken 
 lamp. 
 
 " ' The brick strikes him full on the temple, but 
 it also strikes out his light. I hear him fall. I hear 
 a groan or gasp. But I see only black darkness 
 below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that 
 grows less and less, and will die. Then only 
 darkness. 
 
 " ' Then my last senses fail me. But I know the 
 trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips 
 my wrist from above. And then I find myself lying 
 on the floor of a great hall in a dim light. And into
 
 322 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 my eyes, as I lie there, little better than a corpse, if 
 the truth be told, are looking the sweetest eyes surely 
 God ever made. . . . ' ' 
 
 Here Madeline exclaimed, interrupting, " Oh, 
 how jolly! Now they're there! But do go on; I 
 mustn't interrupt. Go on, Uncle Kit." The reader 
 continued, " ' . . . And her two hands stroke my 
 face and hold me by my own. . . . " 
 
 At this point Sir Stopleigh interposed, respectably. 
 " A really," said he, " we must hope that this 
 young lady, whoever she was, was not the Duke's 
 wife. You will excuse me, my dear Madeline, but 
 that is certainly what I understood you to sup- 
 pose." 
 
 His daughter interjected disreputably, " Oh, 
 bother ! Never mind Pupsey go on." 
 
 Then Mr. Pelly said apologetically, " It was the 
 Middle Ages, you know. Let's see, where were we ? 
 Oh ' hold me by my own ' " and went on read- 
 ing: 
 
 " ' . . . And her dear voice is in my ears, and if I 
 die now, at least I shall have lived. So said I to 
 myself, as Attilio worked hard with a file to free 
 my limbs. And they moisten bread with wine, and 
 put it in my mouth. For, indeed, what I say is true, 
 and the last of my strength went in sending that 
 litttle ambasciata to the poor Uguccio. Still, revival 
 is in me, though it comes slowly. But I can only
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 323 
 
 utter the one word " Love," and can only move to 
 kiss the hand I hold and the pale face that comes 
 to mine. Then I hear the beloved voice I had never 
 hoped to hear again: 
 
 " l " Can we trust that wicked old Marta, Attilio ? 
 If she betrays us we are lost." 
 
 " ( " Che che! She owes him an old grudge, and 
 will pay him now or later! And a thousand 
 crowns, per Bacco! No, no trust her! " 
 
 " ' " But I hear a footstep coming down his stair ; 
 if it is she, it is to say he is waked. If it is he, she 
 has betrayed us." 
 
 " f " Neither the one nor the other, I wager. See, 
 the Signore is getting the blood in his face. He will 
 eat soon, and all will be well." 
 
 " l Then I feel in my neck a dog's nose, that 
 smells, and the touch of his tongue, that licks. But 
 what he would say we know not, though he tries 
 to speak, too, dogwise. I know him for the cagno- 
 letto of la Marta, the old woman for had I not seen 
 him in the days when I painted my Maddalena in 
 the Stanza delle Quattro Corone ? . . . " 
 
 Madeline interrupted again. " Now I hope you're 
 convinced. He was sent for to paint the Duchess. 
 And he painted Maddalena. Of course, Maddalena 
 was the Duchess ! " 
 
 " The Herr Professor's theory is that he painted 
 two ladies, one of whom was Maddalena, some
 
 324 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 beautiful attendant with whom he was in love, the 
 other the Duchess. He may have, you know ! " 
 
 " He may have done anything, Uncle Chris- 
 topher! But he didn't. What's the use of being 
 so roundabout ? Besides, if she wasn't the Duchess, 
 how did she know the Duke was asleep ? " 
 
 Her parents may have been anxious to avoid 
 critical discussion, and suggested that perhaps the 
 reading had better go on. It is just possible, also, 
 that Mr. Pelly, who was a typical little old bachelor, 
 saw rocks ahead in a discussion of the Duke and 
 Duchess's domestic arrangements, for he introduced 
 a point of which the Baronet and his Lady did not 
 see the importance. 
 
 " Stop a bit, Miss Mad ! " said the old gentleman, 
 laying down the manuscript. " I've a bone to pick 
 with you." 
 
 " Don't be too long. I want to know what that 
 old woman had been at. It's only some Scientific 
 nonsense, I expect. Go on." 
 
 " It's not Scientific this time. It's the other way 
 round." Miss Upwell pricked up her ears. " I 
 want to know, if there was a Duchess named Madda- 
 lena, what becomes of the theory that I christened 
 the picture-ghost after you by subconscious cerebra- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " I see. Of course. I didn't see that," It had 
 produced a visible impression. Madeline appeared
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 325 
 
 to cogitate over it in an animated way, and then to 
 mellow to a conclusion suddenly. " Well but that 
 proves it wasn't a dream at all, but a genuine 
 phenomenon, and all sorts of things. I'm right, and 
 you're wrong, and the picture was telling the truth 
 all through. I knew she was." Her three hearers 
 smiled from within the entrenchments of their 
 maturity at the youthful enthusiasm of the speaker, 
 and then said very correct things about this coinci- 
 dence and that being really remarkable, and how 
 we must not allow our judgments to be swayed by 
 considerations, and must weigh everything deliber- 
 ately, and accept everything else with caution, and 
 hesitate about this, and pause before that, all with 
 a view to avoiding heterodox conclusions. After 
 which Mr. Pelly resumed : 
 
 " ' Then, as Attilio holds his hand a moment from 
 filing, as one who awaits some issue before he may 
 begin his labours afresh; and as my darling, whom 
 alone I see for I see nothing else awaits it, too, 
 I hear a step that halts, and then a door is pushed 
 from without, and the step halts into the room, as 
 some clocks tick. And it is then I begin to know 
 of a great pain in my right hand. 
 
 " ' And here I may say to you, Illustrissima, that 
 had this chanced but a few years later, this hand 
 of mine that was my joy to use, the source and very 
 life of all my skill, might even have been saved,
 
 326 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 and I might many times again have painted the 
 dear face of my Maddalena. For what is there that 
 is not possible to the skill of the great Francese 
 Ambrogio ? ' 
 
 " This would be Ambroise Pare," said the reader, 
 " who would have been about the same age as Cosimo 
 dei Medici, the father of the lady to whom this is 
 written ..." But he resumed abruptly, in obedi- 
 ence to a shade of impatience in Madeline : 
 
 " ' Yet have I not been altogether disabled. For 
 do I not write this with my left hand ? I am, how- 
 ever, but an egoista a selfish person to dwell on 
 this; though I know your Excellency will pardon 
 this fault in an old man. 
 
 " ' I hear, then, the halting step approach. And 
 both await the words that will follow it in silence. 
 It is the old Marta Zan. 
 
 " ' " Sta tranquillo sta tranquillo per bene ! " He 
 is quiet he is quiet for good ! Her voice has a little 
 laugh in it. It is not a sweet laugh to hear. 
 
 "'"Does he still sleep will he sleep?" It is 
 my Maddalena who asks. And la Marta replies, 
 " Non c'e pericolo! No fear!" But I see across 
 the shoulder of my darling, as she stoops over me 
 again and tries to clear my brow of tangled hair 
 but, you may well think, to little purpose I see 
 that the old woman holds somewhat up, hanging 
 from betwixt her finger and old thumb, to show to
 
 A LIKELY STORY 327 
 
 Attilio. And he laughs to see the little knife and 
 its sharp point, but below his breath, as guilt laughs 
 to guilt. But this my beloved heeds not; she is 
 busy with my hair. 
 
 " 1 1 can tell but little now from what I saw with 
 my own eyes of what happened in the sequel, till I 
 found myself here again in the little old Castello in 
 the hills where I passed all the early years of my 
 boyhood, in the family of my wife's father, now 
 dead; though her mother still lived, and for many 
 years after that. What I do remember comes to 
 me as the speech of those about him reaches the 
 sleeper who half wakes, to sleep and dream again. 
 
 " ' I can recollect riding, behind Attilio this time, 
 down the stony road I had come up in such pain 
 behind his comrade. I can just recollect the bark- 
 ing of the great dogs in the Castle court when we 
 came away; whereon my Maddalena spoke earnestly 
 to one of them, Leone, and he went and carried her 
 speech to the others, and they were silent, though 
 some made protest under their full utterance. And 
 though I saw the janitors and porters at the great 
 gate in deep sleep, I did not then know of the cunning 
 work of the old Marta, who, indeed, was learned in 
 the use of drugs, and could as easily have poisoned 
 them all as made them sleep. Indeed, it was said 
 by many that the clever Duchess of Ferrara, the 
 sister of Cesare Borgia, had learned somewhat of the
 
 328 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 art of poisoning in her youth from this same Marta 
 Zan. But of this I can say nothing with certainty. 
 
 " l But this I do know, that this Marta, who was 
 then near on eighty years of age, having received 
 the reward she had earned of five hundred crowns, 
 and another five hundred for a buona mano, did not 
 accompany us ? on the score of her age, being unable 
 to mount a horse. But, as you may guess, Eccel- 
 lenza, it was she who had occasioned the old Duke's 
 death, and none of my doing, as was said by some, 
 though the certainty that the knife used was the 
 girdle-dagger of the fat Castellan Ferretti was held 
 a sure proof of his guilt, and led to his being giusti- 
 ziato some months later. And she chose this way 
 of sending her old betrayer to Hell rather than that 
 of poison, seeing that her skill in this last was so 
 well known to all that there was none other in the 
 household on whom suspicion could have fallen. On 
 which account, as I have since understood, she re- 
 turned again to his bedside to see her work secure, 
 and replaced the knife in the wound, whereby the 
 guilt of his death was fixed on the fat Ferretti. I 
 can in nowise guess why la Marta so long deferred 
 her revenge against the Duke, except it was . . . ' ' 
 
 Mr. Pelly stopped despairingly. " Half a page 
 gone! We must remain unenlightened as well as 
 on a good many other points. There is not very 
 much more. I may as well finish :
 
 A LIKELY STORY 329 
 
 " ' How great my happiness has been with my 
 Maddalena you, lllustrissima, may know from your 
 most illustrious father, who has known of me 
 throughout. Life is made up of good and ill, and 
 what right has one so truly blessed as I have been 
 to complain of the cruelty of Fate in depriving him 
 of his right hand and its power of work ? Think 
 of what his lot is to him to whom night and day 
 alike give the sun in heaven to his soul! Contrast 
 it with that of the sated blow-fly, of the world- 
 compelling tyrant, at whose pleasure are all the 
 contents, at choice, of all the world's treasure- 
 houses, except Love. That is the one thing wealth 
 cannot buy, that the behests of kings command in 
 vain! And that has been mine, in all its fulness; 
 a fruit whose sweetness has no compeer, a jewel 
 whose light mirrors back the glow that shines for 
 ever in the eyes of God. . . . ' ' The reader 
 paused, for there was an interruption from without. 
 
 " What on earth can it be, at this time of night ? 
 I'm sure it's a carriage this time ! Do look out and 
 see oh no! go on and let's have the rest. It can 
 only be the General he changed his mind, and his 
 train was late. We shall see in a minute let's 
 have the last page. ..." This was collective 
 speech, which ended when Mr. Pelly said, " There 
 isn't very much." He went on reading rapidly, sub- 
 ject to a sense of advent, elsewhere in the house :
 
 330 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 " ' One only thing, as I have said, is to me a 
 constant thorn of regret the destruction of the 
 picture I painted in those early days, of my Madda- 
 lena. It was all my heart and strength could do, 
 and would have served to tell of all I might have 
 done had God but spared me my right hand. But 
 -fiat voluntas iua, Domine! None knows for certain 
 how it was destroyed, nor by whom. For the state- 
 ment of the Old Devil to my Maddalena, that it was 
 burned, for that it \vas judged worthless by men of 
 great knowledge in Art, and condemned as rubbish, 
 is of little weight. In those last days what could 
 have been the motive of such a statement but to 
 add to my darling's pain? It was averred by the 
 Ferretti, even to the day that he went to the gibbet, 
 that it was removed to a place of safety by order 
 of the Duke; but either he did not choose to say to 
 what place, or possibly did not know. And when 
 all the contents of the rooms the Duke had lived in 
 were removed, and the late Duke, his son, came 
 and took possession of the castle, so deep was his 
 hatred of his father's memory as, indeed, he 
 believed his mother had been poisoned by his 
 orders that he had all the furniture removed, and 
 all the pictures that might bring back the wicked 
 old man's memory to his mind. And there was no 
 such picture among them, as I saw myself; for by 
 invitation of Duke Giulio, with whom I have always
 
 A LIKELY STORY 331 
 
 been on friendly terms, I inspected every picture 
 as it was removed from the Ducal apartments, the 
 walls of which, as you know, were so worthily 
 decorated afterwards by Francesco Primaticcio, to 
 whom I would so proudly have shown that one 
 little work by mine own hand. But, alas! there is, 
 I fear, no doubt that for once only the old Duke 
 spoke without lying, and that in truth he had had 
 it burned, for a dispetto to me, and to give a little 
 more pain to my darling. . . . ' ' 
 
 At this point Mr. Pelly, being close to the end, 
 read quicker and quicker, to make a finish before 
 the outcome of the carriage, whatever it was, should 
 be made manifest and break up the seance. But 
 the time was too short, as Mr. Stebbings the butler 
 appeared, charged, as it seemed, with some com- 
 munication, but hesitating about the choice of 
 language in which to make it. 
 
 " General Fordyce, your Ladyship. The General 
 desired me to say, Sir Stopleigh, would you be so 
 good as speak to him a half a minute ? " But Sir S. 
 was slow of apprehension, perhaps sleepy, and said 
 hay what! Both ladies spoke together. " It is the 
 General! Don't you understand? He wants you 
 to go out and speak to him." 
 
 " Me go out and speak to him what for ? " 
 
 " You'll find that out by going. Look alive, 
 Pupsey ! "
 
 332 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 " I'm coming, Stebbings ! What on earth can the 
 General want to say to me ? " 
 
 " Do go and see him, and find out." This was 
 in chorus, from both ladies, as before. Exit Pupsey. 
 
 " I wonder what it can be ! However, we shall 
 hear directly. Is there any more to read, Uncle 
 Christopher ? " 
 
 Mr. Pelly read in a slighting, conclusive sort of 
 way: 
 
 " t So now I cannot show you, . Illustrissima, as I 
 so gladly should have done, how little change has 
 come in the golden hair of my Maddalena, in all 
 these thirty years! Nor the painting of that one 
 well-remembered lock that fell all in ripples on the 
 sunflower brocade upon her bosom ' ' 
 
 Madeline got suddenly up and stood again facing 
 the picture. 
 
 " Now," she said, " come here and see and be 
 convinced, Mr. Incredulous." And Mr. Pelly came, 
 and stood beside her. 
 
 " Well, my dear child," said he. " That certainly 
 does look " 
 
 " Very like indeed ! Doesn't it ? But you'll see 
 Pupsey will want to have his own way. He always 
 does!" 
 
 " Whatever can your father be talking talking 
 talking to the General about? Why can't they 
 come in ? W T hat on earth can it be ? " This is
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 333 
 
 from her ladyship a semi-aside. She is listening 
 to the talking at a distance. Then Madeline said, 
 " I hope you are convinced, Mr. Pelly," and after 
 one more long look at the picture turned and went 
 to the door, opened it, and listened through it. Her 
 mother said maternally, " Madeline my dear ! " 
 But for all that she stood and listened, as though 
 she heard something. And Mr. Pelly, following her 
 mother's eyes, turned and watched her as she stood. 
 It seemed to him that something like a gasp took 
 her, as though her breath caught with a suddea 
 thrill, visible in her shoulders as her dress was cut, 
 and that her white left arm, that was farthest from 
 the door, caught up tight, and as it were grasped 
 her heart. Her ladyship, looking at her over her 
 shoulder, began, " Why child ! " and immedi- 
 ately got up and crossed the room to her, saying, 
 " Is anything wrong ? " Then, as the girl closed the 
 door and turned round, Mr. Pelly saw that she had 
 gone ashy white, near as white as the clean art- 
 paint on the door she stood by. But she only said, 
 " I shall be all right in a minute." Her mother said, 
 " Come and sit down, darling," which she did ; but 
 sat quite still, looking white. " I wish Sir Stop- 
 leigh would come," said her mother. Mr. Pelly was 
 frightened, but behaved well, for a little old bachelor. 
 Presently her colour came again, and she said, 
 " It must have been my fancy," and her mother
 
 334 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 said, " What must, dear ? Do tell us ! " But she 
 only said, " How on earth can I have been such a 
 fool ? " Then her mother said again, " But what 
 was it, dear ? " and she answered uneasily, " Nothing, 
 Munisey." Her mother and Mr. Pelly looked at one 
 another, puzzled. 
 
 Sir Stopleigh put his head in at the door, saying 
 to his wife would she come out for a minute and 
 speak to him ? On which Madeline said suddenly, 
 " I shall go to bed. Good-night, Uncle Chris- 
 topher! Good-night, Pupsey and Mumsey! " and 
 lit a candle and went away quickly upstairs. " How 
 very funny of Mad," her mother said, as she fol- 
 lowed her husband from the room. " Not at all 
 like her! I'll say good-night, Uncle Christopher, 
 but you do as you like." The momentary vision 
 of Sir Stopleigh who said he would come back 
 directly left Mr. Pelly with an impression that he 
 was very full of something to tell. And certainly 
 there came a great sudden exclamation of glad sur- 
 prise from her ladyship almost as soon as the door 
 closed behind her. 
 
 " I shall hear all about it in good time," said Mr. 
 Pelly. " At least, I suppose so." He sat down 
 contentedly in the large armchair opposite the 
 picture, and looked at the fire. Seventy-seven can 
 wait. 
 
 The murmur of a distant colloquy, heard through
 
 A LIKELY STORY 335 
 
 doors and passages, and quenched by carpets, 
 assorts itself into its elements as the silence in the 
 library gets under weigh, and sharpens Mr. Felly's 
 hearing. He is clear about the woman's voice: his 
 hostess's, of course no other. But is that George's, 
 or the General's, the unexplained outsider's ? Surely 
 that was a third voice, just now ? Xever mind, Mr. 
 Pelly can wait !
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HOW THE PICTURE SPOKE AGAIN. ABSTRACT METAPHYSICAL 
 QUESTIONS, AND NO ANSWERS. HOW THE PICTURE'S MEM- 
 ORY WAS SHARPENED, AND HOW MR. PELLY WOKE UP. MR. 
 STEBBINGS AND MRS. BUCKMASTER. THE ACTULE FAX. 
 JACK'S RESURRECTION, WITHOUT AN ARM. FULL PARTICU- 
 LARS. ALL FAIR IN LOVE. HOW MR. PELLY KNEW THE 
 PICTURE COULD SEE ALL AND HOW MADELINE HAD NOT 
 GONE TO BED. CAPTAIN MACLAGAN'S FAMILY. FULLER 
 PARTICULARS. GENERAL FORDYCE AND THE BART. NOT 
 W ANTED. WHAT THE PICTURE MUST HAVE SEEN AND MAY 
 HAVE THOUGHT. GOOD-BYE TO THE STORY. MERE POST- 
 SCRIPT 
 
 IT is scarcely fair play to make a merit of patience 
 isn't cricket, as folk say nowadays when you 
 are in a comfortable armchair before a warm, fire, 
 and are feeling drowsy. But, then, Mr. Pelly was 
 under an entirely wrong impression on this point, 
 and had scheduled himself as wakeful, but content 
 to bide his time. Yet he might reasonably have 
 suspected himself of drowsiness when James, the 
 young man, coming to wind up the contents of the 
 room, and revise the shutters, retreated with 
 apologies. For had he been really awake, he would 
 certainly have said, " All right, James ! Come in. 
 Never mind me ! " As it was, he deferred doing so 
 a fraction of a second, and the consequences were 
 
 336
 
 A LIKELY STORY 337 
 
 fatal. He remained wide awake, no doubt people 
 always do. But he had not the slightest idea that 
 James had gone, closing the door gently, when the pic- 
 ture said to him from the chimneypiece, in exactly 
 the voice he had heard before, " Is it all true ? " 
 
 Mr. Pelly found that, mysteriously, he took it as 
 a matter of course that this should be so. "I pre- 
 sume," he said, " that you are alluding to the sub- 
 stance of the manuscript we have just read. I am 
 scarcely in a position to form an opinion." 
 
 " Why not ? " said the picture. At least, she 
 said " Perche ? " and this translates " Why not ? " in 
 English. 
 
 " Because I am conscious of a strong bias towards 
 accepting it as true, occasioned by the details of 
 your own Italian experience, which you were so 
 kind as to give me perhaps you will remember? 
 some while since let me see? before I went away 
 to see that niece of mine married at Cowcester. 
 Now, this narrative of yours so my Reason 
 tells me; and I may add that I have already 
 committed myself to this opinion when awake can 
 only be regarded as a figment of my own imagi- 
 nation, based on a partial perusal of the manuscript 
 you have just heard that is to say, would have 
 just heard had you been objective. I am borrowing 
 a phrase from my friend, Professor Schrudengesser. 
 I do not see that any harm can come of my speaking
 
 338 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 plainly, as if you happen to have an independent 
 existence you will appreciate the difficulties of the 
 position, and if you haven't, I don't see that it 
 matters." 
 
 " Mr. Pelly," said the picture impressively, " I 
 should like, if you will allow me, to say a serious word 
 to you on this subject. I refer to the reality of 
 our existence, a subject to which the most frivolous 
 amongst us cannot afford to be indifferent. Have 
 you never considered that the only person of whose 
 existence we have absolute certainty is ourself? 
 Outside and beyond it, are we not painfully depend- 
 ent on the evidence of our senses? What is our 
 dearest friend to us but a series of impressions on 
 our sight, touch, and hearing, plus the conclusion 
 we draw possibly unsound that what we touch 
 is also what we see, and that what we hear proceeds 
 from both ? Have you attached due weight to . . . ? " 
 
 Mr. Pelly interrupted the voice. " You will 
 excuse me," he said, " but in view of the fact that 
 I may wake at any moment, is it not rather a tempt- 
 ing of Providence to discuss abstract metaphysical 
 questions? No one would be more interested than 
 myself in such discussions under circumstances of 
 guaranteed continuity. But ..." Mr. Pelly 
 paused, and the voice laughed. The picture itself 
 remained unmoved. 
 
 " ' Circumstances of guaranteed continuity,' " it
 
 A LIKELY STOBY 339 
 
 repeated mockingly. " When have you ever had 
 a guarantee of continuity, and from whom ? If you 
 were suddenly to find yourself extinct, at any 
 moment, could you logically could you reasonably 
 express surprise? you who had actually passed 
 through an infinity of nonentity before you, at 
 any rate, became a member of Society? Why 
 should not your nonentity come back again? What 
 has been, may be." 
 
 Mr. Felly's mind felt referred to sudden death, 
 but his reply was, " Guaranteed continuity of com- 
 munication was what I meant." Then he reflected 
 that perhaps sudden death might be only suspension 
 of communication however, he had had no ex- 
 perience of it himself, and could only guess. The 
 picture continued sadly: 
 
 " That makes me think how hard it is that you 
 should wake to live in the great world I cannot join 
 in; to move about and be free, while I must needs 
 be speechless! Give me a thought sometimes, even 
 as the disembodied spirit, as some hold, may give 
 a thought to one he leaves behind. Yet even that 
 one is better off than I; for may not he or she 
 rejoin those that have gone before? While I must 
 grow fainter and fainter, and be at last unseen and 
 forgotten; or even worse, restored! Rather than 
 that, let me peel and be relined, or sold at Christie's 
 with several others as a job lot."
 
 340 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Mr. Pelly endeavoured to console the speaker. 
 " You need not be apprehensive/' he said. " You 
 are covered with glass, and in a warm and dry place. 
 Nothing is more improbable than change, in any 
 form, at Surley Stakes. Indeed, the first baronet, 
 over two hundred and fifty years ago, is said to have 
 accepted his new dignity with reluctance, on the 
 score of its novelty. This library is three hundred 
 years old." 
 
 "And I," said the voice, "was over one hundred 
 years old when it was built. But tell me tell 
 me was it not all true, the story? You know it 
 was ! " 
 
 " It rests on the intrinsic evidence of the manu- 
 script. There is nothing to confirm it. And, as 
 I have pointed out to you, your own narrative may 
 be a mere figment of my imagination you must at 
 least admit the possibility 
 
 " I will if you insist upon it ; it is of small impor- 
 tance to me what others think, so long as I may hang 
 here undisturbed, and dream over the happy days 
 I must have passed, in the person of my original, 
 four hundred years ago. But oh, to think of that 
 hateful time of bondage, with my darling hidden in 
 the darkness underground, sore with manacles and 
 starved for want of food ! Think of my joy when 
 I could see and feel his own dear face, all clammy 
 though it was with the dungeon damps from below!
 
 A LIKELY STORY 341 
 
 Think of my exultation at his returning life life 
 to be lived for me! And believe me for this I 
 can know, for I was Maddalena, and now it comes 
 like a dim memory that I shuddered when they 
 told me that the sodden old horror that had been 
 my owner was well started on his flight to Hell, 
 sent by the swift little knife-spike of my Marta. Oh, 
 how often have I seen that little knife itself in the 
 long girth that could but just span the bloated carcase 
 of the Ferretti ! for lie is a clear memory to me. 
 And to think that that knife that knife was 
 to . . ." 
 
 Mr. Pelly felt constrained to interrupt. " Pardon 
 me," he said, " if I venture to recall to you that the 
 duty of Christians, of all denominations, is to for- 
 give; and besides, entirely apart from that, all this 
 occurred such a very long time ago." 
 
 " How long is needed, think you " and as the 
 voice said this, it almost grew cruel in its earnest- 
 ness " how long, for a girl, to forgive the utmost 
 wrong God in His wisdom has put it in the power 
 of Man to inflict on Woman ? Still, I did shudder 
 have I not said it? at what they told me; though 
 they showed me not the knife, and that was well. 
 I did shudder, it is true; but now, as you say, it 
 is best forgotten. Better for me to think of our days 
 that must have been, of the babes that were born to 
 us that I never saw, of how we watched them growing
 
 342 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 in the happy passing hours, in the little old Castello 
 in the hills. Better for me to know, as I know now, 
 that I, while this thing that I am now this thing 
 of paint and canvas lay hid in a garret, even I 
 could be to him, my love, a slight half-solace for his 
 ruined hand. How slight, who can tell who does 
 not know what a lost right hand means to the artist 
 whose life is in his craft ? . . . " 
 
 It seemed then to Mr. Pelly that the voice con- 
 tinued, though he heard it less distinctly, always 
 dwelling on the life of its prototype, as revealed to 
 it by the manuscript, in a manner that the dream- 
 machinery of his mind failed to account for. His 
 impression was that it continued thus for a very 
 long time some hours during the last half of 
 which it changed its character, becoming slowly 
 merged in that of another voice, familiar to Mr. 
 Pelly, which ended by saying with perfect distinct- 
 ness, " The Captain wished his arm to be broke 
 gradual to his family. 'Ence what I say ! " And 
 then Mr. Pelly was suddenly aware that he had 
 dropped asleep for five minutes, and had been spoil- 
 ing his night's rest. Also that he was now quite 
 awake, and that Mr. Stebbings the butler had spoken 
 the last words to Mrs. Buckmaster the housekeeper; 
 and that both were unaware that he was on the other 
 side of the large armchair-back and, indeed, it was 
 large enough to conceal something bigger than Mr.
 
 A LIKELY STORY 343 
 
 Pelly. He abstained from making his presence 
 known, however; more, perhaps, because he thought 
 he was scarcely awake enough for words than to 
 hear what should come next. He fancied the 
 crushed hand incident of the dream had mixed itself 
 into Mr. Stebbings's last speech, and made nonsense 
 of it. But then, how about the sequel ? 
 
 " ' His arm broke gradual,' Mr. Stebbings ? " 
 Mrs. Buckmaster repeated. And her perception of 
 the oddity of the speech reassured Mr. Pelly, who 
 began to suspect he might be awake. But he waited 
 for the reply. 
 
 " Quite so, Mrs. Buckmaster. Broke gradual. 
 From consideration for family feeling. And that, 
 if an amanuensis, suspicion would attach, and, in 
 consequence, divulge." 
 
 Mr. Stebbings's style assumed that if he used the 
 right words, somewhere, it didn't matter what order 
 they came in. It didn't really matter; his re- 
 spectability seemed more than a makeweight for 
 slighted syntax. 
 
 Mrs. Buckmaster was a venerable and sweet 
 institution of forty years' standing, that spoke to 
 every member of the household as " my dear " ; 
 and conveyed an impression, always, of having in 
 her hands a key with which she had just locked a 
 store-room, or was going to unlock one. Or, rather, 
 not so much a key, as a flavour of a key. Mrs.
 
 344 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Buckmaster was a sort of amateur mother of several 
 county families, whose components all but acknowl- 
 edged her, and paid her visits in her private apart- 
 ments when they came to call at the Stakes. Her 
 reply to Mr. Stebbings now was, " Merciful Heaven ! 
 And the girl nursed him. And she a Dutch 
 woman ! " 
 
 Mr. Pelly roused himself. His sensitive conscience 
 recoiled from further eavesdropping. " What's all 
 that, Stebbings? What's all that, Mrs. Buck- 
 master ? " he said, becoming manifest, and evoking 
 apologies. Mr. Stebbings had had no idear! 
 
 Mrs. Buckmaster said : " Well, now to think of 
 that!" then, collecting herself, added, "Tell Mr. 
 Pelly, Thomas, what you know. Thomas will tell 
 you, sir, what he knows." 
 
 Thomas perceived distinction ahead, and braced 
 himself for an effort. " Respecting the actule fax, 
 sir, they are soon told. After the lamentable dis- 
 aster to both armies at Stroomsdrift, accompanied 
 with unparalleled 'eroism on both sides, the Captain's 
 horse became restive, and ensued. No longer under 
 the Captain's control, having received a bullet 
 through the upper arm unfortunately the right, 
 but, nevertheless, in the service of his country. 
 Wonderful to relate, he retained his presence of 
 mind " Mr. Stebbings's pride in this passage was 
 indescribable " and arrived without further dis-
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 345 
 
 aster, though unconscious. ..." It was perhaps 
 as well that the Baronet called Mr. Stebbings away at 
 this point, as Mrs. Buckmaster knew the whole 
 story. 
 
 " Why on earth couldn't Stebbings begin at the 
 beginning ? " said Mr. Pelly, rather irritably. " Is 
 Captain Calverley alive or dead ? that's what I want 
 to know. And who's that outside, talking to Sir 
 George and the General ? " 
 
 " It's the Captain himself, sir," said Mrs. Buck- 
 master. " Looking that well only no arm ! His 
 right, too." And then she cleared matters up, by 
 telling how, after the battle, the young soldier, 
 badly wounded in more places than one, had, never- 
 theless, contrived to keep his seat on a half-runaway 
 horse he could scarcely guide, which carried him 
 away in a semi-conscious state to a lonely farm on 
 the veldt, tenanted only by a Dutch mother and 
 daughter. These two, hating roineks in theory, 
 but softening to a young and handsome one in prac- 
 tice, had kept the wounded man and nursed him 
 round, but could get no surgical help advanced 
 enough to save his arm, which he had been obliged 
 to leave in South Africa. The daughter had evi- 
 dently regarded the Captain as her property a fair 
 prisoner of war and had done her best to retain 
 him, writing letters to his friends for him at his 
 dictation, which were never despatched in spite of
 
 346 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 promises made, and heading off search-parties 
 that appeared in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Buck- 
 master condemned this conduct on principle, but 
 said : " Ah, poor girl only think of it," in 
 practice. 
 
 That was really the whole of the story, so far. 
 But like a continuous frieze, it would bear any 
 quantity of repetition, as the Captain's reappearance 
 always suggested his first departure, five months 
 ago, and led to a new recital. The frieze, however, 
 was not to remain unbroken; for Mrs. Buckmaster 
 was balked of her fourth da capo by the reappearance 
 of the Baronet, with General Fordyce, both of them 
 also knee-deep in recapitulations. Sir George was 
 in a state of high bewilderment. 
 
 " Just listen to this, Uncle Kit. . . . Oh, you 
 know Mrs. Buckmaster's told you. Never mind, 
 General, tell us again how it happened it has been 
 queer! Tell Mr. Pelly how you came to hear 
 of it." 
 
 " It was like this," said the General, who was 
 collected. " A month ago I was knocked over by 
 receiving this telegram. Here it is." He produced 
 it from a pocket-book and read : " ' Am alive and 
 well if news that am marrying Dutch girl contra- 
 dict otherwise keep silent till I come Jack.' Well, 
 George, I saw nothing for it but to bottle up, and 
 I assure you I was pretty well put to it to keep my
 
 A LIKELY STORY 347 
 
 own counsel. However, I really hadn't any choice. 
 Very well, then! That goes on till ten days ago, 
 when another wire comes from Madeira, ' Passenger 
 by Briton, in London this day week, Jack.' And 
 sure enough my young friend bursts into my cham- 
 bers four days ago, with, i Tell me about Madeline 
 is she engaged ? ' l Xot that I know of, my dear 
 boy,' said I. ' And I think I should know if she 
 were.' Then says he, * Oh, what a selfish beast I 
 am ! But you'll forgive me, General, when you 
 know.' However, I didn't want to know, but forgave 
 him right off." 
 
 " And then I suppose he told you all he's been 
 telling us downstairs about the Dutch girl and the 
 farmhouse on the veldt ? " 
 
 " Yes, he seems to have known very little from 
 the moment he was struck until his senses came 
 back to him at the farm. I must say they seem to 
 have behaved wonderfully well to him. ..." 
 
 " I can't say I think burning his letters and cutting 
 him off from all communications was exactly good 
 behaviour." Thus the Baronet. But the General 
 seemed doubtful. 
 
 " We-e-ell ! I don't know. I shouldn't quite say 
 that. Remember it was only this poor girl that did 
 it, and one sees her motive. Xo no ! All's fair in 
 love, George. I'm sorry for her, with all my heart." 
 
 Mrs. Buckmaster murmured under her breath,
 
 348 A LIKELY STOKY 
 
 " What was I saying to Mr. Christopher ? " and 
 thereon Mr. Pelly felt in honour bound to testify 
 to her truthfulness. " Yes Mrs. Buckmaster 
 thought so." Nobody was very definite. 
 
 " But did he come here with you, General ? " 
 asked Mr. Pelly, who was gradually toning down to 
 sane inquiry-point. Mixed replies said that the 
 Captain had not been long in the house. Lady Up- 
 well was interviewing him they were, in fact, 
 audible in the distance. The General supplied 
 further information. 
 
 " You see," he said, " Master Jack and I had just 
 arranged it all beautifully. I was to come here to 
 let it out gently and not frighten Miss Upwell, and 
 also to find how the land lay. Because, you see, 
 after all, they were not engaged. ..." 
 
 " Oh no ! They were not engaged." This was a 
 kind of chorus ; after which the General continued : 
 
 " Anyhow, Miss Upwell might have picked up with 
 some other young fellow. However, she hasn't. 
 Well! I was to come here and take the sound- 
 ings, and his ship was to follow on; he meanwhile 
 going down to inflict a full dramatic surprise on 
 his own family at Granchester Towers. He said 
 their nerves were strong enough, and it would do 
 them good. He was to come on as soon as he could 
 unless he heard to the contrary. And then, as he 
 was riding through Sampford Pagnell on his way
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 349 
 
 here, what must he come upon but a man of his own 
 company, who had been invalided home after 
 enteritis, who had been drinking and got into a row ? 
 He stopped to see him out of his difficulties had 
 to go bail for him and then came on here. But 
 it made him late. And I should have been here 
 sooner myself, only something went wrong with the 
 trains. It made me so late that I almost made up 
 my mind, if Jack wasn't here, to go back to the inn 
 at Grewceham, so as not to frighten you all out of 
 your wits." 
 
 " There's my wife coming up. I wonder what 
 they've settled." Thus the Baronet. 
 
 Then her ladyship came in, and following her, 
 in tiptoe silence, the young soldier himself. But 
 alas ! it was all true about the arm. There was the 
 loose right sleeve, looped up to his coat. But its 
 survivor was still in evidence, and Mr. Felly, as 
 he took the hand that was left in his own, wondered 
 if he was not still dreaming, so full was his mind of 
 the story of that other hand, lost four hundred years 
 ago. He could not dismiss the picture from his 
 thoughts ; and as he stood there talking with the 
 young soldier, in whom he could see the saddening 
 of his terrible experience through all the joy of his 
 return, he was always conscious of its presence, 
 conscious of its eyes fixed on all that passed before 
 it conscious of its comparison between the lot of
 
 350 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 its original, and Madeline's. And it made the old 
 gentleman feel quite eerie and uncomfortable. So 
 he resolved to say good-night, and did so as soon as 
 a pause came in an earnest conversation aside be- 
 tween the Baronet and his Lady, who seemed to be 
 enforcing a view by argument. Mr. Pelly heard the 
 last words : 
 
 " I have told this dear, silly fellow Mad must 
 speak for herself. I won't say anything. . . . 
 No not to-morrow ; she had better be told and come 
 down now." Here a subcolloquy. Wouldn't she 
 have gone to bed ? Oh no, Eliza said not. Besides, 
 she could slip something on. And then the main- 
 stream again. " You must give me a little time to 
 tell her, you know. One o'clock, isn't it? That 
 doesn't matter. Just think if it was a party! 
 You'll find I'm right, George." For when Lady 
 Upwell is pleased and excited she calls her husband 
 by his Christian name without the Sir. 
 
 When she had departed the General went back 
 on a previous conversation. " But we can't make 
 out yet, Jack,, how we came not to get any wire 
 about it as soon as it was known you were alive. 
 It ought to have been in the papers a month 
 ago." 
 
 " Nobody knows out there yet, except Headquar- 
 ters. Don't you see ? As soon as I was fit to get on 
 a horse, I rode all night across the veldt, and re-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 351 
 
 ported myself in the early morning. I begged them 
 to keep me dark for a bit, and old Pipeclay said he 
 could manage it. . . . " 
 
 " But why did you want it kept dark ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you directly. When I had settled that, 
 I made a rush for Port Elizabeth, and just caught 
 the Briton. Do you know, I was so anxious nobody 
 should know anything about it till I knew about 
 Madeline that I travelled as Captain Maclagan. And 
 when I got to Southampton there was a Mrs. 
 Maclagan and two grown-up daughters inquiring for 
 ine! So really no one knew anything at all about 
 me till you did." 
 
 Then the Baronet would know more of Jack's two 
 months of nursing at the Dutch farm. He thought 
 he could understand about the girl ; and he wouldn't 
 ask any questions. But why had Jack thoiight Made- 
 line was engaged to Sir Doyley Chauncey ? He was 
 engaged to another girl ? Yes, he was ; but that was 
 just it. It was another girl, of the same name 
 another Madeline. Master Jack coloured and was 
 rather reserved. Then he spoke: 
 
 " I'll tell you if you like. I told the General." 
 Who nodded. " But you mustn't blame poor Chris. 
 Remember she was brought up a Boer, though she 
 had some English education. It was a newspaper 
 notice Court and Fashionable game ' A marriage 
 is arranged between Sir Doyley Chauncey of Limp
 
 352 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 Court, Gloucestershire, and Miss Madeline . . .' 
 and there the paper was carefully cut away between 
 the lines with scissors one can always tell a scissor 
 cut. I was sure poor Chris had done it, for her own 
 reasons. I had told her all about Mad. There was 
 no humbugging at all." 
 
 " But, you silly boy," said the General, " don't you 
 see what I told you is true? If she had seen the 
 name Upwell, on the next line, she wouldn't have cut 
 it. Of course, she wouldn't leave the name Farrant 
 it's Lina Farrant, George ; old Farrant's daughter 
 at Kneversley man thinks Bacon wrote Shake- 
 speare " 
 
 " Of course not ! I see that all now. But one 
 isn't so cool as one might be sometimes. I got 
 quite upside down with never hearing, and, of course, 
 I couldn't write myself. I was quite dependent on 
 poor Chris. But I was going to tell why I wanted 
 to keep it dark that I was alive. You see, if Mad 
 had got engaged to anyone well, I don't exactly 
 see how to tell it. ... " He hesitated a good deal. 
 "Well, then ..." 
 
 " Well, then what ? " 
 
 " Do you know, I think I would almost soonest 
 not try to talk about it. But there was nothing 
 wrong, you know, anywhere." 
 
 " Oh no ! Nothing wrong. We quite under- 
 stand."
 
 A LIKELY STOEY 353 
 
 " Only when a girl has nursed you like that even 
 if . . ." 
 
 " Even if you don't love her is that it ? " 
 
 Jack was relieved. " Yes that's about it ! All 
 the same, if Madeline had been engaged, I might 
 have gone back and married her to do the poor 
 girl a good turn." 
 
 " In spite of her squelching your letters ? " said 
 Sir George. 
 
 " Why, ye-es ! Look at why she did it ! " 
 
 " There, they are coming down," said the General. 
 " Come along, George ! We aren't wanted here. 
 Good-night, Jack ! " 
 
 And then off they go, leaving the young man 
 alone, pacing backwards and forwards between 
 the door and the picture. There is but one lamp 
 left burning, on a small table near, and it is going 
 out. He picks it up and holds it nearer to see 
 the picture. But his hand shakes; one can hear 
 it by the tinkle in its socket of the ring that carries 
 an opal globe that screens the light. And he does 
 not see much, for he can hear, a long way off, Made- 
 line's voice and her mother's a mere murmur. Then 
 the murmur flashes up a little louder for a moment, 
 and the voices of the Baronet and the old General are 
 bidding each other good-night, a long way off. Then 
 a girl's footstep on the stair. 
 
 The tinkle of the lamp stops as the young soldier
 
 354 A LIKELY STOEY 
 
 puts it back on its table. That lamp will go out 
 very soon. But a log on the fire, that seemed dead, 
 breaks out in a blaze, and all the shadows it makes 
 on the walls leap and dance in its flicker. For the 
 lamp is making haste to die. 
 
 That is a timid touch upon the handle of the door. 
 The young soldier's face of expectation is a sight to 
 see, a sight to remember. His one hand is bearing 
 on the table where he placed the lamp almost as 
 though he were for the moment dizzy. Then, in the 
 wavering light he can see the loose, many-flowered 
 robe of Madeline, such a one as she wears for the 
 toilette, and her white face, and her cloud of beautiful 
 hair that is all undone. They are all there in the 
 leaping light of the fire, and he hears her voice that 
 says, " Oh, Jack oh, Jack oh, Jack ! " and can 
 say no more. And he, for his part, cannot speak, 
 but must needs grieve oh, how bitterly! for the 
 loss of the one strong arm that is gone. How he 
 would have drawn her to him ! But he still has one, 
 and it is round her. And her two white arms are 
 round his neck as their lips meet, even as those arms 
 in the picture must have met round the neck of 
 her beloved, even as their lips must have met, when 
 the dungeon closed again on the dead gaoler and 
 its prisoners, in that castle in the Apennines, four 
 hundred years ago !
 
 A LIKELY STORY 355 
 
 The picture still hangs over the chimney-shelf in 
 the library at Surley Stakes, and you may see it 
 any time if you are in the neighbourhood. Mr. 
 Stebbings will show it to you, and give you an 
 abstract of the cinquecento in Italy. But he some- 
 times is a little obscure; so our recommendation to 
 you is, to ask for Mrs. Buckmaster, who can never 
 tire of talking about it, and who will strike you as 
 being the living image of Mrs. Rouncewell in " Bleak 
 House." Make her talk freely, and she will tell you 
 how whenever " our young lady," otherwise Lady 
 Calverley for our friend Jack unexpectedly came 
 to the inheritance of Granchester Towers two years 
 since visits the Stakes she always goes straight to 
 the picture and looks at it before anything else. 
 And how she tells little Madeline, her eldest girl, 
 who is old enough to understand, that pictures can 
 really see and hear; and, indeed, has told her the 
 story of the picture long ago. Of which the crown 
 and summit of delight to this little maid of four 
 seems to have been its richness in murder. Chiefest 
 of all, the impalement of the old Raimondi on 
 Marta's knife. You will gather that requests are 
 made for a recital of this part of the story at untimely 
 moments coming home from church on Sunday, 
 and so on. She is going to tell it to Baby herself 
 as soon as he is old enough. But he isn't one yet;
 
 356 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 he has to be reckoned in months. To think of the 
 joys there are before him ! 
 
 Mrs. Buckmaster will tell you too if you work 
 her up enough of the Dutch girl, and the miles 
 of veldt Sir John bought and gave her as a wedding 
 present. But to get at all this you must first get 
 her out of the library, for while she is there she can 
 talk of little but the picture. 
 
 " I always do have the thought," she will very 
 likely say, as she has said it to us, " that the picture 
 can as good as hear us speak, for all the world as if 
 it was a Christian, and not an inanimate object. 
 Because its eyes keep looking looking. Like 
 reading into your mind, whatever Mr. Stebbings 
 may say! We must all think otherwise, now and 
 again, and Mr. Stebbings's qualifications as a butler 
 none can doubt." Mrs. Buckmaster will then tell 
 you of the three different artists three separate 
 eminent critics have ascribed it to. But there can 
 be no doubt that the family incline to Boldrini, on 
 the strength of Mr. Felly's dream. To be sure, 
 no such artist is known to have existed. ' But is 
 not the same true of the nipote del fratello di latte 
 del Bronzino, whom the Coryphaeus of these Art 
 Critics invented to father it on ? 
 
 Anyhow, there hangs the picture, night and day. 
 If it sees, it sees its owners growing older, year by 
 year. It sees their new grandchildren appear mys-
 
 A LIKELY STORY 357 
 
 teriously, and each one behave as if it was the first 
 new child in human experience. It sees a one-armed 
 soldier keen on organization of territorial forces, 
 and a beautiful wife who thinks him the greatest of 
 mankind. And it sees, too, now and again, a very- 
 old, old gentleman whom Death seems to overlook 
 because he is so small and dry; whom you may see 
 too, by-the-by, if you look out sharp at Sotheby's, or 
 Wilkinson's, or Puttick's, or Simpson's, or 
 Quaritch's, or the Museum Reading Room. Some 
 believe Mr. Pelly immortal. 
 
 If it hears, it hears the few sounds the silent 
 north has to show against the music and the voices 
 of the south. It can listen to the endless torrent 
 of song from its little brown-bird outside above the 
 meadow, poised in the misty blue of a coming day, 
 or the scanty measure of the pleading of the nightin- 
 gale, heard from a thousand throats among the 
 Apennines in years gone by, welcome now as a 
 memory that brings them back. It can hear the 
 great wind roar in the chimney at its back through 
 the winter nights, and the avalanches in miniature 
 that come falling from the roof above when the 
 world awakes to fight against its shroud of snow. 
 But there is one thing it heard in our story it may 
 listen for in vain the bark of the great dog Caesar. 
 For Ca?sar died of old age at eighteen, the age at 
 which many of us fancy we begin to live, and the
 
 358 A LIKELY STORY 
 
 great bark shakes the Universe no more. Other dogs 
 eat small sweet biscuits now from the hand of the 
 mistress who loved him with precisely the same 
 previous examination of them, with the identical 
 appearance of condescension in taking them at all. 
 But Caesar lies his mortal part in a good-sized 
 grave behind the lawn, where it can be pointed out 
 from the library, and his hospis comesque corporis 
 may be among the shades, may have met for any- 
 thing we know the liberated soul of Marta's poodle, 
 and they may have considered each other senten- 
 tiously, and parted company on the worst of terms. 
 Csesar never could have stood that poodle, on this side. 
 But the picture is there still, for those who are 
 curious to see it. Whether it would not hang more 
 fitly in the little Castello in the hills, if it could be 
 identified, is matter for discussion. If pictures could 
 really speak, what would this one say ? 
 
 THE END
 
 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 TEE present writer lias a weight upon his conscience. 
 But he has no desire to disburden himself at the expense 
 of the future reader of his works. This is addressed 
 solely to those whom he has acquired the right to 
 apostrophize as "My readers"; and, indeed, properly 
 speaking, only to such of them as were misled, by a too 
 generous appreciation of his first four novels, into pur- 
 chasing his fifth. For he cannot free himself from a 
 haunting sense that he was guilty of a gross neglect in 
 not giving them fuller warning that the said fifth volume 
 was not Early Victorian, either in style or substance. 
 
 It is well understood nowadays and it is not for so 
 humble an individual as the P. W. aforesaid to call in 
 question the judgments of everybody else that each 
 living author, whether he be painter or writer, shall 
 produce at suitable intervals, preferably of twelve 
 months, a picture or volume on all fours with the work 
 from his hand which has first attracted public atten- 
 tion. And the P. W. cannot conceal from himself that 
 in publishing, without a solemn warning addressed to 
 possible purchasers, such a novel as his last (" An Affair 
 of Dishonor" : Henry Holt and Company), he has run 
 the risk of incurring the execration or forgiveness the 
 upshot is the same of many of his most tolerant and 
 patient readers, to remain on good terms with whom is, 
 and always ivill be, his literary ambition. 
 
 For the " Affair " is certainly not an Early Victorian 
 story in the ordinary sense of the words. A certain lati- 
 tude has been claimed by some critics in the choice of 
 names for the periods treated of in the other humble per- 
 formances of its author; but so far no commentator 
 has called its epoch that of Charles II. "Early 
 
 359
 
 360 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 [Victorian." It has been spoken of freely as sixteenth 
 and eighteenth century; but that is immaterial. In 
 fact, it is difficult to resist the conviction that in what 
 may be called sporting chronology a system which 
 seems to have a certain vogue of its own so long as the 
 writer says " century," one number does as well as an- 
 other to make, the sentence ring. The expression 
 ''Early Victorian," however, is embarrassingly circum- 
 scribed in its meaning. It cannot be applied at random 
 to any period whatever, without danger of the Sciolist, 
 or the Merest Tyro, going to the British Museum and 
 getting at Haydn's "Dictionary of Dates," and catch- 
 ing you out. Still, it does not do to be too positive; 
 seeing that the P. W. has here and can show it you in 
 the house what seems a description of the Restoration 
 as " Pre-Cromwellian." There it is, before him, as he 
 presently writes on the shiniest paper that ever made 
 an old fogy wish he had been born fifty years earlier.* 
 
 To fulfil the conditions which literary usage appears 
 to dictate, and to signalize his conformity with public 
 opinion, there is no doubt that the writer of " An Affair 
 of Dishonor " or, shall I drop the thin veil adopted to 
 avoid egotism, and say I myself? should have made that 
 work not only Early Victorian, but Suburban. For, as 
 I understand, I am expected to be Suburban. This is 
 
 * I will be just and generous to this writer simultaneously. 
 The Protector was lorn in 1599. Pre-Cromwellian days were 
 the sixteenth century, clearly. In the sixteenth century St. 
 James's and Piccadilly would not be includable in residential 
 quarters, because the latter icas not torn or thought of. If 
 by Pre-Cromwellian this ivriter means Pre-Commonicealth, the 
 inclusion of Piccadilly in the description of a country girl's 
 conception of swell London, written a hundred years later, 
 when Piccadilly was " fait accompli," seems to me not unnat- 
 ural. I am bound to say, hoicever, that ichen I first read the 
 passage (p. 181) immediately after I had written it / 
 thought " those days " meant the days of the story. Analysis 
 of London topography would have been out of place in treating 
 of the cogitations of a- country girl unfamiliar with the 
 metropolis.
 
 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 361 
 
 Jess difficult, as suburbs do not depend on chroniclers, 
 like periods,, but remain to speak for themselves. One 
 knows when one is being Suburban. Among epochs one 
 treads gingerly, like the skater on ice that scarcely bears 
 him. I may take as an instance a book I wrote, called 
 " Somehow Good," whose cradle, as it were, was the 
 Twopenny Tube. The frequent reference to this story 
 as an "Early Victorian" tale has impressed me that 
 Early Victorianism is an abstract quality, which owes its 
 fascination neither to its earliness, nor to its epoch. I 
 am stating the case broadly, but as this is entirely be- 
 tween ourselves, very great niceties are hardly called for. 
 We may leave the Sciolist, and the Merest Tyro, to fight 
 about niceties. On the other hand, outside opinion, 
 though a little vague about Early Victorianism, has not 
 been inconsistent about Suburbanite/. It has shrewdly 
 identified, in my first four novels, the Suburban char- 
 acter of Tooting, Balham, Hampstead, Putney, Shep- 
 herd's Bush, and Wimbledon; and I now perceive that 
 my reader was entitled to expect Clapham Junction or 
 Peckham Rye, at least. Nothing would have pleased me 
 better, when writing my last book, than to supply the 
 nearest practicable Carolean equivalent, had I seen more 
 clearly how the land lay. However, it's done now and 
 can't be helped. 
 
 Broadly speaking, then, non-Victorianity and de- 
 fective Suburbanity seem to be responsible for my slump 
 in conformity. And, though I have to go to America 
 for distinct proofs of it, I am obliged to recognize sug- 
 gestions of the same critical decision nearer home. The 
 -first three of the following American reviews appeared 
 at intervals in the same journal, showing how deeply 
 the writer had taken my delinquency to heart: 
 
 " Probably written years ago, and found in an old desk." 
 
 " A totally uncharacteristic and thoroughly disappointing 
 
 * historical romance.' " 
 
 " ' A perfectly good cat,' that I have found in the literary 
 
 ash-pan .... differs from everything that has come to us
 
 362 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 previously from the author's pen, as lifeless clay differs from 
 living spirit." 
 
 " Wherein lies the superiority of fiction that can give us 
 nothing better than this? " 
 
 " It is not, in itself, worth reading . . . being an unpleasant, 
 unexciting, and unoriginal experiment in historical romance 
 . . . leaving us disappointed of what we hoped for, and unedi- 
 fied by what we get." 
 
 " The ghosts of ' David Copperfield ' and ' Joseph Vance.' 
 ' Alice- for- Short ' and the ' Little Marchioness,' may togethf-r 
 weep pale spirit tears, or nobly repress them, in the hope that 
 ' It Never can Happen Again.' " 
 
 " We can but hope for a return from this invented matter 
 and artificial style to an unabashed Victorianism, from which 
 it should appear the author is trying to escape." 
 
 There is something spirited in a selection of quotations 
 which begins and ends with such different conjectures 
 as to the genesis of their subject. There can be no 
 doubt about the earnestness of the hope expressed in 
 the last one, for it is confirmed in the same words by 
 more than one American journal.* 
 
 Another accusation against me is that I have given up 
 nice people, and only write about nasty ones. Is this 
 true? I myself thought Lucinda a nice enough girl, 
 particularly when she was fishing in the sea for the 
 phosphorescence. All the same, the following seemed 
 to me quite a just comment, and very well ivorded: 
 "There must have been something of Phaedra in Lu- 
 cinda for her to act as she did, unless we are to revert 
 to the belief in a baneful Aphrodite no human will 
 
 * The force of the unanimity of two or three American papers 
 grows less when their reader perceives the verbal identity of 
 the article throughout and that their writers are not onli/ 
 unanimous, but unicorporeal. Numbers are impressive, but 
 when they play fast and loose with plurality in this way, all 
 their edge is taken off.
 
 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 363 
 
 can resist." Something of Phaedra but still, I sub- 
 mit, not much, for Sir Oliver was passionately urgent; 
 while Hippolytus to borrow a phrase from Mrs. Step- 
 toe, a quarter where I have unlimited credit didn't 
 want to any such a thing. 
 
 Every book has a right to an assumption intrinsically 
 improbable, to make the story go. What a flat tragedy 
 Hamlet would have been without its fundamental ghost! 
 And my " quidlibet audendi" is a small presumption 
 compared with my giant namesake's. Of course, I have 
 no right to the comparison unless you grant like 
 rights to tittlebat and leviathan. " Semper fiat aequa 
 potestas," for both. Indeed, the dwarf needs artificial 
 latitude more than the giant. 
 
 In my capacity of tittlebat in an estuary of 
 Leviathan's great sea or, should I not rather say, a 
 sandhopper on its coast? / have assumed that this 
 baneful Aphrodite no human will can resist had pos- 
 session of Lucinda; who was, and continued to be, a, 
 very nice girl for all that. Phaedra was not nice, be- 
 cause of the attitude of Hippolytus, as sketched by Mrs. 
 Steptoe; and even more because 'of the fibs she told 
 when she found the young man blind to the attractions 
 of his stepmother. Lucinda was not a bit the less nice 
 because she was swept away by, absorbed into, crushed 
 under, a passion of which she only knew that it was the 
 reverse of hate, and of which few of us know much 
 more. Indeed, all male persuasions get so very mixed, 
 owing to the Nature of Things, that they are almost 
 a negligible factor in the solution of the problem. Now 
 and again, however, it is hinted at by thoughtful male 
 persons Shakespeare and Browning, and the like. Read 
 th is, for instance : 
 
 " But, please you, wonder I icould put 
 My check beneath that lady's foot; 
 Rather than trample under mine 
 The laurels of the Florentine, 
 And you shall see how the Devil spends 
 A fire God gave for other ends.
 
 364 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 " I tell you, I stride up and down 
 This garret, crowned with Love's best crown, 
 And feasted with Love's perfect feast 
 To think I kill for her at least 
 Body and soul and peace and fame, 
 Alike youth's end and manhood's aim." 
 
 Perhaps you will say that no ladylike, well brought up 
 girl, ever feels so explosive. About a Man too the idea! 
 But for my part, I don't see that Browning's chap need 
 have been a nasty chap. Nevertheless, my sense of the 
 proprieties which is keen compels me to admit that if 
 I had a daughter, and she were to go on like that, I 
 should feel it my duty to point out to her that if she 
 continued to do so, she would run the risk of being taken 
 for a suffragette, or something. I might get no farther, 
 because I word things badly. 
 
 Lucinda, you see, might have gone on like that about 
 Oliver; only no doubt the memory of old precepts hung 
 about her, and acted as I trust my remonstrance would 
 have done in the case of my hypothetical daughter. 
 Anyhow, I do think that the time-honoured usage which 
 keeps girls as ignorant of life as possible, so that they 
 shall be docile when a judicious Hymen offers them a 
 marriage with a suitable "parti," ought at least, as a 
 set-off, to go hand-in-hand with leniency towards this ig- 
 norance when it betrays its possessor into an indiscretion 
 she has no means of gauging the dangers of. For my 
 belief is that the wickedness of her action seemed purely 
 academical to Lucinda. And Oliver knew how to man- 
 age cases of this sort, bless you! 
 
 As for him, I readily admit that he was not nice, but I 
 take the testimonials to his nastiness as complimentary. 
 When an Italian audience pelts logo with rotten eggs, 
 it is accepted by the actor as heartfelt praise. And you 
 must have Devils, as well as Fairies, when it's in a 
 Pantomime, as we all know. An unhappy author whom 
 lack of material for copy has nearly qualified for Earls-
 
 AX APOLOGY .IX CONFIDENCE 365 
 
 wood cannot go on for ever writing about good people. 
 He must have a villain, please, sooner or later! 
 
 Nevertheless, some of my correspondents want to 
 deprive me of this innocent luxury. Such an appeal 
 as the following makes me feel that I may have to " leave 
 the killing out, when all is done." 
 
 "Dear sir, can any 'success' that meets your latest story 
 compensate for the pain, and so personal have you made 
 our relations to you the humiliation so many of us feelf 
 
 " Why leave the heights the sunny hill-slopes where we 
 met you as a icise, sweet older brother, and lingered longt 
 after your story teas over, icith stilled and strengthened 
 hearts f 
 
 " I am sure none of us is happier, and none certainly is 
 better for breathing the sickening air into which you have 
 led us. . . ." 
 
 Now, if I had published this story after a manifesto 
 warning, cautioning, and earnestly entreating all read- 
 ers who expected it to be Victorian and Suburban to Iceep 
 their money in their pockets, I should not be feeling, as 
 I do now, that the writer of the above letter had been 
 entrapped into reading it under false pretences. I can- 
 only offer humble and heartfelt apology to the writers, 
 English as well as American, of the many letters I have 
 received, practically of the same tenor as the above. 
 
 But I am left in a dilemma. I cannot consider my- 
 self bound to make my next net volume exclusively 
 "Victorian, Suburban, Icindly, gossipy, button-holy I 
 rather like that ivord in the face of some very strong 
 encouragements to have another go-in at Barts, or their 
 equivalents, of evil dispositions, or, perhaps I should say, 
 of Mediceval dispositions; for I am countenanced by 
 many sporting chronologists in attaching a meaning to 
 this word at war with my boyish understanding of it, 
 which stopped the " moyen age " at the Reformation. 
 However, it doesn't matter; this is all in confidence. I 
 cannot very well cite these encouragements. They form 
 part of a most liberal and intelligent series of reviews 
 not unmixed praise by any means which I am sticking
 
 366 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 at odd times in a big book, to which I shall have to 
 allude more particularly presently. It is enough for us 
 now that several of them speaJc of "An Affair of Dis- 
 honor" as its author's best production, so far. After 
 that I must really be Mediaeval, or Marry-come-up, or 
 whatever one ought to call it, a little more. There is no 
 way out. 
 
 A reviewer of an isolated and forcible genius also has 
 a share in inducing me to try the same line again. I 
 want to be reviewed by him, please, as often as possible. 
 There is a healthy and bracing tone in his lightest word. 
 Listen: 
 
 '" A story-teller ought to be able to tell a story. There is 
 a story in ' An Affair of Dishonor,' but I pity the reader icho 
 tries to excavate it. He must tie a wet towel round his head, 
 and clench his teeth, and prepare to face hours of digging 
 and scraping. And ichen he has excavated the story from 
 the heavy clay of the style, he ivill ask why the author took 
 so much trouble to bury it so deep in affectation. . . . Mr. 
 De Morgan tries to copy the language of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, but he copies it like a schoolboy. ... To make the 
 mess complete, the last chapter is taken from a manuscript. 
 
 "If Mr. De Morgan desired to imitate Esmond he ought 
 to have stuck to the Esmond method. If he wished to tell 
 a melodramatic story he ought to have told it plainly. The 
 story is stale. ... 7 suppose the rake is meant to be a Love- 
 lace, and Lucinda a Clarissa Harloive. The whole thing is 
 artificial, there is no illusion, and the characters are all sticks. 
 The battle is bad, and the duels are bad, and the dialogue is 
 very bad. And how it bores one ! " 
 
 Can you wonder that I look forward to being reviewed 
 again by this gentleman ? I shall feel an eager anticipa- 
 tion as I search among my press-cuttings, after the ap- 
 pearance of this present volume, for the name of his half- 
 penny journal. I can fancy his indignation at a pic- 
 ture that speaks a completes mess even tlian the 
 dragging in of a manuscript at the end of Lucinda! 
 This was shocking at least, it must have been, as other- 
 wise this gentleman would have been talking nonsense. 
 
 But my button-holed readers must be expecting me to
 
 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 367 
 
 come to the point. It is this. "A Likely Story "is an 
 honest, if a humble, attempt to satisfy all parties 
 except, indeed, the last party just cited, whom I should 
 be sorry to satisfy. It combines on one canvas the 
 story of a family incident that is purely Victorian 
 though, alas, the era came to an end so shortly after- 
 ward with another, of the Italian cinquecento, with- 
 out making any further demand on human powers 
 of belief than that a picture is made to talk. I have 
 also introduced a very pretty suburb, Coombe, as the 
 residence of the earliest Victorian aunt, to my thinking, 
 that my pen is responsible for. I like this way of shift" 
 ing the responsibility off my own shoulders. 
 
 However, it is fair to admit that the expedient of 
 making the photographic copy talk, as well as the 
 original, may outrage the sense of probability of some of 
 my more matter-of-fact readers. I shall be sorry, be- 
 cause modification in a second edition will be difficult, 
 if not impossible. 
 
 If I do not succeed in pleasing both sections of my 
 Public, I am at least certain of the approval of a very 
 large number of readers who have found my previous 
 productions too long. The foregoing is even less than 
 the 100,000 words which seem to recommend themselves 
 as the right length, " per se," for a net volume. A slump 
 from a quarter to a tenth of a million words marks a 
 powerful self-restraint on the part of my " cacoethes 
 scribendi" an essay towards conformity which seems 
 to me to deserve recognition. I do not understand that 
 anyone has, so far, propounded the doctrine that a story 
 cannot be too short. If that were so the author would 
 save himself a world of trouble by emulating the example 
 of the unknown author of the shortest work of its kind 
 on record the biography of St. James the Less. But 
 perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that Jackaminory 
 and the Apostle were one and the same personage. 
 
 I am personally more interested in the length of re- 
 views than of books, in connection with the volume men- 
 tioned just now, in which I am collecting my press-
 
 368 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 cuttings. The page of this volume is fourteen inches 
 by eight, and three reviews thirteen inches long exactly 
 cover it, leaving a little space for the name of the jour- 
 nal and the date. It is too small to accommodate more 
 than three normal press columns in the width. So that a 
 review thirteen inches long is from my point of view 
 the most suitable for my books. Of course, twenty-six 
 and thirty-nine indies are equally acceptable. The dif- 
 ficulty only begins when accommodation of fractions be- 
 comes necessary. I account that review ill-written which 
 perplexes me with the need for such accommodation. 
 
 I am prepared to accept six shilling volumes of 
 100,000 words, with reviews thirteen inches long, as the 
 true and perfect image of Literature indeed. 
 
 Man, male and female, is a reading animal: or, what 
 is perhaps more to the purpose, believes himself one. 
 He may be divided into two classes the Studious 
 Reader and the General Reader. The former never 
 sJcims books. If he dips into them at all he takes long 
 dips, and when lie comes out, leaves a bookmark in to 
 show where he was, or which was his machine. He goes 
 steadily and earnestly through the last, last, last word 
 of Scientific thought say, for instance, "An Essay 
 towards a fuller Analysis of the Correlation between 
 Force, Matter and Motion, with especial reference to 
 their relations in Poly dimensional Space " and wants 
 to just finish a marginal note upon it in pencil when the 
 dinner-gong gets a rumble. He knits his brows and 
 jumps and snorts when he peruses a powerful criticism, 
 with antitheses and things. He very often thinks he 
 will buy that book, only he must just glance at it again 
 before he sends the order. Nevertheless, his relations 
 with Fiction lack cordiality. They do not go, on his 
 part, beyond picking up the last net volume from the 
 drawing-room table, reading the title aloud, and putting 
 it down again. And he only does this because it's there, 
 and looks new. He wouldn't complain if no Fiction 
 came into the house at all.
 
 AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 369 
 
 Not so the General Reader. His theory of Literature 
 is entirely different. Broadly speaking, it is this: that 
 books are meant to be read, up to a certain point, but 
 that, as soon as that point is reached, it is desirable 
 that they should be returned to Mudie's or the " Times," 
 and something else got, with a little less prosywozying 
 in it; and bounceable young women who ought to know 
 better., but don't; and detectives if possible, and motors 
 and aeroplanes anyhow. The exact definition of this 
 point is difficult, but it lies somewhere about the region 
 in which the General Reader gets bored to death, and 
 can't stand this dam rot any longer. It does not matter 
 to him that he may be the loser by his abrupt decisions; 
 if anything, he takes an unnatural pleasure in straining 
 the capacity of his Circulating Library to the full ex- 
 tent of its contract. He has paid his subscription, and 
 may change whenever he likes. That's the bargain, and 
 no humbugging! 
 
 So he goes on slap-dashing about, shuttle-cocking back 
 every new delivery, saying "Pish!" over this and 
 "Tush/" about that; writing short comments on 
 margins such as, " Vieux jeu!" or "No Woman 
 would"; only occasionally going carefully through a 
 book to find the chapter that reviewer-fellow said was 
 quite unfit for the girls to read, because one really ought 
 to keep an eye on what comes into the house nowadays. 
 His decisions can, however, scarcely be accepted as un- 
 failing guides to a just discrimination of literary merit, 
 as those who know him are never tired of insisting on his 
 inattentive habits, his paroxysms of electric suddenness 
 in action, and, above all,, his insatiable thirst for some- 
 thing new. As for me, I am like Charles Lamb, when 
 he was told there was a gentleman in the room who ad- 
 mired "Paradise Regained." I should like to feel his 
 bumps. 
 
 Nevertheless, he is a personage for whom Authors have 
 a great and natural respect. He is so numerous! And 
 just think what fun it would be if each of him bought a 
 copy of each of one's immortal works! Consequently, I
 
 370 AX APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE 
 
 ivish to consult his liking, and am prepared within rea- 
 son to defer to his opinion of what length a book ought 
 to be. It is no doubt quite otherwise with those Authors 
 icho may be said to belong to the school of Inspiration- 
 alism really one feels quite Modern, writing such a 
 word who claim for each of their stories the position or 
 character of a sneeze an automatic action which its 
 victim, perpetrator, executant, interpreter, proprietor, 
 promoter, parent, mover, seconder or whatever we 
 choose to call him has absolutely no control over. 
 
 But I am wandering away from the point of this 
 apology, which is really to say " peccavi," and, please, I 
 won't do so any more. So far, that is, as is practicable. 
 If I drop into a prehistoric problem novel, by way of a 
 change, or have a try at an autobiography of Queen 
 Nitocris just possibilities at random I will do what I 
 can to head ojf readers who want one sort only, and 
 know which it is. 
 
 As for the foregoing story, it is just as Victorian as 
 it is anything else, though not, perhaps, Early enough to 
 give entire satisfaction. One can't expect everything, 
 in this imperfect world. To my thinking the shortness 
 of the story should cover a multitude of sins.
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S JOSEPH VANCE 
 
 A touching story, yet full of humor, of life-long love and 
 heroic sacrifice. While the scene is mostly in and near the 
 London of the fifties, there are some telling glimpses of 
 Italy, where the author lives much of the time ($1.75). 
 
 "The book of the last decade; the best thing in fiction since Mr. 
 Meredith and Mr. Hardy; must take its place as the first great English 
 novel that has appeared in the twentieth century." LEWIS MELVILLE in 
 New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 " If the reader likes both ' David Copperfield ' and ' Peter Ibbetson,' 
 he can find the two books in this one." The Independent, 
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S ALJCE-FOR-SHORT 
 
 This might paradoxically be called a genial ghost-and- 
 murder story, yet humor and humanity again dominate, and 
 the most striking element is the touching love story of an 
 unsuccessful man. The reappearance in Nineteenth Century 
 London of the long-buried past, and a remarkable case ot 
 suspended memory, give the dramatic background ($1.75). 
 
 " Really worth reading and praising . . . will be hailed as a master- 
 piece. If any writer of the present era is read a half century hence, 
 a quarter century, or even a decade, that writer is William De 
 Morgan." Boston Transcript. 
 
 " It is the Victorian age itself that speaks in those rich, interesting, 
 over-crowded books. . . . Will be remembered as Dickens' novels are 
 remembered." Springfield Republican. 
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S SOMEHOW GOOD 
 
 The purpose and feeling of this novel are intense, yet it is 
 all mellowed by humor, and it contains perhaps the author's 
 freshest and most sympathetic story of young love. Through- 
 out its pages the " God be praised evil has turned to good " 
 of the old Major rings like a trumpet call of hope. This 
 story of to-day tells of a triumph of courage and devotion 
 
 ($i-75). 
 
 " A book as sound, as sweet, as wholesome, as wise, as any in the 
 range of fiction." The Nation. 
 
 " Our older novelists (Dickens and Thackeray) will have to look to 
 their laurels, for the new one is fast proving himself their equal. A 
 higher quality of enjoyment than is derivable from the work of any 
 other novelist now living and active in either England or America." 
 The Dial. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 34 WEST 3 3D STREET (vii' 10) NEW YORK
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S IT NEVER CAN HAPPEN AGAIN 
 
 This novel turns on a strange marital complication, and is 
 notable for two remarkable women characters, the pathetic 
 girl Lizarann and the beautiful Judith Arkroyd, with her 
 stage ambitions. Lizarann's father, Blind Jim, is very ap- 
 pealingly drawn, and shows rare courage and devotion despite 
 cruel handicaps. There are strong dramatic episodes, and 
 the author's inevitable humor and optimism ($1.75). 
 
 " De Morgan at his very best, and how much better his best is 
 than the work of any novelist of the past thirty years." Independent. 
 
 " There has been nothing at all like it in our day. The best of 
 our contemporary novelists ... do not so come home to our business 
 and our bosoms . . . his method ... is very different in most 
 important respects from that of Dickens. He is far less the showman, 
 the dashing prestidigitator . . . more like Thackeray . . . precisely 
 what the most ' modern ' novelists are striving for for the most part 
 in vain . . . most enchanting . . . infinitely lovable and pathetic."- 
 The Nation. 
 
 " Another long delightful voyage with the best English company . . . 
 from Dukes to blind beggars . . . you could make out a very good 
 case for handsome Judith Arkroyd as an up-to-date Ethel Newcome 
 . . . the stuff that tears in hardened and careless hearts are made 
 of ... singularly perceiving, mellow, wise, charitable, humorous 
 . . . a plot as well defined as if it were a French farce." The Times 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 " The characters of Blind Jim and Lizarann are wonderful worthy 
 of Dickens at his best." Professor WILLIAM LYON PHELVS, of Yale, 
 author of " Essays on Modern Novelists." 
 
 WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR 
 
 A dramatic story of England in the time of the Restoration. 
 It commences with a fatal duel, and shows a new phase of its 
 remarkable author. The movement is fairly rapid, and the 
 narrative absorbing, with occasional glints of humor ($1.75). 
 
 ** A thirty-two page illustrated leaflet about Mr. De Morgan, with 
 complete reviews of his first four books, sent on request. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 ROMAIN HOLLAND'S 
 
 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
 
 DAWN MORNING YOUTH REVOLT 
 
 Translated by GILBERT CANNAN. 
 
 600 pp. $1.50 net; by mail, $1.62. 
 
 It commences with vivid episodes of this musician's child- 
 hood, his fears, fancies, and troubles, and his almost uncanny 
 musical sense. He plays before the Grand Duke at seven, 
 but he is destined for greater things. An idol of the hour, in 
 some ways suggesting Richard Strauss, tries in vain to wreck 
 his faith in his career. Early love episodes follow, and at the 
 close the hero, like Wagner, has to fly, a hopeful exile. 
 
 "'Hats off, gentlemen a genius.' . . . Has the time come for the aoth 
 century to uncover before a master work ? A book as big, as elemental, as 
 original as though the art of fiction began to-day." Springfield Republican. 
 (Entire notice on application.) 
 
 " The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from any 
 other European country, in a decade. . . . Highly commendable and 
 effective translation . . . the story moves at a rapid pace. It never 
 lags." E. F. Edgett in Boston Transcript. 
 
 JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS 
 
 THE MARKET-PLACE 
 ANTOINETTE THE HOUSE 
 
 473 PP- $i-5O net; by mail, $1.62. 
 
 A writer in the London Daily Mail comments on the 
 French volumes here translated as follows : " In ' The Mar- 
 ket-Place,' we are with the hero in his attempt to earn his 
 living and to conquer Paris. The author introduces us to 
 the numberless ' society ' circles in Paris and all the cliques 
 of so-called musicians in pages of superb and bitter irony 
 and poetic fire. Christophe becomes famous. In the next 
 volume, Antoinette is the sister of Christophe's great friend, 
 Olivier. She loves Christophe. . . . This, the best volume 
 of the series, is a flawless gem. ' The House ' introduces us 
 to the friends and enemies of the young musician. They 
 gravitate around Christophe and Olivier, amid the noisy and 
 enigmatic whirl of Parisian life." 
 
 It is worth adding that toward the close of this book a 
 war-cloud appears between France and Germany. Chris- 
 tophe, with Olivier, visits his mother and his Fatherland. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 Books in Which to Renew One's Youth 
 
 INEZ HAYNES GILLMORE'S PHOEBE AND ERNEST 
 
 With 30 illustrations by R. F. SCHABELITZ. $1.50. 
 
 Phoebe and Ernest Martin, who lately created such en- 
 thusiasm among readers of the American Magazine, here 
 appear with new incidents which make this book a complete 
 chronicle of the typical American brother and sister of high 
 school age. 
 
 Parents will recognize themselves in the story, and laugh 
 understandingly with, and sometimes at, Mr. and Mrs. Martin 
 and their children. 
 
 Youths and maidens will understand Phoebe and Ernest's 
 experiences and problems. 
 
 "Attracted delighted attention in the course of its serial publication. 
 Sentiment and humor are deftly mingled in this clever book." N. Y. 
 Tribune. 
 
 JOHN MATTER'S ONCE 
 
 izrno. $1.20 net ; by mail, $1.30. 
 
 An idyl of boy and girl life in a small town in the Middle 
 West, intended for grown-ups as a guide to pleasant recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 " If you would be taken back to your childhood days read this charm- 
 ing story of the happy larks of these real children. Chicago Evening 
 Post. 
 
 " Pleasant reminders of childish incidents which will awaken memories 
 in all his readers. . . . His youngsters have individuality of their 
 own." New York Sun. 
 
 ALGERNON BLACKWELL'S THE EDUCATION OF 
 UNCLE PAUL 
 
 By the author of " JOHN SILENCE." $1.50. 
 
 Boston Transcript : "Quite the most unusual book of the year. . . . 
 Such an outline is powerless to suggest the charm of the book. The in- 
 tercourse of children, animals and uncle is compounded of humor, 
 affection, the subtlest of observation and the most convincing fan- 
 tasy. . . . Nixie is so utterly captivating . . . gratefully the reader 
 treads the mysterious ways with them . . . many a subtle experience, a 
 riot of imagination . . . the beauty of conception and the quality of 
 its exquisite execution." (Entire notice on application to the publishers.)
 
 Just Published 
 TWO NOTEWORTHY NEW NOVELS 
 
 H. RIDER HAGGARD'S 
 THE MAHATMA AND THE HARE 
 
 A Dream Story. With 12 full-page illustrations by H. M. 
 BROCK and W. T. HORTON. I2mo. $1.00 net; by mail, 
 $1.10. 
 
 A fantasy dealing with the rights of animals. Unusual 
 quality and feeling lift this story, of a hare and his life in 
 the hunting preserve, into the company of the very best 
 animal stories. 
 
 GARDNER HUNTING'S 
 A HAND IN THE GAME 
 
 With frontispiece in color by J. N. .EDMOND MARCHAND. 
 $1.25 net; by mail, $1.35. 
 
 An American love and adventure story of to-day. The 
 author makes the reader see his heroine's beauty and admire 
 her spirit, while he gains hearty sympathy for the brave 
 though modest hero. 
 
 An April snowball breaks a way for this man into a lovely 
 girl's life and makes opportunity for him to fight for her 
 against an enemy who holds a strangely cruel weapon. A 
 blind mystery and the deadly hatred of a cornered foe make 
 the struggle a pitiless one, but even in deadliest peril, the 
 hero scorns to go armed. Finally love plays the lover an 
 amazing trick which turns bitter into sweet. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 34 WEST 330 STBEET NEW YORK
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS'S THE UNITED STATES NAVY 
 
 A Handbook. 
 
 By HENRY WILLIAMS, Naval Constructor, U. S. Navy. With 
 
 32 full-page illustrations and a number in the text. 8vo. 
 
 Probable price, $1.50 net. (October.') 
 
 This is a neat, crisp, matter-of-fact account of our Navy, 
 with an occasional illuminating anecdote of famous court- 
 martials and such. It has been passed by high authorities 
 and its publication officially sanctioned. The Contents in- 
 cludes : Naval History The Navy's Organization The 
 Navy's Personnel Man-of-War in Commission Classes of 
 Ships in the Navy Description High Explosives; Tor- 
 pedoes; Mines; Aeroplanes Designing and Building a War- 
 ship; Dry Docks The National Defense. 
 
 Illustrated by the Author. 8vo. $2.00 net; by mail, $2.15. 
 
 (Circular on application.) 
 
 A trained observer's graphic description of the English 
 Law Courts, of their ancient customs yet up-to-date methods; 
 of the lives and activities of the modern barrister and solicitor 
 the "IK. C.," the "Junior," the " Devil" and of the elab- 
 orate etiquette, perpetuated by the Inns of Court, which still 
 inflexibly rules them, despite the tendencies of the times and 
 growth of socialism. 
 
 Nation : " The style of narrative, the conciseness of statement, and 
 the wealth of allusion make this book one which certainly the lawyer, 
 and probably many laymen, will wish to finish at one sitting, and not 
 hurriedly. . . . We hope to see the author appear again, and as a 
 Philadelphia Lawyer at Home." 
 
 Bookman: "This quiet recital of facts ought of itself to create a 
 revolution in this country. . . . He disclaims any intention of entering 
 upon odious comparisons. . . . When the Bar of America is aroused to 
 the necessity of reform it will find these observations ... a mine of 
 well-digested information and helpful suggestions." 
 
 Dial:" His interesting account of the trial and conviction of Madar 
 La Dhingra." 
 
 New York Evening Sun : " A suitable mixture of anecdote and gen- 
 eralization to give the reader a pleasant and clear idea of English courts, 
 their ways and plan. . . . One of the most valuable chapters relates to 
 the discipline of the bar." 
 
 Philadelphia Press: " A vast deal of useful and often fascinating 
 information. . . . An eminently readable volume, which, although de- 
 signed primarily for the lay reader, has already elicited hearty com- 
 mendation from not a few leaders of the profession. . . . American 
 lawyers are beginning to see that much may be learned from modern 
 English practice. . . . On the subject of the ethics of the English bar 
 Mr. Learning has much to say that is worth careful perusal." 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 34 WEST 330 STREET, NEW YORK
 
 KREHBIEL'S CHAPTERS OF OPERA 
 
 By the musical critic of the Neto York Tribune, author of 
 44 Studies in the Wagnerian Drama," "How to Listen to Music," 
 etc. With over 60 full-page illustrations. Second printing, revised. 
 435 PP., 8 vo. $3.50 net. By mail, $3.72. (Illustrated circular on 
 application.) 
 
 Mr. Krehbiel's most important book. The first seven chapters 
 deal with the earliest operatic performances in New York. Then 
 follows a brilliant account of the first quarter-century of the Metro- 
 politan, 1883-1908. He tells how Abbey's first disastrous Italian 
 season was followed by seven seasons of German Opera under 
 Leopold Damrosch and Stanton, how this was temporarily eclipsed 
 by French and Italian, and then returned to dwell with them in 
 harmony, thanks to Walter Damrosch's brilliant crusade, also of 
 the burning of the opera house, the vicissitudes of the American 
 Opera Company, the coming and passing of Grau and Conried. and 
 .finally the opening of Oscar Hammerstein's Manhattan Opera House 
 and the first two seasons therein, 1906-08. 
 
 " The most complete and authoritative . . . pre-eminently the man to 
 write the book . . . full of the spirit of discerning criticism . . . De- 
 lightfully engaging manner, with humor, allusiveness and an abundance of 
 the personal note." Richard Aldrich in New York Times Review. 
 
 ROMAIN ROLLAND'S JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
 
 DAWN . MORNING . TODTH . REVOLT 
 600 pp. $1.50 net ; by mail, $1.62. 
 
 It commences with the musician's childhood, his fears, fancies, 
 and troubles, and his almost uncanny musical sense. He plays be- 
 fore the Grand Duke at seven, but he is destined for greater things. 
 An idol of the hour, in some ways suggesting Richard Strauss, tries 
 in vain to wreck his faith in his career. Early love episodes follow, 
 and after a dramatic climax, the hero, like Wagner, has to fly, a 
 hopeful exile. 
 
 " As big, as elemental, as original as though the art of fiction began to- 
 day." Springfield Republican. 
 
 "The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from 
 any other European country, in a decade. . . . Highly commendable and 
 effective translation . . . the story moves at a rapid pace. It never lags." 
 Boston Transcript. 
 
 " He embraces with a loving understanding the seven ages of man. ... 
 It not only contains a picture of contemporary musical life, but holds a mes- 
 sage bearing on our conception of life and art. It presents genius for once 
 without the morbid features that obscure its essence." New York Timet 
 Review. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 SIXTH EDITION, ENLARGED AND WITH PORTRAITS 
 
 HALE'S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY 
 
 ROSTAND, HAUPTMANN, SUDERMANN, 
 PINERO, SHAW, PHILLIPS, MAETERLINCK 
 
 By PROF. EDWARD EVERETT HALE, JR., of Union College. 
 With gilt top, $1.50 net; by mail, $1.60. 
 
 Since this work first appeared in 1905, Maeterlinck's SISTER 
 BEATRICE, THE BLUE BIRD and MARY MAGDALENE, Rostand's 
 CHANTECLER and Pinero's MID-CHANNEL and THE THUNDER- 
 BOLT among the notable plays by some of Dr. Hale's drama- 
 tists have been acted here. Discussions of them are added 
 to this new edition, as are considerations of Bernard Shaw's 
 and Stephen Phillips' latest plays. The author's papers on 
 Hauptmann and Sudermann, with slight additions, with his 
 "Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of Tragedy," 
 and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of 
 their first performance or publication, complete the volume. 
 
 Bookman : " He writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy -way. . . . He 
 accepts things chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so ac- 
 curately and agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we 
 have seen and the pleasure we have found in them." 
 
 New York Evening Post : " It is not often nowadays that a theatrical 
 b'jok can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted 
 by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full 
 index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." 
 
 Dial: " Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most 
 interesting of literary fields. . . . Provides a varied menu of the 
 most interesting character. . . . Prof. Hale establishes confidential 
 relations with the reader from the start. . . . Very definite opinions, 
 clearly reasoned and amply fortified by example. . . . Well worth 
 reading a second time." 
 
 New York Tribune: "Both instructive and entertaining." 
 
 Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' him- 
 self with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic. 
 . . . Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound 
 critic. . . . Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. 
 Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness." 
 
 The Theatre: "A pleasing lightness of touch. . . . Very read- 
 able book."
 
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